“And someone should live at Foxtail year-round and use Trethillin,” she said rather fiercely. “A caretaker’s family. And the duke should offer it to his friends for holidays. A place like this should be enjoyed.”
“I suppose.” Rowan’s business manager would disagree, and Rowan himself couldn’t see how it would be a responsible choice for him to advocate retaining Foxtail. Starwood was the ducal seat, and it needed major repairs. No one used Foxtail, though it might have its charms, and Lesser Puddlebury was so far from civilization that he couldn’t imagine his family ever wanting to come there, even just for holidays.
Or would they, if he fixed it up? They certainly never had before.
“No supposing about it,” she said. “It’s a waste for such a place to be unused.”
A small, oval leaf fluttering past in the breeze landed in her hair, and he itched to brush it away.
Something gave a slide within him, perhaps the ducal pride that had created the distance he’d preferred for so long. He was completely and utterly charmed by this woman—by her enthusiasm for this decrepit place, by the sound of her laughter and the way she never let him get the upper hand. He wanted—no, he needed—to touch her.
“Mmm,” he said noncommittally.
She turned on him. “You’re not going to recommend he sell it, surely?”
“I’ll be certain he’s aware of its charms.” He paused, smiling a little. “And of your partiality for it. I’m certain he’d value your opinion.”
“Oh—er, perhaps,” she said, her eyebrows drawing down a bit. “He should ask his mother what she thinks.”
“The duke?”
“Yes. Or you could ask your mother. Any woman could imagine a family here. And don’t you suppose that a duke might grow tired of being ducal and just want to relax somewhere away from the ton?”
Yes, he did.
The picture she was painting ought to have sounded like a sugar-sweet, fake dream of the future, but somehow it didn’t. He’d ceased dreaming of the future since his failed engagement to Maria, and why should he have concerned himself with it when there were friends and whiskey and willing widows to occupy him, in addition to any number of ducal duties? But the future was suddenly beginning to feel like something very good—something he might begin to build on right now.
He hardly knew this woman. And yet, he did. He couldn’t have expressed it to himself any better than this: Being with her made him want more of her.
He touched the back of her hand, a mere brushing of his fingers against her skin. Her expression turned quizzical, but there was something more to it that gave him hope.
“Thank you for coming here with me,” he said.
“I… I’m glad I did.”
“Might I know your first name, Miss Beckett?”
“Claire,” she said quietly. He took her hand in his, and she didn’t resist as he interlaced his fingers with hers.
“I am Rowan.”
Her scent teased him, a little floral, a little musky, and so very appealing.
“I like you, Claire Beckett.” Had he really just said such a thing? He could tell from her startled expression that he had.
A blush rose in her cheeks. “I… don’t know what to say.”
“That you like me too?”
She smiled a little. “I like a number of things about you.”
“Such as?”
“You are kind to dogs.”
He gave her a speaking glance. “What else? Something more personal.”
“Goodness, Fitzwilliam!” she said, looking flustered.
“Rowan,” he reminded her.
“It’s quite outrageous, Rowan, to demand that people tell you what they like about you.”
“I’ll tell you what I like about you, Claire,” he said. “You are strong.”
He’d meant to compliment her, but the way her brows lowered did not suggest she was pleased. “I don’t know why you would say that.”
He laughed softly. “Come, Claire. I’ve growled at you and ordered you about, and you’ve spent not a moment quaking.”
“It’s easy to dismiss the bad habits of strangers.”
“Ah, but we are not strangers. We have talked and even teased each other. I would argue that because we haven’t bothered to dance around each other out of the cool reserve of politeness, but instead been direct with each other, we have come to know each other more than a little.”
Her mouth drew into a serious line. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough to believe that I want to know you more.”
He read puzzlement in her eyes, but he was almost certain longing was there too. The space between them crackled with something hot and alive.
He stepped closer to her. “I want to kiss you.” She didn’t move away. The light touch of her breath whispered against his skin.
