by Darcy Burke
They reached the largest of the awnings, set on a gentle rise overlooking the bowling green. His mother came to meet them. “What a lovely surprise!”
“Isn’t it my duty as a host?” Gareth kissed her cheek even as he covertly scanned the tent. He saw Cleo Barrows first, sending his heart leaping. She was speaking to another lady ... whom he recognized a moment later as his betrothed bride. Not a promising beginning.
“I merely remembered that you told me you would be busy until the ball,” his mother murmured, linking her arm through his. “I’m very pleased to see you were drawn out earlier.” They strolled among the guests, pausing now and then to speak to someone. If Jack had assembled a gentlemen’s retreat in the stables, it seemed his mother had created one under the awnings for the ladies. Round tables held pitchers of lemonade, plates of cakes and biscuits, and pots of tea, constantly refreshed by servants. The seating included small settees and benches, although Sophronia was sitting in a large upholstered chair, like a monarch on a throne, slicing a cheese with her sharp little knife.
“Finally come to see the girl, Wessex?” The old lady fixed her gleaming gaze upon him. “You’ve hardly spoken to your bride.”
“Sophronia,” said the duchess. “Really!”
“I came to see you,” Gareth said before his mother could go on. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, which she presented with the regal detachment of a queen. “How are you, old dear?”
“Bored,” Sophronia replied. “Everyone here is too polite. There’s no trouble. No scandal.”
“Do we really want that?” he asked mildly. It only encouraged Sophronia when people gasped and swooned at her outbursts.
“It’s dull,” announced the old lady, pointing her dirk at him. “What good is a house party if everyone’s going to behave? I got my hopes raised when you invited that scamp, Jack Willoughby, but he’s barely shown his face around here! And even worse, he’s been a horrible distraction to Henrietta, and I have to let some parlor maid help me. I’m astonished to see her here today.” She glanced over at Henrietta, who was holding a plate of cakes and listening with obviously strained patience to a very earnest-looking young woman. “She still hasn’t brought my cake, though. I wager she’d bring it quickly enough if Willoughby wandered in.”
“I will speak to Henrietta,” began the duchess quickly, but Sophronia waved her off.
“Oh, let her have some fun. I’m sure they’re up to something scandalous. I’d pay a shilling to watch them torment each other, but they keep disappearing and Henrietta refuses to tell me what they get up to, the vexing creature,” she finished sourly, as if Jack and Henrietta had purposely schemed to deprive her of entertainment. “If she’s going to desert me, she might as well tell me how naughty he can be.”
“I’m not certain I can help,” Gareth said. He doubted Jack would be flushed out of the stables by anything less than a duel.
“I daresay you can’t,” she grumbled. “Too upstanding by half. And your bride—Miss Grey! I never met such a polite, proper girl in my life. At least the party includes a few interesting people. Have you met Angela?”
Gareth glanced at his mother, who looked nonplussed. “I don’t recall anyone by that name,” she murmured.
“Oh! I invited her. The daughter of a very distant relation—not your side of the family, Alice. Very intriguing girl. She must have slipped off somewhere, but you’ll meet her eventually.” There was a hint of relish in the old lady’s voice that made Gareth wonder what trouble this distant relation Angela might unleash.
“But Sophronia,” said the duchess delicately. “The house is very full. I’m afraid we haven’t any rooms to spare. If you had informed me earlier you wished to invite someone—”
“Don’t worry about that,” interrupted Sophronia. “Angela is staying with me. I need someone to talk to, now that Henrietta’s set her cap for Willoughby.” She scowled. “And if he doesn’t recognize her for the prize she is, I shall take my dirk to him. He won’t make a fool of my companion, no matter how charming his smile!” She stabbed her knife into the cheese for emphasis.
Gareth bit his cheek to keep from roaring with laughter at the image of Sophronia pursuing Jack with her dagger drawn. It was almost as entertaining as the thought of Jack falling for Henrietta, who was everything Jack was not: organized, responsible, and punctual.
