by Sophia Nash
Georgiana watched as Quinn expertly took the baby in both hands and rocked her while crooning into her tiny ear a lullaby about bunting and hunting. The baby immediately quieted and reached out to grab a lock of his shorn brown hair. He smoothly transferred her to his shoulder and stroked her head.
Was there anything more attractive than a man willing and able to soothe a crying infant? Georgiana realized that her yearning for Quinn had reached a new level. What she would give to have him stroke her head and whisper anything in her ear—even if it involved lambs and nappies. She glanced at the other widows and realized, by the looks on their faces, they were all thinking the same pathetic thought. Georgiana shook her head and made her way to the new duchess’s side.
“Rosamunde,” Georgiana whispered as the others continued to converse amongst themselves. “Shall we dine as we did at Amberley—in shifts?”
“He’s very handsome, Georgiana,” Rosamunde said softly, ignoring the question.
“Yes, I know.”
“How long ago did his wife die?”
“Rosamunde!”
The beautiful duchess, her ethereal pale aquamarine eyes sparkling, smiled shrewdly. “You’re in love with him,” she said very quietly, knowingly.
Georgiana quickly glanced around to make sure no one had heard the outrageous statement.
“I absolutely am not.”
She cocked a brow. “So it doesn’t bother you that Grace, as well as Elizabeth, and even shy Sarah are looking at him as if they would all be delighted by the chance to become a marchioness? Didn’t Grace confide she’s determined to arrange a marriage of convenience this year? Hmmm. He has such charm, such restraint, not at all like the fiery Helstons. In fact, if I wasn’t already married”—and here she glanced at the darkly devilish duke and smiled, giving away her game—“why, I do believe I’d be very tempted to—”
“Stop,” Georgiana said. “I’m well aware of his effect on our sex.”
Rosamunde brushed aside Georgiana’s lace fichu and stared hard at the small brooch all the widows had seen and commented on from time to time. Georgiana always wore the tiny Lover’s Eye she had painted ages ago and framed in the jeweled brooch she had inherited from her father’s family.
The duchess smiled slowly. “You mentioned Quinn is very much like your husband. I would say he looks almost exactly like him—or at least his eye—if this is any indication.”
“Please, Rosamunde…” Georgiana begged softly. Oh God, Rosamunde always had been the most perceptive of all of them.
Rosamunde stroked her hand. “Come, help me up. I’m still embarrassingly weak. I only came tonight because I wanted to smooth over Ata’s hurt feelings.” She called out to her husband, “Luc, dear, shall we retreat to the other chamber with the infants while the others dine? And then we shall have our turn.”
“How many, many, many times do I have to tell everyone that dukes do not take turns,” he said more loudly than necessary.
The widows dared to giggle.
“I shall have a footman bring you plates, Your Grace,” Georgiana insisted, forgetting, in the heat of his blast, the usual informality they shared.
Luc approached Quinn and with a single disdainful glance dared him to refuse to hand over the twin.
Quinn smiled. “Do you always get your wish, Helston? I find your ways singularly extraordinary.”
Luc, he of the most devilish smile in all of Christendom, looked ready to do murder as he placed his other baby on the opposite shoulder. “Diplomats never can stand the heat of the cannon, Ellesmere. But if you can muster enough of your infamous charm to keep my grandmother and the gaggle of her friends away from Amberley for the next month or six, I shall pretend to think better of you than I do.”
“I shudder to think of the alternative,” Quinn replied with the hint of a smile.
With that, Luc St. Aubyn, better known as the Devil of Helston, exited before a footman ushered the other guests from the room, leaving Georgiana and Quinn momentarily alone.
“This is the gentleman under whose roof you stayed for a portion of the past year?” Quinn asked.
“When I was not needed here, yes. Ata and the other widows staying at the Helston estate were a great comfort to me after Anthony died,” she murmured. “And the duke is actually a very good man. In fact, the best of men.”
“Your ability to judge a man’s character has deteriorated.”
