Cleopatra. She was well named. Gareth could easily see men being willing to fight and die for her. How could two sisters be so unlike? And why, by all that was sane and reasonable, was he so mesmerized by the wrong one?
He had to stop this. He must think of Miss Grey—Helen. Perhaps if he called her by name, he would feel closer to her. Helen, Helen, Helen.
He walked down the gravel path that led to the stables. One of the ancient oaks that grew along the path had been felled, split right to the roots by lightning in the recent storm. It had fallen away from the carriage lane, but it would take weeks to clear the debris. There would be firewood for a year from that tree. Several men were working on it and doffed their caps as he walked by. Gareth nodded at them and walked on.
The Kingstag stables were spacious, laid out with a small courtyard in the center. The stalls could house almost eighty horses at a time, although in recent years they had rarely done so. Since Gareth’s father’s death, his mother had chosen to remain quietly in the country while raising her young daughters. Now he supposed there would be more entertaining at Kingstag; not only would he have a wife but his sisters would be making their debuts soon, which would necessitate balls and parties and all manner of visitors. He suspected his mother was looking forward to it, given her enthusiasm for the wedding plans. He remembered how much she had loved hosting parties and soirees when he was young. It was the only reason he had agreed to a large wedding celebration. Left to his own devices, he would have been happy to wed in the bishop’s private quarters.
He wondered what Helen wanted. He hoped his mother had consulted her.
A shiny black phaeton with startling yellow wheels currently stood in the stable courtyard. Grooms were unhitching a pair of large black stallions, although their actions were slowed by the awestruck glances they kept bestowing on the carriage. It must be Jack’s. If it wasn’t, Gareth would wager half his estate it would be Jack’s by the end of the week. His cousin was drawn to beauty like a bee to a flower, and this phaeton cast all others into the shade.
“Did you win it, steal it, or borrow it?” he asked loudly.
Jack Willoughby stepped out from behind his carriage. “I’m wounded. Naturally I bought her. Had to borrow a bit, but she’s mine.”
“She?”
“Hippolyta.” Jack whispered the name with the reverence of a lover. He reached out and rubbed a spot of dirt from the gleaming wheels. “Hippolyta, my beauty.”
“You named your phaeton.” Gareth shook his head. “Of course you did.”
“Just look at her, Wessex! Such curves, such elegance! Have you ever seen a female finer than this?”
Cleo Barrows’s laughing face flashed into his mind. Gareth exhaled. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
His cousin grimaced. “You always did do things the right way. Besotted with your bride already!”
He closed his eyes. God, he needed a drink—and it wasn’t even noon. “You brought the ring?”
“Of course.” Jack had gone back to gazing lovingly at Hippolyta. “Got it from the jeweler yesterday.”
For a moment there, he’d been almost hopeful Jack would have forgotten it. Lost it. Wagered it away in a card game. The ring was a family heirloom, sent off to a London jeweler to be sized and cleaned. If Jack had forgotten it…. But the ring was here, so the wedding wouldn’t be delayed by the need to procure another one.
“Excellent,” Gareth murmured. “Are you headed up to the house?”
“Not yet.” Jack took out his handkerchief and reached up to polish another spot on the carriage. “Too many girls in white dresses, giggling like mad. I may spend the next week here in your stables.”
“I’ll send Withers out with some port and a blanket.”
Jack grinned. “Very sporting of you, Wessex.”
Gareth nodded and left. He turned away from the house; if Jack wasn’t going back, neither was he. There was nothing at the house but trial and temptation right now, as long as Helen and Cleo would be standing in the hall, the contrast between them sharpened by their proximity. He had to cure himself of this unwanted fascination. He was the Duke of Wessex. He’d had his pick of women in England and he’d chosen Helen. He wished he could return to that certainty that she was the one. He wished he could feel any sort of contentment about his rapidly approaching marriage to her. He would even be glad just to be less attracted to Cleo; then he would be able to persuade himself that all would work out right in the end, that he would come to care for Helen, that they would all be happy eventually.
