by Kimberly Nee
“He’d be pleased to know his efforts are paying off,” Elena said. “He’s doing his best to charm his way through England.”
“You mustn’t be hard on him, Miss Sebastiano. That’s simply how men are.”
Christina chimed in. “Now, do tell, why did Lord Dunning suddenly decide to host this wedding, one I hear was supposed to be his and no longer is? It’s a well-known fact he abhors all things social. I can’t think he’d want anyone to know he’d been jilted.”
“Claudia is his cousin,” Elena said, “and he’s happy for her.”
She certainly wasn’t about to share the other reason why Lord Dunning was so willing to open his home for this wedding. She hadn’t had time to truly assess any of these ladies, and she didn’t need them practically killing one another to have their name added to his shortlist. She didn’t want anyone acting on their best behavior, either. It was far better to see these women as they truly were if she wished to stand a chance at picking a good match for him.
For the first time since he’d come to her with the proposition, Elena was hesitant. None of these ladies seemed interested in title-hunting, but she didn’t know them well. Not yet, anyway. The untitled ladies seemed quite fascinated by Conn, but she assumed it was because he gave off that rakish air, the one that seemed to draw every warm-blooded woman within a fifty-mile radius.
“Actually,” Elena added, looking from Rosamund to Christina and then to Cordelia, whose coloring had slowly returned to normal, “I believe it has to do with allowing people to enjoy the splendor of Dunning Court as it’s been such a long time since a ball has been held here.”
“It h-has,” Cordelia said with a brief bob of her head. “Lord Dunning has never b-been one for festivities. He’s always too b-b-busy bb-brooding about the curse.”
Claudia shot her a queer look. “What? I’ve never heard tell of a curse. Mother never mentioned it. Are you certain or are you pulling our leg?”
“Oh, no, Miss Santa Cruz, I am se-serious. The-there is most definitely a cur-cur-curse.”
“Pish.” Lady Rosamund snorted and gave a dismissive wave of her black lace fan. “There is no such thing as a curse, and you should be ashamed of yourself for believing such nonsense.”
“There is so a curse,” Cordelia snapped, without a hint of stutter, “and you should think twice before being so dismissive of it, Ros.”
Christina didn’t look quite so irritated as Lady Rosamund. She cocked her head toward Eleanor and said, “Here we go again.”
Elena and Claudia exchanged glances each looking from one woman to the next, while Elena hoped she didn’t look as lost as she felt. “Curse?”
Eleanor sighed softly, her eyes rolling upward. “It’s an old wives’ tale, how a witch cast a curse upon the male Dunning bloodline.”
“It’s not an old wives’ tale at all,” Cordelia sniffed, clutching her glass as if afraid someone was going to try to snatch it from her. She seemed a bit surer of herself now, the color fading from her cheeks. The delicate paleness of her skin brought out the deep green of her eyes, brought out the way they sparkled in the light. And when she smiled, as she did then, she became quite striking.
She turned those lively eyes to Elena and shook her head. “It’s not a wives’ tale at all. At least, I don’t think it is. Some dismiss it, but if one stops to reflect, every Dunning male has d-d-died prematurely over the last four generations. And Lord Dunning is the last one. When he dies, his bloodline will, too. Unless, of course, he has a son before then.”
“But why would there be a curse?” Elena looked from Cordelia to the others, waiting for someone to explain the source of the legend.
Claudia leaned forward, eyes wide, and rested her chin on her fist. “Mama never mentioned anything about a curse before.”
“Because it’s nonsense, probably,” Christina chimed in, sounding thoroughly bored. “Utter tosh and Cordy, you are a fool for not only believing, but spreading such rubbish about.”
Elena felt a pang of sympathy as Cordelia’s face fell, but then, Lady Rosamund broke in with a weary, “Supposedly, a Dunning forefather refused shelter to an old woman during a fierce thunderstorm. That same old tired story which always ends with some horrible curse or other being placed upon the noble—or in this case, not-so-noble—family. It’s all complete nonsense, if you ask me.”
