“It builds character,” she said.
“He’ll need it if he fancies Bridget. I daresay she’ll make Sophronia look demure and quiet.”
“Yes. Lady Sophronia showed me her dirk.” Cleo grinned at the way he cast his eyes upward and sighed. “A rather unusual remembrance of an old love.”
“There are many unusual things about Sophronia.”
“She is your great-aunt, I understand?”
The duke paused. “Great-great-aunt. Perhaps. I’m not entirely certain. I think I inherited her along with the house.”
Cleo snorted with laughter, and this time he laughed, too. Something seemed to melt inside her at the sound. His laugh was a rough rumble, as if he didn’t use it often. She stooped to retrieve a pair of bowls, holding them to her chest. When she rose, Wessex was holding the jack. He gave it a little toss, catching it easily in one hand. “Would you fancy a match, Mrs. Barrows?”
Cleo watched his fingers curve around the bowl. Good heavens, he had fine hands. “I haven’t played bowls in a very long time.”
“Neither have I,” he said. “But it’s a fine day out, and the greens are marked.”
She glanced at the awning on the hill above as they walked to the head of the green. Helen was still in conversation with Mr. Blair, but she raised her hand and gave a cheery wave. Cleo was torn. It was a fine day, and she wouldn’t mind a lighthearted game in the sun. Since the duke had invited her, surely not even her father would find it objectionable. She could suggest inviting Helen and Mr. Blair to join them, except that she knew her sister hated bowls. And perhaps this was her chance to determine the duke’s feelings for Helen.
“Very well. But we must have stakes.” She grinned at his raised brow. “Not money! After each cast, the winner must share something of himself or herself. After all, we shall be family within the week, and we ought to become acquainted, don’t you think?”
He looked at her for a long moment. In the sunlight, his hair seemed to have a hint of auburn; the breeze had ruffled it until he looked quite tousled. And his eyes were so dark, unfathomably deep as he regarded her. Cleo heard the echo of her own words—we shall be family—and felt her heart sink a little. Oh, why had he followed her, thwarting her intent to avoid him? He ought to be sitting beside Helen right now, gazing at Helen, making Helen yearn to smooth his wild mane and imagine his large hands on her skin.
“Of course.” Wessex bowed his head. “Will you set the jack?”
Unnerved, she turned toward the green and pitched the jack. It didn’t roll far enough, and she clenched her hands as he strode out to get it. She had to wrench her gaze away as he bent over to pick it up; good heavens, he was a finely made man, from all angles. And he would be her brother. Sisters did not look on their brothers so admiringly.
The second time she managed to set the mark appropriately, and the duke stepped to the footer to cast his first bowl. “Were you a good bowls player, when you last played?”
Cleo laughed. “Oh, my. I certainly thought so, but I was a girl then.” She delivered her first bowl, pleased to see it roll to within a respectable distance of the jack. Nearer than his, in fact. “I suppose you’re far more accomplished, given that you have a bowling green within sight of your house.”
He made his next shot. “Merely having a green doesn’t make one skilled.” His bowl wobbled off the green into the ditch.
“It takes a while to learn the bias of the bowls,” she said diplomatically, hefting her own. It was smooth and dark, shaped more like a fat egg than a round ball. This time she misjudged, and the bowl came to rest at the edge of the green.
They played the rest of the end and then walked down together to score it. “One point to you,” said Wessex, collecting the bowls. “What secret do you want to tell me?”
“Se-Secret?” she stammered, laughing nervously. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean a secret—”
“But we’ve only just met,” he said, watching her in that too-intent way he had. “Everything about you is a mystery.”
“Helen and I had a game, as children,” she said after a moment. “We would choose a play—one of the great works of antiquity, most often—and act out every part. It nearly killed my father when we performed Lysistrata, even though Helen and I had very little idea what it was about.”
“How old were you?” he asked, looking a little incredulous.
“About twelve,” she said airily. “And Helen only eight.”
Wessex coughed, then he laughed. “I would pay a fortune to have seen your father’s face. He doesn’t seem the type to take it well.”
Her father didn’t take most things she did well. Cleo’s smile faded. “I was a bad influence even then,” she murmured before she could stop herself. The duke gave her a keen glance but said nothing.
They bowled another end, and this time Wessex won a point. Cleo shook her head as she retrieved two of her bowls from the ditch but was glad that it was his turn to reveal something. “I inherited my title when I was sixteen,” he said. “Barely older than young Henry.” Her eyes rounded in shock. “My sisters were infants, my mother was heartbroken, and I was responsible for everything.” He turned to face the house, squinting against the sun. “I was deathly afraid of letting my father down by making a hash of it.”
“I’m sure he would be very proud!” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. “Kingstag is beautifully maintained. Your sisters are lovely young ladies, and it’s clear to all that they adore you. No man can be a failure if his family loves him.”
His arm flexed under her fingers. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “My sisters’ happiness is very important to me.” He paused. “As is, I think, your sister’s to you.”