He excused himself and made his way toward Helen, determinedly keeping his gaze fixed on her. She looked far livelier today, laughing and talking with obvious pleasure. She was truly lovely; her eyes glowed and there was a very handsome blush on her cheeks. She fluttered her hands about, as though portraying birds, and Gareth made the mistake of letting his eyes follow one graceful hand as she fluttered it over to rest on her sister’s arm. Her sister, sitting very close to James Blair on the bench.
He almost missed his footing at the expression on Cleo Barrows’s face. Her face was scrunched up with laughter—she had even wrinkled her nose—as she shook her head at whatever her sister said. Her curls bounced and threatened to topple down her back; one had already come loose and brushed the nape of her neck. Her sister was beautiful, but Cleo ... she was captivating.
He had the growing feeling that he was doomed. The harder he tried to find a reason why she was undesirable in any way, the less success he had. He wanted to wind that loose curl around his fingers. He wanted to press his lips to the back of her neck, and the base of her throat. He wanted to talk to her, to have those sparkling brown eyes fixed on him, to see that impish grin directed his way. Instead he watched Blair receive all that and more when she turned to his cousin, put her hand on his arm, and leaned close to whisper something that made Blair throw back his head and shout with laughter.
“I’m delighted to see Miss Grey looking well again,” said his mother. “I do believe Mrs. Barrows could make anyone smile, though.”
He watched the way she tipped her head to one side, and for a single heartbeat their gazes met. “Indeed.”
“James seems quite taken with her,” his mother went on. “I understand she’s a widow with a pretty income. He could certainly do worse, if he’s thinking of marrying.”
This time there was no mistaking the feeling oozing through his veins. It was jealousy, raw and bitter. It was utterly irrational and yet undeniable. He forced it down. “I suppose,” he replied, in what he hoped was an offhand voice. “Has he said anything to you about her?”
“Of course not. Do you think I should encourage him?”
He gritted his teeth. “I think he’s a grown man capable of deciding such a thing himself.” Without waiting for her reply, he went down to join the boys still arguing over bowls. The only other male about seemed to be Blair, and Gareth found he had no patience to watch his cousin flirt with Cleo.
And he didn’t swerve from his course when he saw the lady in question stroll down to the green ahead of him.
To Cleo’s immense relief, Helen seemed like herself again when they walked down to the awnings the morning of the bowling party. Anyone’s nerves would have been strained by their mother’s incessant chattering about how grand and elegant everything—and everyone—was at the party. Cleo had long since grown content with what she could afford, but Helen had never been allowed to do the same. Sir William refused to acknowledge his straitened circumstances, and Millicent was incapable of economy; they had relied on Helen making a marvelous marriage to restore their fortunes. Cleo was fairly certain that burden had put the faint lines around her sister’s mouth and brought a shadow to her eyes.
But the bowling party had revived her. Perhaps it was the weather, which had been nothing short of perfect. A group of young ladies, including the duke’s sisters, had amused them for some time before Lady Sophronia came to grace them with her presence. Helen obviously found the old lady somewhat intimidating, but Cleo thought she was splendid. Sophronia spoke her mind and did as she pleased. When she’d had enough conversation, she simply announced that she was leaving.
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��I see a fine cheese over there and want to secure it before someone else makes off with it,” she confided. “The guests at these parties are like wolves, eating up every crumb in sight.”
“Oh! May I fetch it for you?” Cleo offered, privately entertained by the description of the aristocratic guests as hungry scavengers.
“No, no. I can take care of myself.” Lady Sophronia drew—of all things—a small pointed dagger from her pocket. “A memento of my third fiancé, Malcolm MacBride,” she said fondly, showing them the knife. “I was very sad when the consumption took him. Still, it’s a very useful dirk—that’s what the Scots call it. I recommend you get one. No one interferes with a lady who is armed.”
“No, I imagine not.” Cleo’s voice shook as the old lady nodded to them and hobbled after her cheese. She glanced at her sister and saw Helen’s eyes tearing up. “Shall I give you a knife as a wedding gift, Helen?” she asked mischievously. “I don’t want you to lose out on any fine cheese ...”