Instead … all he felt was dread, growing stronger by the hour.
Chapter Six
WHEN THEY HAD BEEN AT KINGSTAG SEVERAL DAYS, Cleo decided to catch up on her correspondence. She’d been away from her shop for several days now, and although she’d left Mr. Mabry, her most trusted clerk, in charge, there were decisions only she could make. A packet of reports and letters had arrived from Mabry the previous day, and she needed to read them.
Reading them would also, she hoped, restore her sense. A week at Kingstag had been both wonderful and a trial. Wonderful, because it truly was the loveliest estate she’d ever seen, from the sprawling splendor of the house to the grounds that seemed to encompass every beauty to be found in England. The food was superb, the servants were well trained, and even the guests were interesting and pleasant for the most part.
And yet it was a trial, because everywhere she saw the duke. Just a glimpse of him across the dining room was enough to make her heart skip a beat. She told herself it was just the awe of meeting a duke; she’d once been presented to a viscount, but nobility had been rare in her corner of the world before this week.
The correspondence, on the other hand, was her life—bills from the silk warehouses, requests from customers, and overdue accounts. A fortnight at Kingstag was an interlude, not a permanent change. She was very much out of place here and always would be.
She gathered her writing case and letters and set out in search of a quiet spot. It was too beautiful a day to remain indoors, bright and extremely warm. Thinking the lake might offer a secluded spot as well as some breeze, she headed down the shaded path along the side of the back lawn, pausing to marvel at the remains of the giant oak that lay beside the path. The trunk was charred black in places and looked as though it had been ripped from the ground. One of the men working to cut it up told her it had been hit by lightning a few days before. That must be the tree the duke had mentioned going to see when she met him in the garden. She was still shaking her head over it as she passed the path to the stables, when the one man she hoped to avoid stepped out in front of her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Barrows.”
Just the sound of his voice made her heart jump. “Good morning,” she replied. “I was setting out to explore your magnificent estate a little, if I may.”
“You must treat it as your own home.” His eye dropped to the writing case she carried. “May I carry that for you?”
Oh dear. Cleo tried to smother the little frisson of anticipation that shot through her veins. He had clearly just come back from riding and was even more appealingly masculine in riding clothes than in his evening wear. “You must have a dozen things to do….”
He glanced over his shoulder down the path to the stables, where male voices could dimly be heard shouting “Huzzah!” “On the contrary. I would like nothing better than a bit of a walk. Unless, of course, you preferred to walk alone.”
He was her host. It was only polite to accept, which must explain why she accepted at once. “Not at all! I would be honored.” She surrendered the writing case with a smile.
“How have you found Kingstag?” he asked as they strolled along the lane.
“It’s magnificent,” she said. “My mother hasn’t exaggerated in the slightest.”
“I’m not certain angels dwell in the attics,” he said dryly, “but I’m delighted you’ve found it comfortable and welcoming.”
“Did she really say angels in the
attics?” Cleo tried and failed to bite back a laugh. “Well, she’s very pleased by it, and the excitement might have gone to her head a little.”
“I could seat her next to Sophronia, who would point out every draught and inconvenience of the house.”
Cleo shook her head. “It would make no difference. My mother is determined to see no fault, even if the ceiling should collapse before her eyes. She would only exclaim over how rustic it looked to have a pile of rubble in the dining room.”
He laughed. “That would be too rustic for me. I prefer solid walls and ceilings.”
“As do I. The grounds may actually be perfect, though,” she went on, shading her eyes with one hand to survey the lake, sparkling in the distance. Willow fronds waved above their heads, dappling the path with sunlight, and the scent of honeysuckle sweetened the air. “I don’t know how anyone even notices the house in these surroundings.”
“My mother deserves much of the credit. She created the landscape as much as the gardens.” He glanced at her, and Cleo felt her face warm. Not just a garden of love, but a whole landscape. “In fact, I seem to recall a nuncheon for the ladies in the garden today.”
