by Diana Quincy
“A beauty such as yours would inspire thoughts of matrimony.” Taking such an exquisite creature to wife wouldn’t be any hardship. He could easily see her as a duchess. With all of that icy majesty, she already carried herself like a queen.
Her face reddened at his shameless flirtation, the flush on her cheeks extending to the delicate curves of her ears. “Camryn says you’ve been living abroad.” Wintry eyes scanned his face. “Might I ask where?”
He smiled at her obvious attempt to change the subject. “India.”
Her breath caught and her liquid eyes warmed with interest in a way that made Hartwell’s body tighten in one quick surge. “India!” she exclaimed, all of that haughty distance falling away. “You are so very fortunate. Someday, I plan to travel to the faraway places I’ve read about. I long to see India and Greece and Italy.”
“Surely such a thing is not done by young maidens.”
“It won’t be long before I am considered so long in the tooth, no one will have a care what I do.”
He couldn’t imagine that. “Perhaps your husband will show you the world.”
“Tell me of India. It seems such an exotic place.”
He thought of the bazaars, hot and crowded with masses of people thronging forward, the air thick with heat and dust, redolent with the smell of unwashed bodies, sultry spices, and incense. Perhaps it was the cacophony of sounds he remembered most: the clatter of a cart, the noise of fast-talking shopkeepers bargaining their way to a sale.
“There is nothing plain or bland about the country or its people,” he answered. “It is a country of extremes, the hottest of weather, and a rainy season that seems to go on forever. The food can be so spicy it burns all the way down to your stomach. The sweets are almost too sugary to countenance.”
To his astonishment, she smiled, her face relaxing into a deliciously warm expression which reminded him of the sun shining down on a spring garden. “How vividly you describe it.”
Surrendering to the temptation to bask in her radiance, he leaned closer. She smelled of roses, earthy and rich, yet elusive somehow. Heat flooded his belly. “‘I am pale with longing for my beloved.’”
She drew back. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is poetry from India. Centuries old. However, you needn’t worry. There’s nothing romantic about it. I believe it refers to a love of God.”
The chill returned to her voice. “I must say, Your Grace, I find this conversation most forward and unconventional.”
“Ah, but then you do not seem conventional, my lady.”
She stilled. “If that is intended as another insult—”
“Not at all,” he assured her, resisting the impulse to kiss her senseless, to chip away at that icy exterior and revel in that flash of sun he’d glimpsed. “I find most young ladies of the ton to be quite boring and silly. Qualities, I might add, which I would never attribute to you.” He was rewarded with another one of those pink blushes which extended to her ears.
“Your Grace, you overstep.”
“My apologies then. It would seem, Lady Wilhelmina, that we have gotten off to a most inauspicious start.” And then, because he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her, “Though I must say it has been most enlightening.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Her glistening eyes slid away to resume a wandering look of polite boredom, leaving him feeling strangely bereft.
Chapter Three
“Surely one of the gentlemen from last evening captured your interest,” Mother insisted to Addie the following day as they sat in the upstairs drawing room.
Addie reclined lazily on the chaise in front of the window. “All of the gentlemen on my dance card were beyond boring.”
“The Earl of Spence seemed taken with you,” Mother pressed. “And he has six thousand pounds a year.”
“I don’t care about that.” Turning to where Willa sat by the fire with the Times of London, Addie asked, “What are you reading that is of such interest?”
Willa looked up, happy to help her sister distract their marriage-minded mother from her favorite topic. “The Times is going on about the waltz again, referring to it as an obscenity.”
“Did someone say obscenity?” Cam strode into the room. “I seem to miss all of the most fascinating conversations.”
“The Times is denouncing the waltz again.”
Cam accepted lemonade from Mother and settled opposite the fireplace in the large comfortable chair he favored. Smythe, the butler, appeared in the doorway with a massive bouquet of roses in every shade imaginable; soft pinks, elegant ivory, and vibrant reds with thick, velvety petals which infused the air with their rich scent.