Helen covered her face. “Oh, my,” she gasped, fighting back giggles. “I can only imagine what Mama would say!” They were still shaking with suppressed laughter when Mr. Blair joined them. He immediately inquired what had made them laugh so hard, and Helen told him with animation and spirit, laughing anew at Sophronia’s concern for her cheese. It made Cleo’s heart lift to see her sister happy again. The only thing that might have pleased her more was if Wessex himself had joined them. He had arrived at the party with Mr. Blair, but was intercepted by the duchess. Cleo kept stealing glances at him, willing him to come over to them. He was looking fondly at Sophronia, and it was hard not to notice how attractive it made him. She wondered if he knew about Sophronia’s dirk.
Then, by chance, their eyes met. It was just a passing glance, no more than a moment, but it sent a little shock through her. He was smiling, his dark eyes bright with mirth, and it transformed his face from handsome to mesmerizing. Cleo turned instantly back to Mr. Blair, but she could feel the duke’s gaze upon her. It made her heart beat a little faster even as it reminded her of her vow to be quiet and discreet around His Grace. Helen had been right about one thing the other day: Cleo was more ebullient than her sister. She tended to attract people’s attention. Therefore, she must absent herself when the duke and Helen met, so there could be nothing to distract Wessex from falling in love with Helen.
If it also kept Cleo from becoming more attracted to him, she would be immensely relieved.
When she caught the duke and his mother watching their little group, she murmured an excuse and slipped away. Mr. Blair was charming and had already brought a wide smile to Helen’s face with an amusing story about Lady Sophronia; apparently, the dirk was not her only memento of a former suitor. Cleo knew her sister looked her best today, and if she left, the duke would be able to sit next to Helen and notice how enchanting she was.
Cleo walked down the gentle slope toward the bowling green, where two boys had been arguing for some time. “It seems you’re in need of an umpire,” she said as she reached them. “May I serve?”
“He put his foot in front of my bowl,” said the younger boy at once. He was sturdy and blond, with the look of a boy who spent hours outdoors. “His bowl is dead and I ought to be allowed to replay mine.”
“I did not!” Henry Ascot’s eyes glittered with tears. “I never touched your bowl! It stopped on its own!”
“You did,” accused the other. “And now you’re trying to cheat!”
“I am not a cheat.” His voice quivered, and Cleo could see how desperately he was trying to contain himself.
“‘Cheat’ is a dangerous word,” she admonished them both. “One should never cast it about without proof. Do you have proof that he impeded your bowl? I presume you’ve measured every cast so far.”
The first boy clamped his mouth shut and dropped the bowl in his hand. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I guess we ought not to play anymore.” He ducked his head and walked away.
Cleo stooped to pick up the discarded bowl, giving Henry a moment to collect himself. He was tall and a bit gangly, with an uncompromisingly square brow and dark hair. Lady Bridget had called him a horrid pest, but he didn’t look very dreadful now. “I hope there wasn’t a wager riding on the match,” she said.
He sniffed. “No. Not one I could win, at any rate.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes. The poor boy looked thoroughly dejected. “I never win at bowls,” he added softly.
“There’s more to life than bowls.”
“I know. There’s boxing and racing and quoits and all manner of sport where I can be a disappointment to my father.”
Cleo bit her lip. She knew more than a little about that herself. Before she could reply, though, someone else did.
“Every man has his talents, Henry. I daresay yours will turn out to be of far greater import than bowls.”
Henry looked warily at the Duke of Wessex, who had walked up behind Cleo. “Do you really think so, sir?”
“I wouldn’t say so otherwise.”
“Of course not.” The boy blushed. He shifted his weight, then awkwardly offered Cleo the bowl in his hand. “Thank you, ma’am, for settling things. I think I’d rather take a walk. Do—do you happen to know where my sister Charlotte’s gone?”
