Did you want this to happen, Isabel? Do you—despite all your denials—want to give me my heir?
What an absolute unmitigated ass her husband was! How arrogant did a man have to be, anyway, to assume that a woman was so swept away by his lovemaking that she could think of nothing else? No, it was even worse than that. He believed that even before he had ever made love to her, Isabel had schemed and planned how best to lure him into her bed. He was convinced she had done all this on purpose, that the bargain she proposed had been nothing but a strategic maneuver.
She buried her face in her pillow and shed a few angry tears. Then she pounded her fists on the mattress and shrieked.
Isabel didn’t realize Martha had already come into the room until the maid jerked in surprise and almost pulled the bed hangings down on Isabel’s head. “Ma’am? My lady? Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” Isabel said icily. “But I do not wish to lie abed with chocolate this morning, Martha. Is my blue walking dress ft to be seen?”
“I washed and ironed it myself just yesterday, my lady. But—”
Isabel slid out of bed and reached for a wrapper. “Yes, Martha, I know that dress is hardly elegant, and it’s not the sort of thing I’d choose to wear for my uncle’s garden party. But you of all people know my wardrobe is seriously limited.” At least Maxwell had stopped tearing up her clothes, after that one ruined dinner gown, or she would be in desperate straits by now.
“Not quite so limited as yesterday, ma’am.”
“What do you mean?” As Isabel turned toward her dressing table, her gaze fell on a gown hanging on the wardrobe door. A walking dress—one she had never seen before.
The dress was primrose yellow, a color that had always flattered Isabel’s midnight-dark hair and made her hazel eyes look bigger and brighter. Though the style was simple, the puffed sleeves and slightly scooped neckline were the very latest fashion. The muslin was the lightest she had ever seen, for even the stray air current she caused as she moved toward the wardrobe set the deep flounce at the bottom of the skirt swaying. At the hem, around the neckline, and scattered across the skirt, flowers had been embroidered in a slightly darker yellow.
“Where did that dress come from, Martha?”
“I brought it up just now. The seamstresses finished the decorative stitching only this morning. There’s a note, my lady.”
Isabel put out a hand for the message, but she was still looking at the dress. “How generous of Uncle Josiah, to provide this as well as the ball gown,” she murmured. “And to make it a surprise…” She opened the page.
In spiky black writing—nothing like the duke’s—were a few words. Just a trifling gift, in appreciation for all you plan to give me. I will enjoy seeing you wear this for your uncle’s garden party. There was no signature, but none was necessary.
Isabel sputtered. If Maxwell thought he could turn her up sweet with a dress—as though she could be bought off with mere clothes—she would soon disabuse him of that notion.
She crossed the room and flung open the connecting door, and only when she stood on the threshold did she stop to think that it might have been wise to plan what she wanted to say.
But he was not there. His valet was near the washstand, rhythmically stropping a razor, and he turned politely. “My lady?”
Isabel was puzzled. Had she lost track of time? She’d thought only a few minutes could have passed since he had left her bed—not long enough for him to dress and go out.
Before she could embarrass herself by asking his valet where Maxwell was, a little furry behind her drew Isabel’s attention back to her own room. Martha stood holding the open door to the gallery for Emily, who was wearing a new pale-pink walking dress—cut differently from Isabel’s but also in one of the latest styles.
“My dear, however did you manage it?” Emily twirled around, showing off the narrow skirt. “I came up from breakfast to find this lying across my bed. I thought your pockets were just as much to let as mine are.”
Isabel bit her lip. “I didn’t manage anything.”
“But the note said the dress was a gift from you.”
“It wasn’t me,” Isabel said. “It was Max—” She choked back the rest of the name.
How perfectly calculating he was, to have included Emily in his gift. By giving her sister a dress, Maxwell made himself look both generous and thoughtful. By claiming that Emily’s gown was a gift from Isabel instead of from him, he presented himself as sensitive—too well-mannered to embarrass his sister-in-law by offering such a personal gift.