“Wilhelmina, they are for you,” Mother said as she read the card, excitement tingeing her words. “It seems you have an admirer.”
Her heart stumbled. She hadn’t told anyone about seeing Augustus last night. Now it seemed the flowers would do it for her. She pushed to her feet and forced herself to reach for the card her mother held out.
“Oh.” She expelled the breath she’d been holding. “They are from Hartwell.” With the impudent duke at least, there was nothing to explain, no uncomfortable past to exhume.
Cam cocked an eyebrow. “Hartwell sent you flowers?”
“Perhaps he means to court her.” Her mother fidgeted on the sofa. “Wilhelmina is a lady of fine family as well as great beauty. Why wouldn’t a duke want to further an acquaintance with her?”
“Willa, Duchess of Hartwell.” Mischief danced in Addie’s eyes. “It does have a certain ring to it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I am no great beauty and a duke would never show any real interest in me.” Even if Mother chose to ignore the truth, everyone knew that dukes desired brides with impeccable reputations.
Mother turned to Cam. “Tell us about His Grace. You appear to know him well.”
“He’s the best of men. Fair, honorable, and decent. He abhors any manner of injustice.”
“You make him sound like a paragon.” Willa thought of the cad’s scurrilous behavior on the terrace. “Surely, he cannot be so perfect.”
“All men possess faults. Hartwell does have a temper on him.” He drank from his lemonade. “At least he did at Cambridge. I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been in India.”
Mother frowned. “Whatever for?”
“Some business concern.” Cam regarded her over the rim of his glass. “Hart is the second son. He never expected to inherit, but his brother the duke died unexpectedly without issue last year.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful.” Mother’s sympathetic words were at odds with the undercurrent of excitement in her voice.
Smythe reappeared. “My lord, you have a caller.”
Cam smiled and winked at Willa. “Speak of the devil…the duke then?”
The butler’s face registered just a touch of confusion before resuming its usual expressionless mask. “Pardon, my lord, but ‘tis the Earl of Bellingham who has come to call.”
“The Earl of Bellingham?” Startled, Cam flashed a quick look around the parlor.
Augustus. Willa’s mouth went dry.
“The old earl?” Mother’s gaze darted between Willa and Cam. “What could he mean by coming here?”
“The old earl is dead,” Cam told her. “I received word of it last evening. It is his eldest son, Augustus Manning, the new earl, who awaits my pleasure.”
Mother’s eyes widened. “Perhaps he means to set matters to rights now that his father has passed.” Addie straightened on the chaise, her eyes alert with interest, her cheeks tinged with color.
“Very well, Smythe.” Cam stood, straightening his cravat as he strode toward the door. “Please show his lordship into my study. I shall receive him there.” Relief flooded Willa. Cam meant to spare her any discomfort by conducting the meeting in private.
“Willa,” her mother said after Cam left, “why do you suppose he has come to call so soon after the old earl’s death?”
Her pulse gal
loped. “I haven’t any idea.” Addie coughed and her eyes shifted from her mother to Willa.
“Very well, then.” Mother forced a cheery note into her voice. “In due time, Camryn will inform us of the reason for the earl’s visit. Until then, we shall not let it concern us.” She picked up her needlepoint and appeared to concentrate on her stitching. Following her mother’s lead, Willa returned to her newspaper, trying to ignore the painful pounding of her heart and the distraction of Addie pacing about the salon.
Her mind filled with memories of the inn, when the unthinkable had transformed their innocent attachment into something unsavory and shameful. She should tell Mother about her encounter with Augustus last night. The rational part of her mind comprehended marriage to an earl would restore her good name. Mother would no doubt pressure her to accept in order to bury the rumors for good, but her stomach twisted with disgust at the thought of it.
“It would seem” —Cam said when he returned some thirty minutes later— “that a marriage is to take place.”
Anxiety arrowed up her spine. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath before bringing her eyes up to meet Cam’s. To her surprise, his steady gaze was fixed on Addie.