Quietly, she said, “You may.”
Dipping his head, he drew closer until their lips were nearly touching. He lingered there a moment with his eyes closed and something like gratitude welling up within him.
Until a most unwelcome sound split the silence.
“Halloo! Halloo! Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
They stepped apart.
“Who the devil is that?” Rowan demanded as they turned and moved toward the opposite door. On the far bank of the little lake stood a short, white-haired man with his hands cupped around his mouth to amplify the sound, turning this way and that as he shouted.
“It’s Mr. Dixon, the vicar,” Claire said.
Rowan vaguely remembered having met the man, but considering that he’d been only thirteen at the time, it seemed unlikely the vicar would recognize him. “I don’t suppose we can hide.”
“Hardly. Anyway, he seems to expect you to be here.”
With a grimace, Rowan stepped through the doorway into the sunshine.
“There you are, sir,” shouted the vicar. He waved, his pink face split in an enormous grim. “Oh! And Miss Beckett as well,” he continued in surprise as Claire stepped out from behind Rowan. They waved back to him in greeting.
“Mrs. Firth told me Fitzwilliam might be here,” Mr. Dixon shouted, “but I hadn’t thought to meet you as well. I’ve come to act as a chaperone.”
Rowan growled a little.
“You did ask for one,” Claire pointed out.
“I was expecting a sober spinster, not an imp.”
Claire made for the boat with the alacrity of one glad to depart, and Rowan followed her. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Dixon’s arrival had stopped him from kissing her, but his feelings were closer to murderous.
For pity’s sake, he thought, what was happening to him? This woman he barely knew had some power over him. Surely that stirred-up, buzzing, entirely new feeling he had whenever she was near was nothing but an extremely potent physical attraction. The idea was more palatable than the one trying to breach the borders of his will: that he’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
Love at first sight.
Just the sort of nonsense in which he’d never believed.
Though it was perhaps more accurate to say that he’d ceased believing much in that vaunted love between men and women after his experience with Maria. If he couldn’t trust his choice of a woman he’d known all his life, why would he trust his capacity to choose at all?
“Fancy that,” the vicar said once they’d reached the shore and performed the introductions. “Two cousins of the duke’s here at the same time. And you both strangers to each other.”
“A wonderful coincidence, isn’t it?” Rowan said.
“I met His Grace when he was a child,” Dixon said, “and I knew his father. You have the look of the family about you, sir.” The vicar cocked his head. “In fact, I’d say that you are almost the very image of Starlingham’s father.”
“I’ve been told that once or twice before.” Quite a few times, actually. Rowan’s father had died when Rowan was fourteen, but there had never been a man Rowan had respe
cted more, and any comparison always felt like a compliment.
They set off through the woods toward Foxtail.
“It’s an interesting time for Lesser Puddlebury, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Dixon said. “We are a small, close community, and it’s not often that a stranger comes to stay among us—let alone three. The three being yourself, Miss Beckett, and a gentleman lately come to the area, a Mr. Stephens,” he said, which was the name Lucere meant to use while in Lesser Puddlebury. Apparently the vicar knew nothing of Mowne’s presence. “Perhaps you are familiar with Mr. Stephens?”
“Wouldn’t it be something if I were?” Rowan said, even as he wondered how his friends were faring.
“I haven’t met him myself,” Mr. Dixon said. “Well”—he rubbed his hands together with apparent glee—“so many young people visiting can only be a boon for the neighborhood.”
Chapter Five
* * *
Once back at Foxtail, Claire went in search of Louisa. She found her friend in the cellar, looking at wine bottles.
“Do you suppose Foxtail should offer Fitzwilliam decent wine while he’s here, or good wine, or very good wine?” Louisa asked, holding up a couple of bottles. “What if the duke has some plan for all this wine? Maybe he’ll write any day, saying he’s coming with a party of lords and ladies, and then he might be annoyed to find when he arrives that a special bottle is missing.”