Emily frowned. “Isabel? Since when do you call him Max?”
Isabel coughed and said irritably, “Since the frog in my throat kept me from finishing the word. Don’t be ridiculous, Emily.”
If she refused to wear the gown he had provided, Isabel would look foolish—especially when Emily was turned out neat as a pin—and Maxwell would be entertained by her stubbornness. But if she did wear it, he’d not only have the satisfaction of seeing her decked out in a gown he had chosen, but he’d be amused because he had out-maneuvered her.
He wouldn’t laugh at her—not openly; he was too much the gentleman for that. But in the last few days she had learned his expressions—and from the glint in his eyes and the tiny curve of his mouth, she would know exactly how much he was enjoying himself at her expense.
Chapter 14
By midday, the courtyard of the castle bustled with carriages coming and going. The sweeping lawn was alive with tents and marquees, with tables full of food, and with musicians strolling among the early guests. Looking out over the scene from the drawing room terrace, Gavin heard snatches of lively songs and occasional trills of laughter, and once in a while the gentle breeze brought the scent of roasted meat to his nose, along with something that smelled like warm apples and cinnamon.
He leaned against the terrace rail and frowned as he observed the crowd. The women all looked similar. True, the ladies were decked out in light-colored muslins, while the estate women had generally chosen brighter colors, but every one of them showed off her best dress and an elaborate hat. Only a closer look at details like gloves and frilly parasols showed true distinctions between the classes. And, of course, the different ways in which each group walked—the ladies almost mincingly, the estate women with confident strides.
The men were much easier to distinguish. Gentlemen arrayed in bright coats and carefully tied cravats strolled—sometimes within jostling distance—past young men who were tanned and broad-shouldered from their work in the fields, most wearing loose shirts and no coats or neckcloths.
From the long windows of the drawing room, Lucien said, “I’ll wager you’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”
“No,” Gavin said. “Nor would I have expected to see it, here at the castle. The guests are an interesting mix.”
Lucien came to stand beside him. “You mean because some of them are estate people rather than ladies and gentlemen? I thought you Americans believed everyone to be equal.”
“We do. I just didn’t think the duke did.”
“He doesn’t. But if you’re surprised he invited his tenants to mix with the gentry of the neighborhood…” Lucien shrugged. “It’s a garden party. A holiday for the estate’s people.”
“Does he do it often?”
“I don’t think there’s any regular schedule. But this is the first I’ve attended in years, so I might be wrong.”
Gavin sensed another person on the terrace even before the Earl of Chiswick added, “There’s one thing you’re correct about, Hartford—you don’t know what you’re talking about. The annual garden party for all is a Weybridge tradition, as you would know if you paid the slightest attention to family habit and customs.” He looked past his son to Gavin. “The duke asked me to send you to him in the library, Athstone. I believe he would like you to accompany him through the grounds as he greets his guests.”
Making certain I understand what a big job it
is to be master of the castle, more likely.
The Fletcher party was just arriving as Gavin crossed the hall. Sir George greeted him heartily; Lady Fletcher gabbled on about how handsome he looked; Chloe’s gaze was darting all over the room as if she was trying to take in everything at once.
“You seem quite excited, Miss Fletcher,” Gavin said indulgently.
She stared at him a moment, her eyes suddenly wide and dark. “No—of course not.” Her voice was high and breathless.
The girl was on the edge of panic, Gavin realized.
“I mean,” she went on, with more composure, “I expect to enjoy this little gathering, as I do all parties. So amusing of the duke to have a garden party.”
He considered telling her that a young woman who affected boredom was also boring to others. But he suspected the comment would only call Lady Fletcher’s attention to her daughter’s odd conduct and earn Chloe a scold—and it would be cruel to do that when the girl was at her wits’ end. What on earth was bothering her?