Georgiana stiffened. “No, not really.” She gazed at him steadily. “If I have a flaw it is that once I form an acquaintance, there seems to be little the person can do or not do to shake me from my original opinion and feelings.” She stopped suddenly, horrified at having had the audacity to admit something that cut so close to her heart. She searched his face in vain for the minutest indication of his understanding of the state of her heart, but his eyes were still mesmerizing pools of secrets and timeless mystery. She tried to ignore the discomforting silence.
Her gaze dropped to her dull gown and fingered the frayed edge of a pocket. The old silk mourning gown matched her mood—dark gray, and dreary to the very edges.
“Georgiana,” he said quietly. “It’s been a year. I think you might consider wearing colors again.”
He was always so perceptive. Why couldn’t he see her heart? But then again, and perhaps worse, he did and only pretended he didn’t in order to allow her to save face. “I’ve never worn colors. Browns and grays are much more practical.”
“It won’t do for you to be beyond the fringes of fashion. I shall arrange for a dressmaker from town to attend to you.” He cleared his throat. “You would do well to confer with the Countess of Sheffield on the style and colors that will suit you.”
“But I’m not at all like Grace Sheffey, and never will be,” she whispered.
“She seems very kind, and I’m certain she would be willing to help you.”
“Yes, but—”
“How long has she been a member of your little circle?”
Oh…her heart plummeted. It was as Rosamunde had suggested. In less than a day some sort of interest had formed between Grace and Quinn. “Are you asking me how long the countess has been a widow?”
“Yes.”
And with that one word all her dreams came crashing down around her again—somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. Some perverse martyr within her insisted on twisting the pain to new heights. “Her husband died almost two years ago and left her a considerable fortune. Grace is simply the kindest, most dignified, and beautiful lady, and you could not find a bride more capable of becoming a prop”—she stuttered in hurt—“a proper Marchioness of Ellesmere.” Her fists were so tightly curled that the nails almost pierced the worn fingers of her gloves.
He scrutinized her face and indicated for her to precede him to the doorway. “Come, we must join the others. And by the by, my daughter shall arrive some time in the next few days. I must tell you what to expect…or rather warn you about her rather, ahem, willful ways.”
Would this evening never end? Quinn wondered as he escorted, or rather, dragged the uncivilized Duke of Helston out onto the balcony following dinner.
Quinn leaned against the railing and began trimming a cheroot, taking delight in the salty Cornish air he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much.
Luc St. Aubyn continued his infernal pacing, muttering a curse Georgiana would probably have been delighted to add to her repertoire.
“Care for one?” Quinn casually offered the cigar to the duke. “It’s from Portugal—very smooth.”
“Absolutely not.” The duke curled his lip in distaste. “For God’s sakes, don’t you have any brandy?”
“No.”
“Whiskey?”
“No.”
“Blue Ruin, then? Even complete barbarians have a little Ruin stashed away.”
“Sorry, no. I don’t imbibe—nor will anyone else until the wine merchant’s delivery is made.”
The Duke of Helston stopped dead in his tracks as if struck
by lightning. “What?” His eyebrows rose so high they almost became part of his hairline. “I should’ve known. Never could trust a diplomat or a man who doesn’t drink. I’m not surprised you’re both.”
Quinn smothered a laugh. The man was a complete blackguard, and uncouth to the nth degree. How on earth the lovely duchess put up with him was something that boggled the mind.
“Care to reconsider my last offer?” Quinn asked again. He really didn’t want to have to give up one of his Portuguese cheroots, but then he rather thought he might just make Ata and the other ladies friends for life if he kept this heathen from them for another half hour. And Quinn knew all the benefits of forming alliances.
“Oh, all right, if you’ve nothing else.” Disgruntlement dripped from each word off the duke’s tongue.
Quinn handed over the cheroot with disappointment and struck a flame from the tinderbox.