“Very well, it is a bit tired, I’ll give you. But at the same time, when you think about it, you have to wonder.” Cordelia turned to Elena, tucking a loose tendril behind her left ear. “The story I heard was that the old woman begged for shelter from the storm, and when the first Earl of Dunning refused, she cursed him with the prophecy that no male Dunning should reach the age of thirty. And true to form, every one of them since has died well short of their thirtieth year. That is a fact and you cannot dismiss a fact, can you?”
“But why would she curse him?” Elena asked. “Why not seek shelter somewhere else?”
“This was several generations ago, Miss Sebastiano,” Lady Rosamund replied in a droll voice. “Dunning Court was the only residence for miles and the floodwaters were rising. Or the ground was sinking. Or perhaps the sky was falling. No one seems to know the truth. Nor does anyone seem to know if any of it happened. Not that anyone truly cares. All the gossips”—she glared at Cordelia as she spoke—“care about is that some old woman apparently cursed the men of the Dunning line. Before they reach the ripe old age of thirty. Why thirty, I haven’t the foggiest, but that’s how the story goes. Oh, and the old woman was found dead the next morning when the sun finally broke through.”
“Facedown in a ditch off the main road,” Eleanor added. “Seems she tripped over her own two feet and drowned herself in a puddle, more’s the pity.”
“How awful,” Claudia murmured, always softhearted, even when it came to legends.
“Mock if you will,” Cordelia replied, her voice soft and the blush climbing back in to her cheeks. “But you cannot m-mock that all M-markham m-m-m-en died y-y-y-young.”
Elena waited for the others to sniff or shake their heads, but all of them nodded, even Claudia, who said, “That is true. And all were due to some sort of accident, according to Mama. No one was sick, as far as I remember.”
“Not a soul,” Eleanor murmured. “The current earl’s father was killed when he was thrown from his horse. The earl before him died at sea. No one knows how, because he was buried at sea as well.”
Claudia looked up. “He was killed in battle against my father. I don’t know the details, however,” she said softly. “Neither he nor my mother ever spoke much of it.”
The earl before Bennett Markham’s father would have been Gabby’s half brother, William. Elena only knew his name because she’d once overheard a conversation between Gabby and her own father. An uncomfortable shiver trailed down along her spine and the room suddenly seemed far colder. Was that why Bennett was so determined to marry now? He had only a year or two before his thirtieth birthday, which meant only another year or two before—
She shook herself from her maddening thoughts. Curses weren’t real and accidents happened, and it was so easy to assign blame.
It was simply a matter of needing an heir, as he explained.
As she cast a look toward the window, into the gloom of night, she couldn’t help but wonder if Dunning Court held more dark secrets.
Chapter Five
With the wedding only five days out, Claudia spent a great deal of time locked away in her chambers, with a seamstress brought from London by her mother and charged with the challenge of creating a lovely wedding gown on such short notice.
Elena had a bit of time on her hands then, which she spent with the other ladies, mostly observing. But by the second day, she needed a break from the giggling and gossiping and so when the weather finally broke and the sun came out, she took herself out to enjoy it.
Unlike on St. Phillippe, where a brilliantly sunny day often went hand in hand with sticky air—unless one was near
the shore—England could be sunny and cool at the same time. She didn’t care; she was just happy to feel the rays on her face, even if the breeze was on the chilly side.
She had no clue where she was going, but if she kept sight of Dunning Court, she’d eventually find her way home. The estate was immense, felt to her as if the whole of St. Phillippe would fit within its borders, and was lush with rolling fields and woods that almost begged to be explored. She toyed with the idea, but thought better of it, having slipped out when the others went above to lie down, so no one knew she was outdoors.