“I’m sorry, no,” said Cleo. Charlotte had disappeared with the rest of the young ladies some time ago, very soon after Henry and the other boy had reached the green.
“Toward the lake,” said the duke. “I believe she was with my sisters.”
Henry’s dark eyes lit up, and Cleo got the idea he’d be quite a handsome fellow in a few years. “Thank you, sir!” He hurried off with a spring in his step.
“What a devoted brother, wanting to see his sister,” she said lightly.
“Perhaps,” replied the duke with a wry look. “I suspect it’s more of an urge to torment. After I sent them back to the house the other day, Bridget came to me to lodge an indignant complaint that he had thrown mud on them.”
“The things a man will do for love.” Cleo heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’ll wager a shilling he has a bad case of calf love for one of them.”
“It had better not be Bridget.” Wessex shuddered. “I had to order her not to put treacle in his bed. She didn’t take it well when he ruined her favorite dress.”
Cleo laughed. She started down the green to collect the abandoned bowls. “Have they really gone toward the lake?”
“I did see a group of young ladies in the general vicinity of the lake today,” he confirmed, walking beside her. “It might have been some time ago ...” Cleo laughed again. “But a long walk will do him good. He ought to clear his mind before he finds them. I’ve rarely seen one girl this week without three or four others nearby; the poor lad will be severely outnumbered.”
“It builds character,” she said.
“He’ll need it if he fancies Bridget. I daresay she’ll make Sophronia look demure and quiet.”
“Yes. Lady Sophronia showed me her dirk.” Cleo grinned at the way he cast his eyes upward and sighed. “A rather unusual remembrance of an old love.”
“There are many unusual things about Sophronia.”
“She is your great-aunt, I understand?”
The duke paused. “Great-great-aunt. Perhaps. I’m not entirely certain. I think I inherited her along with the house.”
Cleo snorted with laughter, and this time he laughed, too. Something seemed to melt inside her at the sound. His laugh was a rough rumble, as if he didn’t use it often. She stooped to retrieve a pair of bowls, holding them to her chest. When she rose, Wessex was holding the jack. He gave it a little toss, catching it easily in one hand. “Would you fancy a match, Mrs. Barrows?”
Cleo watched his fingers curve around the bowl. Good heavens, he had fine hands. “I haven’t played bowls in a very long time.”
“Neither have I,” he said. “But it’s a fine day out, and the greens are marked.”
She glanced at the awning on the hill above as the
y walked to the head of the green. Helen was still in conversation with Mr. Blair, but she raised her hand and gave a cheery wave. Cleo was torn. It was a fine day, and she wouldn’t mind a lighthearted game in the sun. Since the duke had invited her, surely not even her father would find it objectionable. She could suggest inviting Helen and Mr. Blair to join them, except that she knew her sister hated bowls. And perhaps this was her chance to determine the duke’s feelings for Helen.
“Very well. But we must have stakes.” She grinned at his raised brow. “Not money! After each cast, the winner must share something of himself or herself. After all, we shall be family within the week, and we ought to become acquainted, don’t you think?”
He looked at her for a long moment. In the sunlight, his hair seemed to have a hint of auburn; the breeze had ruffled it until he looked quite tousled. And his eyes were so dark, unfathomably deep as he regarded her. Cleo heard the echo of her own words—we shall be family—and felt her heart sink a little. Oh, why had he followed her, thwarting her intent to avoid him? He ought to be sitting beside Helen right now, gazing at Helen, making Helen yearn to smooth his wild mane and imagine his large hands on her skin.
“Of course.” Wessex bowed his head. “Will you set the jack?”
Unnerved, she turned toward the green and pitched the jack. It didn’t roll far enough, and she clenched her hands as he strode out to get it. She had to wrench her gaze away as he bent over to pick it up; good heavens, he was a finely made man, from all angles. And he would be her brother. Sisters did not look on their brothers so admiringly.
The second time she managed to set the mark appropriately, and the duke stepped to the footer to cast his first bowl. “Were you a good bowls player, when you last played?”