The duke inhaled and began choking in a most satisfactory manner, exactly how Quinn had known he would. These particular cheroots were powerful little devils, and only fools actually dared to inhale the pungent smoke. “Are you all right, Your Grace?” He pounded the duke on the back, careful to hide his amusement but all the while hoping the acrid fumes had singed his voice box, for all their sakes.
“Go to the devil, Ellesmere,” the duke rasped out before another coughing fit engulfed him.
Quinn sighed and shook his head while calmly extracting another cheroot from his pocket and starting the trimming process again. He began to whistle.
“If your intention is to distract me, Ellesmere, from returning inside—you had best stop that infernal noise. Only imbeciles whistle.”
“Well, I suppose I can take comfort that I’ve now risen in your estimation to the level above ‘barbarian.’”
If Quinn had to swallow another smile he might just gag.
“What are your intentions, Ellesmere?” Helston growled suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” the duke almost shouted, “what are your intentions? Your plans. Your bloody devious goal.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, I’ve no idea what you’re suggesting.”
“Georgiana Wilde. Georgiana Fortesque. Whatever you want to call the lady I’ve been coddling until you decided to drag your lazy diplomatic bones away from the delights of Portugal. She can’t live here under the same roof with you after my grandmother sneaks back to Amberley with the rest of the crows.”
The duke had not a clue how obvious his character was revealed with every contrary word he uttered. The man would have been an utter failure at the negotiating table.
“And what is she to you?” Quinn asked without a glimmer of emotion.
The duke sputtered. “Are you suggesting—”
“No. I make it a point to withhold judgment until I can fully make out a person’s character,” Quinn said with amusement. “And since the duchess appears devoted to you, and I vaguely remember her from our childhood here, her good opinion forces me to reconsider my initial impression.” He shook his head. “Although what she sees in you is hard to understand.”
“Of course it would be…to a complete imbecile such as yourself,” roared Helston.
Now he had him where he wanted him. “Actually, I’m glad you asked about Georgiana. She and her family are the main reasons I descended from town. I’ve a delicate situation to sort out and would be grateful for your aid.”
“Why should I help you?” the duke asked darkly.
Quinn felt like strangling the man, but settled for flexing his hands behind his back. “Must I remind you of the excellent care I will be taking of your grandmother while you and Her Grace enjoy some time alone? Really, I hadn’t wished to bring this matter up.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m looking for a steward. A man I can trust to ease Georgiana away from the role she assumed when her father became ill.”
“Going to give Georgiana and her family the boot, are you? I won’t help you there.”
Quinn sighed in exasperation. “No, you fool,” he seethed, finally deciding on heat for heat as a last resort. “I’m trying to settle her in comfort—away from the damned pigsty. Now do you have a name for me or not?”
The Duke of Helston pursed his lips and broke out into a smile filled with deviltry. “Actually, yes. I have the very man for you. Brown is his name—John Brown. I think you and he will get along verra well, laddie. In fact I guarantee it.” The last was said in a growling purr. “You must be riding a Cornish wave of luck, as my former steward is due to arrive for a visit any day now. I shall send him directly to you. Of course, you’ll have to offer him a king’s ransom to stay on. He retired to his small Scottish property last year.”
Quinn knew perverse pleasure when he saw it, and he would bet his last farthing the Duke of Helston was hatching a plan to confound him. He sighed. Well, he would learn soon enough if this Mr. Brown was a cheat, a drunk, a liar, or just plain corrupt. He had had enough experience in those arenas of humanity to render him an expert.
Hours later, long after the duke and his wife had returned to Amberley with their raven-haired cherubs, Quinn took pleasure in his evening ritual, which relieved the day’s tension of holding onto his every last emotion. He walked from room to room on the lower level, checking for lit candles, speaking to the servants, inspecting every detail of the smoothly run great house. “Putting the house to bed” was how he chose to think of it.
He sighed.
A father missing a child was a wretched thing, he thought ruefully. Putting a house to bed, indeed.