She smiled uneasily at the veiled question. Nuncheon in the garden would include her mother. For the first few days, it had been enough for Millicent to bask in her role as mother of the bride, which was trying but not unexpected. Lately, though, Millicent had become almost unbearable in her delight, and when she wasn’t praising Kingstag in some way, she was fretting at Cleo about being proper and respectable. In the decade since she’d left home Cleo had got used to her freedom, and her patience for her mother’s anxious, inane chatter was wearing thin. And if her mother knew that the Duke of Wessex was carrying the drapery shop correspondence from Mr. Mabry at this moment, she’d probably faint dead away. “I have some letters to write and thought I might get a bit of exercise as well. I miss the outdoors.”
The duke nodded. “Your shop, I suppose, keeps you indoors a great deal.”
Cleo jerked, glancing at him in alarm. She wasn’t to talk about her shop at all, not to anyone, but especially not to him. But he was watching her with those dark, dark eyes, and she felt compelled to answer.
“Yes,” she murmured. “It does.”
“Mr. Blair tells me it’s quite a prosperous business,” he went on. Cleo couldn’t resist a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting her mother to be lurking nearby, but they were quite alone. “Quite an achievement.”
“Yes, for a woman,” she said, too late hearing the edge in her voice. She forced a smile as he looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “My apologies,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t have spoken so.”
“No,” he corrected her. “You should speak as you feel.”
Cleo fastened her eyes on the path in front of them and they walked in silence for a few minutes. “I was wrong,” she said when her voice was even and calm again. “I shouldn’t have spoiled our walk.”
“I don’t think it’s been spoiled at all.” He was remarkably unruffled. “It’s a draper’s shop, I believe?”
“Yes,” she said politely. There seemed no reason to lie about it.
“Is it a large one? I have little experience of draper’s shops.”
Cleo was torn. On one hand, he sounded genuinely interested, and she was proud enough of her business to want to talk about it. On the other hand, her parents would have an apoplexy if they discovered it. “Moderately,” she said, erring on the side of modesty.
“And yet you manage it on your own?”
“Does that surprise you?”
He tipped his head in contemplation. “I confess I have no idea what’s required to run a draper’s shop. I imagine it’s a great deal of effort, though. When my sisters descend upon the shop in Dorchester they are gone for hours, and one can only pity the poor proprietor, worn out from being sent back and forth for ribbons and lace and bolts of every sort of fabric sold in England.” He grimaced as Cleo almost choked on her laughter.
“It’s never that dreadful,” she protested. “Many aspects are quite enjoyable. Every year I travel to London to visit the warehouses and order the latest fabrics before anyone else has seen them. Nothing is more satisfying than spotting a beautiful piece of silk and knowing exactly which customer it will suit. My clerks do most of the fetching in the shop, but I quite like helping ladies choose the right colors and trimmings. A fine gown is a significant expense and ought to please the wearer for years to come. Most ladies are very grateful to have another woman’s approval before making the purchase. Men should understand; I know perfectly well most of the gentlemen here have spent a great deal of time in the stables admiring a carriage.” He gave her a sideways glance, and she grinned. “That, and drinking the many bottles of port I saw a footman carrying to the stables.”
Wessex coughed. “And a new gown is like a carriage?”
“To most ladies, a new gown is far, far more important than any carriage,” she confirmed.
The duke chuckled. “You have illuminated one of the great mysteries of life. I begin to see why Alexandra was reduced to tears when Bridget mocked her bonnet.”
“Well, mocking is never kind. She might have suggested a different ribbon, or less trimming.”
“Bridget’s way is rarely diplomatic,” he said in resignation.
Cleo, who rather liked the impetuous girl, waved one hand. “She has time to learn. I was very like her when I was younger, and we all endure difficult ages only to come out the better for them.”