Or, Claire thought with a stab of worry for her friend, he’d soon sell Foxtail, and Louisa might no longer be needed. But maybe Claire could encourage Rowan to dissuade the duke from selling. She decided not to say anything to Louisa about her concerns just yet.
“I’m sure no matter what, Starlingham won’t miss a bottle or two. Besides, Fitzwilliam is his cousin—surely the duke would want you to offer him the best hospitality possible.”
“Still…” Louisa mused, but Claire cut her off.
“I just spent the afternoon with him.”
“The duke?”
Claire groaned. “Fitzwilliam.”
Louisa put down the bottles. “You did?”
Claire nodded. “I ran into him on the way back from town, and he cajoled me into visiting the model village with him.”
“Oh! Isn’t it the most charming, funny little place? I’ve wandered over there a few times, though it always felt too lonely there to linger.” Louisa grinned. “Apparently what I needed was a manly fellow to accompany me.”
She peered at Claire. “Are you blushing? You like him, don’t you!”
Claire’s gaze dropped to the shelf next to her arm, and she used her fingertip to make a curlicue in the dust on a bottle of burgundy. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, but it was a half-hearted effort.
“I’m not the one being ridiculous. Why not just admit you like the man?”
Claire traced a heart shape on the neighboring bottle. “I think he just causes some sort of temporary madness in me. At Trethillin, before Mr. Dixon arrived, Fitzwilliam was going to kiss me. I’m sure he would have if Mr. Dixon hadn’t started hallooing.”
“And were you going to let him?”
She rubbed away her tracings and brushed the dust off her fingertips. “Yes. Foolishly.”
“Foolishly?” Louisa’s eyes sparkled. “Nonsense! Why should a kiss with such a fantastically manly gentleman be a bad thing? Only, I wish Mr. Dixon hadn’t arrived at just the wrong time.”
“Louisa, I shouldn’t be kissing Fitzwilliam!”
“I don’t see why not.” A dreamy look came over Louisa’s face. “I haven’t kissed a man for two years, since I came to this remote outpost. Mrs. Firth has to be the soul of propriety.”
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” Claire admitted.
Louisa’s eyes widened as though Claire had said something dire. “Dearest, I hadn’t realized. That is a tragedy.”
“It’s not a tragedy. And I can’t be kissing the duke’s cousin.”
“But you wanted to kiss him!”
Claire sighed heavily. How had she come to feel so much already for a man she barely knew? “He makes my heart thump. That’s not the same as liking him.”
Louisa’s look told her she didn’t believe her. And she was right not to, because Claire did like him, very much. And though he’d claimed that the duke wanted her opinion about Trethillin, she knew there was more to his insistence that she accompany him.
“I like you,” he’d said. So directly.
She liked his directness. She knew where she stood with him. That directness seemed to reach across all the half-truths and polite prevarications that good manners demanded and establish something that felt real.
“I wish he hadn’t come,” Claire said, “because he makes me feel less enthusiastic about trying to secure Mr. Rutledge.”
“You should tell Fitzwilliam the truth about who you are and see what happens. He’s already trying to court you. Maybe he will marry you.”
Claire shook her head. “How can I tell him I’m not the duke’s cousin and admit that I’m nothing but an interloper here? I’d lose any shred of good will he might have toward me. Besides, he’d certainly suspect you of helping me. I can’t risk it.”
Never mind that the far greater risk would be to her heart. But what she felt for Rowan was too new—and it left her too vulnerable—to say anything of that to Louisa. And nothing could come of their attraction, because he was wrong for her. It was only proximity and the heady excitement of desire that was tempting her to believe they might have any sort of future.
“I’d risk anything for love,” Louisa said.
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re the most practical woman I know. Who else would have come to this deserted outpost of a lodge to work just to save enough money to travel? You’re a woman with a plan, just like me. And right now my plan must be to charm Mr. Rutledge. I really did quite like him until Fitzwilliam showed up.”