Then again, perhaps that wasn’t such a terrible thing. It seemed to her that the women Lord Dunning might consider marrying were only interested in scandals and mindless chitchat. Perhaps it was because of her presence, but they didn’t seem to ever discuss anything of matter—not about life or politics or anything other than who did what and with whom they did it. She knew the Duchess of Haverforth was having a torrid affair with her groom, and the Earl of Whiting was quite enjoying himself with a set of identical twins half his age. Tidbits such as those made Elena roll her eyes and wonder if the English ever married for love, or if they even believed in the concept of love at all. It seemed many of them ascribed to Conn’s philosophy of love.
Compared to that, the solitude and cool air were far more valuable, especially to her sanity. She loved the smell of the meadows—a hint of lavender combined with fresh soil and newly scythed grass all combined into the sweetest of perfumes. In the distance, birds rustled through treetops, chirping and singing in conversation.
But as tempting as the woods were, she went instead to the west, keeping Dunning Court in sight, although it grew smaller. The grass grew higher here, rustling in the breeze, which was warmer now as the sun moved directly overhead. From a distance, there came the lazy slap of water against earth and she smiled as she neared a lake.
A wooden dock had been built that extended out over the water, and the boards creaked softly beneath her feet as she padded to the end. It was difficult to tell how deep the brackish water was or what lived in it, as it was murky greenish-brown in color. But that didn’t stop her from slipping out of her boots. After a quick glance to see if anyone might happen upon her, she reached up to untie her stockings, slipped them from her feet, and then tucked them into one boot.
The dock was warm from the sun, but the water wasn’t and she sucked in a sharp breath as the cold bit into her feet. The pain didn’t last, and as she acclimated to it, she stared down to see fish swimming by. Ducks quacked at one another as they swam on the far side of the lake, and the water rippled gently about her ankles.
How peaceful it was, just sitting there with only waterfowl and fish for company. It was a nice change from the giggling and mindless chatter inside the walls of Dunning Court. She hadn’t the foggiest who would be suited for his lordship. They were all a bit silly.
Lady Rosamund was the least giggly, least gossipy, and probably best suited for life as a countess. She didn’t appear to covet his wealth, nor did she seem to love him. And since his lordship only had those two requirements, this part should be the simplest.
But it wasn’t. Not the simplest by half. She didn’t know the earl beyond bidding good morning or good evening, or to engage in idle chitchat during meals, but she had the feeling he was a good, decent man. As such, she didn’t want to simply suggest the least irritating woman in sight. Besides, she wanted to know more about him as well.
She sat back, lifted her face to the sun, and simply drank it in. It was so nice, feeling that warmth on her skin, the cool water on her feet, and as she closed her eyes, she managed to forget just how far away from home she was. She carefully removed most of the pins from her hair, fluffing it as it spilled down over her shoulders and swirled about her hips. The pins fell in a semi-circle on the dock, ignored as the breeze lifted through the curls. Reclining, she let the thick fall of her hair cushion her from the wood as she savored just being.
…
Bennett shifted in his saddle, wincing at the stretch of muscles in his right thigh, the ache in his knee.
It had been several weeks since he’d been astride Loki, since he’d taken a spill and twisted that knee. Still, it was worth a little discomfort to put some distance between him and the bedlam that had taken over his home. He needed silence before he went completely mad.
This wedding couldn’t be over soon enough. Then he could settle the far more pressing matter of finding a wife of his own.
Another wedding that couldn’t be over quickly enough.
Loki lived up to his mischievous namesake as he refused to take the path leading into the woods. Instead, he veered to the left and Bennett shook his head as they drew near the lake. The last time they’d come out this way, they’d gotten too close to a nest and an irate mallard had spooked the big black gelding by squawking and flapping its wings maniacally. Loki had reared up, and Bennett had promptly tumbled from the saddle.
He didn’t relish a repeat, but no matter how he tugged on the reins, Loki refused to yield. To the lake they were going.
The ducks were busy on the far side of the lake and as Loki picked his way through rushes and around reeds, Bennett frowned when he caught sight of the dock.
What the devil—?