Of course, even if she had been truly bored, Gavin might be the only one who found a young woman’s ennui to be tedious. Baron Draycott didn’t, that was clear—for as Gavin walked on toward the library, young Draycott paused for an instant in a theatrical pose at the foot of the staircase and then rushed across to Chloe. “My dear Miss Fletcher—how lovely to see you here!”
A good thing it was that Emily didn’t want the baron, Gavin told himself. It might prove difficult to keep that young man on the string.
Wrapped up in his thoughts, he turned the knob and stepped into the library. After the brilliant sunshine of the terrace and the light-refecting marble lining the hall, the library seemed dimmer than usual. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn, and the duke’s wheeled chair stood near the fireplace.
Empty.
Not far from the chair, a body lay sprawled across the hearthrug. For a moment, in the dim light, Gavin couldn’t see any movement. He sucked in a long breath, and the weight of the entire castle seemed to descend on his shoulders.
“Ever think about knocking before you barge into a private room?” the Duke of Weybridge asked irritably.
He sounded perfectly normal—in other words, testy—but it took Gavin a moment to get himself back under control. “Your Grace, how did you end up on the hearthrug?”
“Don’t just stand there and talk down at me, Athstone.”
Gavin had to step over one of the duke’s hounds to reach the old man. The animal, crouched practically nose to nose with the duke, held a soggy knotted-rope toy in his mouth as if he had brought it over to the fallen man, expecting his master to play tug-of-war.
The dog raised his head and uttered a low growl as Gavin neared, and he said calmly, “That’s enough out of you, Balthazar.” The animal stared at him for a moment longer, dropped his nose as if he was ashamed of himself, and rolled onto his back.
“Never saw him do that before,” the duke said. “Been making up to my dogs, have you?”
“Yes, sir—and with more success than I’ve had at making up to you, I might add.” Gavin gave the hound a perfunctory scratch on the belly before he bent over the duke. “If you can put your arms around my neck, sir, I’ll lift you back into your chair.”
“No, no,” the duke said. “Call my man. He’ll be somewhere about. That’s what he’s for.”
The real question, Gavin thought, was why the valet wasn’t right there, guarding against this very sort of accident. Was the servant enjoying a rare respite? Gavin couldn’t exactly blame him for that. Still…
“Nonsense, sir. You shouldn’t lie on a hard floor any longer than you already have. And you shouldn’t be left alone even for the few minutes it would take for me to find someone to go looking for him. Everyone in the castle is busy today.”
He slid his hands gently under the old man’s arms and lifted. Gavin had never lacked for strength, but getting the duke back into his chair took more effort than he’d anticipated. Though his body looked small and frail, Weybridge had more muscle than Gavin would have expected from an invalid. But hadn’t Lucien, or someone, said that the decline in the duke’s health had been recent and sudden?
“Are you comfortable now, sir?”
“Comfortable? I’m tied to a chair with wheels, and you ask if I’m comfortable? No, I’m not—I need to sit up straighter or I’ll go sliding off.”
The hound whined a little and edged closer to the chair, nudging the duke’s hand with the rope toy.
Gavin shooed him away and adjusted the old man’s position.
“That’ll do for now,” the duke said grudgingly. “I called for you to go out on the lawn with me. It’s your opportunity to meet all the people of the estate. Plus a good many of the neighboring families, of course.”
“Is it my imagination, sir, or do the majority of those families include young ladies?”
“What if they do?”
“I only wondered if there were some you would like me to notice in particular,” Gavin murmured.
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you about it,” the duke snapped. “Thankless lout that you are, you’d go out of your way to make a bad impression.”
“And here I thought that the better you came to know me, the more you would appreciate my strong qualities.”
“I might, if I saw any. Let’s not sit here all day, Athstone!”
At least when the old man is snarling, he isn’t feeling sorry for himself.
Gavin wheeled the chair the length of the new wing of the castle, past the dining room, smoking parlor, and billiard room, to a door that led out to the lawns. Two footmen on duty there snapped to attention, and Gavin waited quietly at the door as they maneuvered the duke’s chair outside and carried it down a fight of wide stone steps to the grass.