* * *
“Well,” Rowan said as he, Claire, and Mr. Dixon paused at the entrance to the assembly the following night. The smallish room was nearly overflowing with people prancing about with the kind of unabashed glee that no one in Rowan’s circle would have dreamed of displaying.
Rowan had spent most of his recent years avoiding dancing, because the young unmarried ladies tended to be terribly excited about the idea of dancing with a duke, and the less-innocent, widowed ladies tended to want to offer him things… like themselves.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Claire said as she looked around the room.
Rowan smiled at the delight in her voice and cast a sideways glance at her, catching the sparkle in her eyes, though he hardly needed to look again to know that she was stunning in her violet satin gown. Its bodice, tasteful but lower than those of her other gowns, had left him behaving like a schoolboy in the coach, sneaking glances at her. He hadn’t seen her all day—she’d apparently been visiting some neighbors—and he’d been struck almost stupid by the sight of her when she had appeared in the Foxtail foyer in her evening finery.
He’d just barely managed to say that she looked quite fine without tripping over his words, completely disgusted with himself even as her answering smile made him feel like a king.
“It’s splendid, simply splendid,” Mr. Dixon said. “Don’t you think, Fitzwilliam, that even your cousin the duke would not be able to resist a turn around the room in the company of one of our lovely ladies? Certainly,” he continued, his eyes dancing with what Rowan suspected was mischief, “the duke would be enchanted by his cousin Miss Beckett’s loveliness.”
The rosy color in her cheeks deepened as she blushed.
“I’m certain he would,” Rowan said, capturing her eyes. Could she read in his own the effect she was having on him? Just looking at her made him ache, and he kept trying to tell himself that this crackling, alive thing between them was only attraction. But it was far more than that, and far beyond the physical. She made him feel… split open. It was something to do with her joy and her liveliness, and oh, he couldn’t even name all
the whats and whys of it. What she did to him was mysterious and irresistible, and he wanted terribly to know what might develop between them, given a chance.
He was just about to invite her to join him in the next dance when a gentleman approached their party. A Mr. Rutledge, already known to the vicar and Claire, was introduced to Rowan. The man promptly claimed her for the dance.
Rowan stood with the vicar, watching them take their place among the couples on the floor. He cast a glance about for any sign of Lucere or Mowne, but he saw neither of his friends.
“Your cousin is a charming creature,” the older man said, tapping his toes in time to the music. “I imagine you’ve been pleased to make her acquaintance.”
“One always enjoys knowing one’s relations better.”
The vicar gave him a look. “It’s really quite interesting that you’d never met before. Or, apparently, heard of each other.”
“Not really. We are very distant cousins.” Rowan paused, not liking the way Rutledge was leaning in to chat with Claire every time the dance brought them close. Rutledge looked to be younger than Rowan by a few years, a tall, slim fellow who moved as gracefully as a dancing master.
Claire smiled at Rutledge, and Rowan clenched his teeth. She’d as good as told him that she needed to find a husband soon, and despite the kiss the two of them had nearly shared yesterday afternoon, it was looking like Rutledge was a prime candidate for suitor.
Rowan had still not forgiven Dixon for interrupting that almost-kiss.
“Have you known Mr. Rutledge a long time?” Rowan asked.
The vicar nodded. “All his life. A fine family, the Rutledges. He has a very nice estate to share with some lucky woman.” Dixon cast a sidelong glance at Rowan. “Though none of us has known Miss Beckett long, she’s already a favorite in the neighborhood.”
Rowan silently gnashed his teeth as he watched Claire laugh at something Rutledge had said. Rowan had a very nice estate or two—or ten, actually—to share as well, and he was beginning to think that maybe he wanted to share them with Claire. But he needed more time with her to find out—time he wouldn’t have if she managed to ensnare the already clearly enchanted Rutledge.
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