He continued his tour and took a lonely sort of pride as the newest caretaker of this massive estate, one of the largest in the British Isles. Penrose was the southernmost of five residences in the Fortesque family portfolio of entailed proper ties. All of them were prosperous. It boggled the mind. How Cynthia would have reveled in all of it. If she had only shown restraint, only shown more…He ruthlessly forced the thought away.
He wasn’t sure when he had taken the decision to walk to the opposite end of the house, where a small suite had been reserved for Mr. Wilde before the steward had married and been allowed the use of Little Roses cottage. But his unhurried step led him here. He slowed in front of the steward’s rooms. Something was wrong, Quinn thought. The door to the spartan study was wide open, as was the connecting door to the small bedchamber beyond, and a fire burned in the tiny grate.
Georgiana, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Quinn lifted a candle to illuminate the small suite more clearly and stepped across the threshold. “Georgiana?” he asked to be sure. Opaque beeswax dripped onto his coat sleeve, and the familiar honey fragrance reminded him of the scent of Georgiana’s hair when he had carried her to the folly.
He set the gleaming silver candlestick in the windowsill and opened the sash to breathe in the warm summer evening air. A thousand and one stars filled the night sky, all the way to the horizon.
A lone star lay lower than the rest, giving the illusion of resting its fiery head upon Loe Pool in the distance. And for a tiny flicker of a moment Quinn wished Georgiana was beside him. She was the one person, he instinctively knew, who would take joy in this magical illusion in nature. He blew out his candle to more fully enjoy the sight, only to find that the darkness brought naught but more melancholy.
Georgiana sat on the bench facing Penrose’s great house, leaned her cheek against the cool windowpane in the glass lake house, and closed her eyes.
God. This was just too difficult. She wanted him with an intensity that bordered on the ridiculous. Was this obsession to never end? Would she always have to suffer such poignant longing without any possible chance of a return of his affection? It was so painfully obvious that he regarded her at best as nothing more than a quasi-relation to be dressed and then settled far away. Those long summer days of youth, when he had looked at her with a glint of amusement and affection and cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die trust were gone. And ye
t, her perverse longing for him could not be doused.
And after tonight she realized her unquenchable thirst for him could indeed get worse. The morass of her pain would only intensify if she were forced to endure the possible budding attraction between Quinn and Grace Sheffey, one of the few people she not only admired but also liked immensely.
Grace had the sort of quiet dignity Georgiana would never have. And while the countess rarely confided in any of them, it had become obvious during their acquaintance that Grace had loved Luc St. Aubyn, the Duke of Helston, just as long and as deeply as Georgiana had loved Quinn—until the duke had married Rosamunde, a former member of the club, last year. Yet Grace Sheffey had never uttered a whisper of hurt or pain or anything but great happiness at the union. The only sign of something amiss had been the countess’s sudden departure for a tour of Italy the day following Rosamunde and Luc’s wedding. To her credit, Grace had returned refreshed and had never shown any awkwardness when the duke and Rosamunde were in her company.
Georgiana knew she did not possess that sort of mettle or fortitude. If Quinn married Grace, then she would simply go to pieces. Would have to be locked away in one of the hay barns. She shook her head in disgust and wondered if she was the only female in the world who could conjure up a blissful marriage between two people who had formed an acquaintance of less than a week in duration.
She looked beyond the vast blackness of the water surrounding the little glass house sitting on the island of Loe Pool. And she imagined, as she always did, Quinn rowing toward the magical house. Toward her. Only toward her—with never-ending love and longing in his eyes. The same emotions he would behold in her eyes if he would only care to find them beyond the façade she had constructed soon after forming his acquaintance at a ridiculously tender age.
She straightened her back in annoyance at her maudlin frame of mind and suddenly noticed a tiny flicker of light in her rooms far distant at Penrose, dark in sleep. She took a deep breath and held it, trying to stifle her emotions again. She was being silly. It was most likely Mrs. Killen, the housekeeper, come to say good night. There was absolutely no pathetic reason Quinn would ever visit her rooms at moonset.