“That is very encouraging,” he said. “Bridget is … a challenge.”
“Lady Alexandra and Lady Serena are very poised young ladies. I’m sure Lady Bridget will grow into it.” She paused, remembering the disputes and heartfelt conversations with her own sister when they were girls. Without Helen, she didn’t know what she would have done. “They are fortunate to have each other. They seem quite close, your sisters.”
“Devilishly.” He stopped and turned. “In fact … Serena?” he called.
First one girl, then another, and so on until no fewer than five young ladies emerged from behind a nearby hedge, looking guilty. “Yes, Wessex?” asked the eldest, a girl with auburn hair and the same intense dark eyes as the duke.
“You’re far from the house,” he remarked.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” blurted out Bridget Cavendish. “It’s that horrid pest Henry—”
“Shh!” hissed Charlotte Ascot—sister to the horrid pest, if Cleo remembered correctly. “I swear he can hear his name from a mile away.”
“We’re just out for a walk,” said Serena with a bright smile. “As are you, I see.” She curtseyed to Cleo. “I hope you are enjoying your visit to Kingstag, Mrs. Barrows.”
“Very much so,” she replied warmly. “I simply had to see more of it and walked out in search of adventure.”
“Capital!” declared Bridget with a beaming smile. “Would you like to see the grotto? James was supposed to drive us on a tour but he’s disappeared.”
“All the gentlemen have disappeared,” muttered Kate Lacy with a very fetching pout. “They only turn up when there’s a cricket match.”
“Or a game of battledore,” put in Charlotte. “Which is even less entertaining to watch, even if that handsome Mr. Newnham is playing.”
“No, I much prefer to watch Lord Everett play cricket,” said Miss Lacy with a dreamy look on her face.
“They can’t have all disappeared into thin air!” burst out Bridget. “We just have to keep looking—” She froze, looking at her brother in alarm.
Wessex, though, merely grinned. “I can hardly turn traitor on my fellow man, can I?”
“And will you tell Mama?” asked Alexandra cautiously.
“We aren’t doing anything wrong!” cried Bridget again. “We’re just … just—” She glanced at her companions. “—just trying to be good hostesses. What if the gentlemen have disappeared because they’re bored to death of Kingstag and ne
ed reviving from their stupors?”
The duke glanced at Cleo, mirth glinting in his gaze. “No one accused you of doing wrong. But I doubt you’ll need to revive anyone from a stupor—not until the ball, that is.”
A chorus of protests went up. “No! The ball is the only worthy event!” “Who could fall into a stupor at a ball?” “The gentlemen wouldn’t dare try to miss the ball, would they, Wessex? Mama would be furious!”
The duke held up his hands. “I’m sure they’ll all be at the ball. Just as I’m sure you ought not to wander too far away. If Mama misses you, nothing I say will save you. It would be a terrible shame to miss the ball as punishment….”
He let his suggestion trail off as the girls stared at him in shocked horror. Without a word they turned toward the house, although as she passed Cleo, Bridget did whisper once more, “You really ought to see the grotto!”
Cleo laughed and waved farewell. For a moment she and the duke stood and watched them go, some with steps dragging and some putting their heads together to whisper.
“So that’s why the men have congregated in the stables,” she remarked. “Not merely the lure of a top-notch phaeton.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Cleo laughed again.
“Although—” Wessex glanced at his sisters’ retreating figures. “—one does sympathize.”
“Frightened by a group of girls?” she asked mischievously.
A faint smile crossed his face. “When Bridget is one of their number? Yes.”
On impulse, she added, “Where is the grotto?”
The duke looked at her, his eyebrows slightly raised. For a moment everything seemed to fade away but the two of them. Cleo felt again the mixture of attraction and alarm that had tugged at her in the parlor the other day. She wet her lips. “That’s twice now that Lady Bridget has mentioned it. I’ve never seen a grotto. Is it very dark and mysterious?”
Seven Wicked Nights Page 14