“Bellingham came to call on behalf of his younger brother, Horace. It seems young Horace is smitten with Addie and feels quite certain the lady in question returns his affections.”
Willa whipped around to look at her sister. “You and Race?”
Cam frowned. “Who is Race?”
Mother rose from the sofa, her eyes fixed on Addie. “Horace, the second son,” she said. “He is called Race by some.”
Addie turned to them from where she stood at the window. She’d gone pale. Chewing her lower lip, a stricken expression crossed her face.
“Well….it’s…I supposed,” Addie stammered, looking down at her hands.
“What is it you wish to say?” Cam’s tone was gentle and reassuring. “Please speak frankly.”
Addie took a deep breath. “I am in love with Race Manning and I have been since I was twelve.” The words rushed out as though she wanted to declare herself before losing her nerve. “We renewed our acquaintance at the ball last evening. It is my wish to wed him.” She walked to where Willa sat on the sofa and dropped down to the floor before her, placing her hands over older sister’s. “But I will not accept him if it will hurt or embarrass you after what…his brother did to you.” Addie flushed at the awkward reference to Willa’s damaged reputation. “I would die before subjecting you to that again. A word from you and I shall send him away.”
Addie and Race? In love? Focusing on her sister’s face, her heart twinged at the distress she saw there. She glanced up to find Mother and Cam watching with concern etched in their expressions. She shook herself out of her stupor and confusion. “Darling, Addie.” She stroked her sister’s hair. “Do you truly love him?”
“I do.” Willa saw tears in Addie’s eyes and felt them sting her own. It all began to make sense to her. She thought back to their summers and realized with a start that Addie and Race had always been together. Sitting near each other, sharing an apple or a private laugh. Willa remembered Race as a brash, but likeable and earnest young man and could well envision him as a kind and loving husband to her sister.
She took a deep breath. “Addie, if you love Race Manning and wish to wed him, then of course you should. All I desire is your happiness.” She tugged Addie up off the floor to sit next to her on the sofa. “If Race can provide you with that, I shall be truly happy for you.”
“I don’t know.” Mother looked to Cam. “It is decidedly uncomfortable, considering the past.”
“An alliance between the families could serve to put the ugly rumors to rest.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he thought it out. “It would surely make people realize the talk surrounding Willa and Bellingham is nonsense. We would never countenance joining our families if there was any truth to it.”
Willa pressed her lips together. “It is true enough, Cam.”
Surprise lit his face at her directness. A savage expression replaced it. “It is not too late to call him out. Had I been aware of it back then, I most certainly would have.”
But Cam had not even been here. He’d been at his own family home several hours away and hadn’t heard the rumors until much later, well after her father died and he’d come into the title. When it had been far too late to salvage her reputation.
“Nonsense. That would have created a scandal from which none of us would have recovered.” Mother’s voice firmed. “Cam has the right of it. A betrothal between our families will put the rumors to rest. We’ll put this unfortunate business behind us once and for all.”
Once Mother got an idea into her head, it was impossible to dislodge. Willa put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I suppose felicitations are in order.”
Cam turned his attention to Addie. “When, pray tell, did all of this come to pass?”
“He was there last night.” Adela’s eyes shone. “For the longest time, we presumed there was no hope for our union since—” Her words stumbled and she glanced at her sister.
“Continue,” Willa urged, ignoring the tightness in her chest, which always accompanied any reference to her ruination. “The past is the past. What occurred between Augustus and me has no bearing whatsoever on you and Race.”
Addie took a breath. “We had always promised each other we would be together. I had not allowed myself to hope that he felt the same way after all these years, but he does.”
Smythe reappeared. “Another caller, my lord. It is His Grace, the Duke of Hartwell.”
“Ah, this time it is Hart.” Tension left Cam’s face and he flashed an amused look in Willa’s direction. “Please show him in, Smythe.”
She sighed, resigning herself to the fact that this was going to be one of those days.