From the smoking room behind Gavin came a low voice. “It’ll all be settled tonight, you’ll see. By tomorrow you’ll be wishing me happy.”
Gavin recognized the voice, for he’d last heard it only a few minutes ago by the main entrance. Lancaster—and he was talking of marriage.
Gavin told himself a scrap of overheard conversation didn’t mean Lancaster was still fixed on Emily. The man sounded very sure of himself, and of the lady’s answer—so that might mean he’d turned his attentions to some other woman, one who welcomed his courtship.
“Shouldn’t you be out there on the lawn wooing?” the other man in the smoking room said. “Lady Emily doesn’t seem the sort to stand for being ignored.”
“I’m not ignoring her,” Lancaster replied. “Just waiting for the appropriate moment.”
From down on the lawn, the duke called, “Are you coming, Athstone, or do you plan to stand there all day?”
Gavin realized he had already taken a step toward the smoking room. But it was just as well that he couldn’t go barging in, demanding to know Lancaster’s intentions. The last thing he needed to do was behave like the girl’s guardian.
Nevertheless, as they made the circuit of the lawn, Gavin had to force himself to pay attention to the duke’s introductions, to make small talk, to show interest. “I’m so sorry to be boring you, Athstone,” the duke said irritably. “Would you like me to go back inside for my nap now, so you can find your own entertainment? Or I could commandeer Lucien here to push me around.”
Lucien was standing nearby, holding a glass of ale, but he didn’t seem to hear—he was looking out across the crowd as if mesmerized. Curious, Gavin tried to figure out what Lucien was looking at, but instead his gaze fell on Emily.
At last, he thought with a warm rush of relief. He could at least warn her to be on guard.
She responded to his beckoning wave with a smile and began to stroll toward them—though she was taking her own sweet time about it. Gavin forced himself to be patient while she worked her way through the crowd with a word and a smile for everyone, and even a hug here and there.
Tonight, Lancaster had said. It’ll all be settled tonight. Surely that meant nothing would happ
en before then.
“I feel like heading out to the folly at the very end of the garden,” the duke said. “I haven’t been out there in months.”
A few feet away, Lucien jerked to attention, and ale slopped over the rim of his glass.
“What ails you, Hartford?” the duke grumbled. “I suppose that means I’m stuck with my heir—since I don’t want a glass of ale tipped down my neck.”
“Emily’s coming to greet you,” Gavin said. Too late, he realized that he hadn’t used her proper title.
The duke didn’t seem to notice. “I must say my two nieces are quite the prettiest girls here.”
There could be no argument about that, Gavin thought. He’d seen Isabel earlier, and she was lovely indeed. But Emily was more beautiful yet; she seemed to glow with contentment. Amazing how much a new dress could do for a lady’s confidence.
Doubt jabbed through him. Was it only the dress that had put luminescence in her face, added brilliance to her eyes? Was it possible her quiet joy today was because of Lancaster?
She curtseyed to the duke. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you outside, Uncle Josiah—and enjoying your party!”
When a stout old gentleman came up to the duke, Gavin drew Emily aside. “Have you seen Lancaster?”
“Only from a distance, and I’m doing my best to avoid catching his eye. Why?”
“Then there’s no new understanding between you?”
She laughed. “Gavin, what have you been drinking?”
“I just…” The old gentleman was saying his good-byes to the duke, and Gavin said hastily, “I need to talk to you. Lancaster’s plotting something, and—”
“What could he possibly be plotting? Uncle Josiah’s getting impatient.”
“How can you tell? He always acts that way.”
The stout old gentleman bowed to the duke and moved away.
“Also,” Emily added, “Lady Murdoch is headed in this direction, and I caught a glimpse of Lady Fletcher as well.” She tossed a smile at Gavin, then linked her arm in Lucien’s and whisked him down a nearby path.
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