Cleo snatched her hand away. “Yes, very important.” She went back to the mat, trying to ignore the faint question in his voice at the end. Helen’s happiness was very important to her, and yet here she was, almost flirting with her sister’s fiancé. She turned toward the awning again, both relieved and disconcerted to see Helen still absorbed in conversation with Mr. Blair. It should be Wessex sitting there with his head next to Helen’s, bringing that glowing smile to her face. He should want to be there, instead of here in the sun with Cleo. But when the duke joined her, bowls in hand, she didn’t say anything. She put her foot on the mat and bowled.
Wessex won another point. They walked to retrieve the bowls and she was glad again she didn’t have to say anything. “What can I tell you?” he murmured, facing her thoughtfully. “Hmm.”
“Something from when you were young,” she suggested, thinking it would be safer. “A fond memory.”
“Ah.” He grinned. The wind lifted his hair from his forehead, and he looked boyish for a moment. “Blair came to Kingstag when he was about ten. His family fell on hard times and my mother invited him; his mother is her cousin. As you might imagine, we had a grand time, two boys with all this to explore.” He swept one hand in a wide arc to encompass all of Kingstag. “One day I conceived a plan to go boating on the lake. Blair wasn’t as eager but he went along with it, and we soon were in the middle of the lake, two sporting gentlemen at leisure.” He shook his head. “Imagine my shock when I looked down to see an inch of water in the bottom of the boat. We neither of us wanted to swim—my mother would have punished us for spoiling our clothes and boots, to say nothing of taking out an old, leaky boat—so Blair bailed water with his hands while I rowed ferociously. We managed to come within a few feet of the shore before it sank entirely. Both of us had the most incredible blisters.”
“That’s your fond memory?” Cleo smiled. “Blisters!”
“No, it was the thrill of saving ourselves from disaster.”
“That I can understand, particularly if you didn’t get caught.”
“We didn’t,” he assured her, his eyes twinkling. “Blair and I have always backed each other up.”
She laughed. “All the sweeter!”
“Indeed. It was one of the few times I truly escaped responsibility
.” He met her gaze. “Today seems like another. I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”
Cleo’s heart felt warm and light even as she tried to tell herself he was just being polite. “Nor I, Your Grace.”
“Wessex,” he said. “Please.”
Now her face felt warm. “Very well. But you must call me Cleo. After all, we shall be family.” Perhaps if she reminded herself of that, forcefully and frequently, it would blunt the attraction she felt.
The expression on his face certainly didn’t. If anything, it made things worse. Wessex had a way of looking at her that made the breath almost stop in her chest. “Very well, if you wish,” he said after a moment. “Cleo.”
She shouldn’t have. She’d made a mistake. It sounded too familiar, too tender when he said it. Cleo glanced back at her sister in despair. Helen hadn’t looked at Wessex any more than Wessex had looked at Helen. Not only had Cleo failed to discover the duke’s feelings for her sister, she had only succeeded in making her own feelings worse.
If she didn’t catch herself soon, she would find herself utterly in love with him.
AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, Gareth excused himself and went in search of oblivion. He found it in the stables. His cousin had the right idea, avoiding all the females. Some of the men looked a trifle guilty—Lord Warnford hastily hid a pair of dice behind his back—but Gareth just raised his hand in greeting and retired to a corner to contemplate the trouble he was in, a bottle in hand.
He brooded over his brandy while a tedious conversation about a horse race occupied the other men. The only person who appeared less interested in the race was the Earl of Bruton, who arrived shortly after he did and looked as grim as Gareth felt. He caught his old friend’s eye and invited him to have a drink, not surprised to see Bruton here. With that slashing scar down his face, the earl had long avoided the ladies.
“Thank God for Willoughby,” cried one decidedly drunk fellow all of a sudden. “He’s saved us all with this refuge from the ladies.”
“Hear, hear!” cheered the rest of the company.
“No offense intended, Wessex,” added the man, still swinging his tankard of ale in one hand. “Felicitations on your marriage.”
God help him; even drinking in the stables couldn’t save him from that topic. He nodded in acknowledgement and poured another gulp of brandy down his throat, wondering if he could drink enough to purge the sound of Cleopatra Barrows’s laughter from his mind. He could still feel the touch of her hand on his arm.
He left the stables, handing his bottle to Lord Everett as he went. If they raised a toast to his bride, he might be ill. There was one inescapable thought circling his brain, and he didn’t know how to address it.
He was marrying the wrong woman.
Chapter Eight
CLEO WENT DOWNSTAIRS EARLY two mornings before the wedding, which was finally almost at hand. After their match of bowls, she had taken care only to cross the Duke of Wessex’s path in company. Even at the ball last night, she had determinedly kept her distance. It hadn’t kept her from noticing how very attractive he was, or how kind and good-humored he was with his sisters, or even how gallant he was to Sophronia. How could one dislike a man who was so wonderful? Cleo had clung to her sister’s side and tried to interest herself in the wedding plans, but that had difficulties of its own. She thought she might scream if she didn’t escape her mother’s hawk-like watch for a few hours. As the wedding drew nearer, so apparently did her fear that Cleo would say or do something unacceptable.