Her smile widening, Mother patted her hair into place. “A duke no less,” she said, her voice triumphant. “An excellent match.”
An impish look lit Addie’s face. “Perhaps it will be a double wedding: Race and I, Willa and her duke.” She jumped to her feet and dropped into a deep curtsey before Willa. “Your Grace.”
She fired a withering glare at Addie. “Stop it, both of you. There is no hope of a match. He is probably here to see Cam.”
Cam gave her a wicked smile. “I suppose that is possible. But then again, the flowers were not for me. Ah, Hartwell,” he said, rising from his seat to greet Grey Preston. “How nice of you to call.”
Hartwell strode in, his tall dark presence immediately asserting itself in the room. Willa wondered if he always looked so immaculate. Except for his artfully tied white cravat, the duke had cloaked his masculine frame in unrelenting black again. His midnight hair was tied back in a perfect queue, the shine on his Hessians so bright she could see her reflection in them.
He presented a bouquet of spring flowers to Mother, which she accepted with great flourish. “Why thank you, Your Grace! They are lovely.” She turned to Smythe. “Please find a vase for this. And see about refreshment for the duke.” Turning back to Hartwell, she gestured with her hand. “Please, Your Grace, do have a seat. You honor us with your visit.”
After greeting everyone, the duke settled into a chair. Looking beyond Willa, he spied the generous bouquet of flowers. “Excellent. I see you received my flowers.”
“Yes, indeed! They are beautiful, Your Grace,” Mother gushed, before turning a pointed eye toward her daughter. “Aren’t they, Wilhelmina?”
“Yes. You really shouldn’t have.”
“Nonsense. It is my great pleasure.” Amusement laced the polite tones of his full-bodied voice. “Although, of course, the loveliest bloom pales next to Lady Wilhelmina’s radiance.”
“Oh, my.” Mother put a hand to her chest. “You are too kind.”
“Yes.” Willa hoped her mother wouldn’t swoon to the floor right there at the pointed toes of the Duke’s gleaming black boots. “Far too kind.”
“Not at all.” A roguish glint lit his eyes. “Few diamonds sparkle as brightly as you, my lady.”
“Your Grace flatters me greatly.” She winced inwardly, certain her burning ears were the same shade as the crimson roses behind her. She had no idea how to respond to the duke’s flirtatious flattery. Having spent little time in society and even less with courtly gentlemen, the rules of coquettish behavior escaped her.
Fortunately, Smythe’s appearance with the refreshments rescued her for the moment. Eyeing the artful arrangement of delicate sandwiches, meat pies, cheeses, biscuits, small cakes, and pastries, she noted the kitchen staff had gone out of its way to impress their prestigious guest on such short notice.
Turning to Hartwell, Mother said, “Tea, Your Grace? Or lemonade?”
“Lemonade, if you please. I am quite partial to it.” He flashed that scoundrel’s smile in Willa’s direction. “I find myself drawn to the paradox of how something so tantalizingly sweet can also be so tart.”
The footman entered with the elements necessary for tea. Willa scooted forward to unlock the tea caddy, wondering how anyone could prefer lemonade over tea. Nothing competed with a perfect blend.
The duke’s dark brow furrowed. “Lady Wilhelmina brews the tea?”
“No one prepares it like Willa,” said Mother. “Although the mistress of the house usually has the honor, I concede to my daughter’s obvious mastery.”
Feeling Hartwell’s eyes upon her, Willa opened the caddy and selected from among the special variety of leaves. Once the rich distinctive aroma of fermented tea leaves wafted into the air, she promptly forgot all about the duke and everything else. Her senses alert and engaged, she concentrated on her preparation, the calming sensation of formulating the perfect brew settling deep in her bones. She measured an ideal mix of green and black leaves from China before adding her own distinctive ingredients—a bit of dried orange rind, a hint of rosemary, and pinch of cinnamon. She frowned to see they’d brought out the silver teapot. China teapots produced better-tasting brews, but allowances had to be made when a duke came to call.