He swung down from Loki, looped the reins on the post, then strode out onto the dock, where he came to a dead stop. There, on her back, with her hair loose and free, one arm carelessly thrown over her head, the other across her eyes, lay Elena Sebastiano.
There was something about seeing her that way, lying there with such abandon, thumbing her nose at conforming to what the English felt was proper attire and behavior. It made him smile. He resumed his pace, walking out to where she lay.
She didn’t start at the sound of his boots on the wood, nor did she move to sit up or tuck her hair up, as would be proper. As his shadow fell over her, she said, “A good morning to you, my lord.”
“How do you know I’m a lord?”
Her arm remained over her eyes. “Well, I was only guessing at first, but I’d recognize that accent anywhere, Lord Dunning.”
He grinned down at her, although she couldn’t see it. “I’m not the one with the accent, Miss Sebastiano. That would be you.”
“Be that as it may, you have one to my ears.” Now she drew her arm away and squinted up at him, a hint of a welcoming smile playing at her lips. “You sound elegant and refined. I, on the other hand, sound every bit the savage everyone in your drawing room takes me for.”
“No one thinks of you a savage.”
“Oh, no? I find that hard to believe. They certainly stare at me and whisper about me when they think I can’t hear them. Christina Chandler especially likes to do so. I’ve overheard her at least three times since supper last eve.”
Bennett flinched, then gestured to the dock beside her. “May I?”
She sat up. “Of course.”
“Thank you. I took a fall several weeks ago and my knee hasn’t entirely forgiven me yet.” He lowered himself to the dock with a groan, but didn’t let his legs dangle over the side, as she did. “Aren’t you cold?”
“A bit,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “But it feels nice after a few minutes and not quite so cold. You should try it.”
The thought made him shiver. “Thank you, but no.” He folded his legs, propped his elbow on his healthy knee, and his chin on his fist. “Had enough of the wedding madness, have you?”
She drew her feet from the water and tucked them, still dripping, beneath her skirts, but not before he caught a glimpse of slender ankles and well-turned calves. Her skin was such a beautiful sun-kissed shade, darker than his own, and seeing that hint of leg was enough to bring a strange dryness to his mouth.
“I’ve had enough of being around people, yes. When I’m home, I often take walks on the beach alone and I have a favorite rock I like to sit on and think. Especially when I need to get away from my family.”
“A favorite rock?”
He smiled as the breeze lifted her hair to wrap about her face, and had to fight the strangest urge to reach out and catch the shimmering dark strands.
“It’s high enough that the spray doesn’t always hit me.”
She said it with a shrug, as if it made the most sense of anything in the world. And the funny part of it was, it probably did. He could easily imagine it—Elena with her head thrown back, her dark hair streaming out behind her, laughing as the sea spray washed over her.
Best to change the subject before the images became even more disturbing.
“Doesn’t walking about in wet clothes become uncomfortable?”
“I supposed it could, but I tend to stay there long enough for them to dry.”
He smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
She gave him a long look that almost felt like an accusation. “Do you think me a savage as well?”
“Hardly.” He shifted as the wood bit into his backside. “I think you unique. And that’s not a bad thing at all.”
She peered up at him. “Tell me, of those ladies, which can you see yourself married to?”
She was far more direct than most women he knew, and for a moment he could only stare. “Honestly? I haven’t the foggiest yet. They are all good choices, if for different reasons. And I’ve not spent much time with any of them of late, although I’ve known most of the families for years. I just never—”
Her eyes narrowed at his pause. “You just never what?”
He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to unburden himself. “I put it off and now…well, now I can do so no longer.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t sound like a man who wishes to be married.”
“Whether I wish it is beside the point. It must be done. End of story.”
“Why? I should think something such as marriage would lend itself to plenty of thought.” Her eyes were so direct, and were such a beautiful shade of golden brown, warm and friendly. She didn’t look away or blush and stammer when he held her gaze, but simply stared right back.