Since Cleo knew very well that she was doing something unpardonable, it was hard to argue with her mother. She had diligently avoided talking about her shop except when directly asked, but her real sin was far worse, even though her mother could have no idea. She had tried everything to keep her wicked thoughts in check, to no avail, and now she had only one option left: avoidance. If she spent her time wandering alone over the estate and secluded herself in her room the rest of the time, she could endure until the wedding was over. Then it would be perfectly acceptable to make her excuses and return home to her little shop, where she couldn’t ruin anyone’s life but her own.
She paused before a mirror in the hall to tie her bonnet ribbons. The castle was still almost silent, populated only by the servants moving quietly about. Everyone would probably sleep late after the ball the previous night. In spite of everything, she would be sorry to leave Kingstag. It really was a wonderful place.
“Good morning,” said a voice behind her.
Cleo jumped. The one voice she’d been trying to avoid but somehow still longed to hear. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she managed to say, knotting her ribbons before facing him. “I was just setting out to indulge myself with a long walk.”
“As was I.” He wore a long coat and carried a rather battered hat. Cleo’s pulse leaped as he pushed one bare hand through his thick dark hair. “I rarely have the time to step out later in the day.”
“Oh! Please don’t let me disturb you,” she began, but he raised one hand.
“On the contrary. I didn’t expect to meet anyone this morning, but it would be a pleasure to have company.”
She should say no. She drew an unsteady breath. “I hate to oblige you….”
“Please,” he said, and Cleo closed her mouth. Without another word she put her hand on the arm he offered, and together they walked out the door.
A blanket of mist covered the ground, lending an unearthly air to the scene. Cleo drew in a delighted breath, loving the cool, earthy scent of the country. They strolled along the gravel, heading toward the lake, which lay still and quiet beyond the fog. “How beautiful,” she sighed. “I rarely see such a sight in town.”
“Are you always an early riser?”
She blushed. She had to be awake early to open the shop. “Yes. I love the morning light.”
“My sisters and mother prefer not to rise until the sun is high in the sky.”
“I’m sure they have good reason, particularly today,” she said lightly. “It would be very hard to rise early when there are guests and entertainments every evening.”
He smiled. “They are creatures of candlelight, even when there are no guests.”
“As long as they are all the same, I see no cause for worry. If Bridget were to favor the morning while the others did not….” She shook her head and sighed as the duke chuckled. “It’s lovely to see sisters so close.”
“Barely three years separate them. My father was away for much of my childhood as a diplomat.” Wessex slanted her a look. “My mother was quite joyous at his return.”
Cleo sighed, but with a smile. “How lovely to find a married couple in love.”
“And how sad when they are parted too soon,” he murmured.
She said nothing. It was true. The last time she had walked arm-in-arm with a man had been two years ago, before Matthew was cut down by an inflammation in his lungs. Not since then had she ever once felt the same easy companionship she seemed to have fallen into overnight with the Duke of Wessex. He was nothing like Matthew and yet … in some ways he reminded her of her husband. He had a wry way of putting things. He was even-tempered with everyone, from his ebullient sister Bridget to Cleo’s own flighty mother; even querulous Lady Sophronia never ruffled him. And he had a way of looking at her that made her feel every lonely minute of her widowhood.
“I understand you know too well how sad that is,” he said quietly. “Forgive me for mentioning—”
“No!” She squeezed his arm lightly. “I have nothing but happy memories of my husband.”
“Does that make it better or worse?” He cleared his throat. “To have loved and lost, I mean. My mother was destroyed when my father died. I was only a boy, but I became utterly convinced she would have been far happier if she hadn’t loved him.”
“I suspect she would disagree,” Cleo murmured. “Love is worth the risk.”
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am beginning to agree with that.”
“I am as sure of that as I am sure the sun will rise in the east. I took a great risk and suffered a great loss, but I would do it all again. Real love is very much worth it.”
“A great risk,” he echoed, sounding pensive. “What do you mean?”
“I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on something in the distance. She was under orders not to tell him and yet the words spilled out. “Helen knows, after all, so you would be sure to hear of it eventually. I eloped when I was seventeen. My parents have never forgiven me.”
He stopped, and she had to stop, too. Cleo realized how far she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “As bad as that?”
The concern in his voice made her flush. He wasn’t haughty and arrogant, looking down on her for keeping a shop—unlike her parents. The temptation was too much. “Oh, yes,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m only here on sufferance.”
“Oh?” His voice was soft and warm, comforting and seductive.
“Yes,” she barreled on. “He wasn’t enormously wealthy, titled, or extremely famous; he was a merchant. And my parents have never recovered from the shame.”
“I see.” He leaned forward a little. “Why did you do it, then?”
She smiled wistfully. “Because I loved him. He made me laugh.”
The duke seemed mesmerized for a moment. His face was so still and yet rapt.
Cleo supposed she had just displayed her common nature, impulsive and reckless, and gave a little shrug. “There is so much of life that must conform to duty or polite behavior, but I don’t know how people endure it all if they aren’t happy, or at least content. My parents were horrified that I would run off like a hoyden with no care for how it reflected on my family. I suppose they only wanted better for me, but I…. I was happy. For that, I could endure any discomforts life brought.”
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