The duke’s voice came to her again. His voice was very like him, she thought, from the muslin safety of her knees where she could hear it without watching him. It had smoky edges and the resonance of a stringed instrument. It thrummed inside her. She wouldn’t have minded at all listening to him recite poetry or something more pleasant than—
“So, Miss Eversea, are you just going to allow him to propose to your friend?”
—than that.
“I should do what instead? Confess my abiding love?” This was muffled and irritable, as she’d said it to her knee. Her tone said everything about the absurdity of that notion.
“Doesn’t he love you? Didn’t you just say it was always implied? If this is true, what then is the impediment? Certainly not your family or fortune. Perhaps the problem is his family or fortune?”
She was pensive. “I believe, though I’m not certain, he feels a certain . . . discomfiture over the fact that he hasn’t an estate of his own yet, and won’t until he inherits. And his income is considerably more modest than many other young men. He’s hardly impoverished. And I don’t mind at all that he isn’t wealthy. I can’t imagine that he believes that I do. Though my parents of a certainty do. But I’m simply guessing.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know his own mind,” the duke suggested. “Young men seldom do.”
Was he trying to comfort her with that lofty bit of condescension?
“Do you speak from experience, Lord Moncrieffe?”
“It can only be from experience, given how long it’s been since I was young.”
She smiled then, albeit in a small way. If he was fishing for a compliment she wasn’t going to deliver one. He wasn’t young. He was nearly forty.
“Look at me again, Miss Eversea, if you would be so kind.”
She sighed gustily again, and lifted her head up with theatrical reluctance. It was strangely not unpleasant to see him again. What color are his eyes? she wondered. She was a lover of detail but she’d been so determined to shed him that she hadn’t wanted to collect details about him. His eyes were dark, but not brown. He’d taken off his hat and his hair lifted in the breeze, and she looked, really looked this time, and it was glossy, and well . . . very well, not only black. The sun struck sparks of bronze from it. The sun was behind him now, and his features were indistinct, and somehow this made it a little easier to speak to him. His miles of legs were folded up before him.
“I’m not suggesting you confess your undying love for him to his face. Quite the opposite. I’m suggesting you make him aware of his for you. He is a man, after all, and this will appeal to his pride and sense of the romantic. Young men like him are positively mad for romantic drama. Or perhaps you can make him believe his undying devotion is to you and not to your friend, which amounts to about the same thing. Young men are suggestible. I don’t see that this one is exceptional.”
She was instantly and passionately indignant. “Not exceptional? But you don’t know him! He’s kind and clever and his character is absolutely unassailable and he once gave me a hound pup for my birthday, though Papa made me give it back—”
He held up both hands defensively. “Do not pelt me with superlatives regarding Lord Harry, dear God, I beg of you. I’m certain he could walk from here to America upon the water. And kiss your hand all he likes.” He thought this was very funny, clearly, and she scowled at him. “I meant, he’s no different from other young men in that, no matter how clever he may be, he simply may not know his own mind and heart. Perhaps he simply needs someone to show his mind to him. It’s not a character flaw to be young. Well, not usually, anyhow.” He sent a dark and speaking look in the direction of Ian, lest she forget. “But perhaps you should set out to do something about it before he does something rash and irreversibly tragic like propose to your friend. Because, Miss Eversea, you are kind, and you would step away then and allow them their happiness at the expense of yours, regardless of whether or not it’s right. St. Genevieve, the Martyr.”
He’d managed to make “kind” sound like a character flaw. And St. Genevieve! Inwardly, she was anything but! Her body clenched with indignation.
Someone in her family needed to possess a modicum of restraint; it fell to her.
But he was correct. A choice faced her, a diabolical one. Where she liked life to be orderly and quiet, and she would do nothing rather than cause a stir.
“And why would you want to assist me?”
“Because now that the option of seducing and abandoning you no longer remains as you have caught me out—”
How easily he said the word “seducing.” Here she was in danger of yet another temperature change.
“—I shall need some other way to amuse myself for the duration of the visit. And I would take great pleasure in tormenting your brother by leaving him wondering at how I intend to wreak vengeance upon him. Perhaps you’ll be practical enough to agree with me that he would benefit from a little . . . humbling uncertainty.”
“But you like vengeance so very much,” she pointed out with mock solicitousness. “And I should hate to deprive you of it. You could give all of that up for me?”
This made him smile, slowly, with a pure, dazzling, wicked delight that strangely infected her with delight.
“You’re so thoughtful,” he said, with hushed fervor.
She gave a little shout of surprised laughter.
And then huffed out a breath to help her think.
She bit her lip. She tapped her foot. She stared at him.
He stared back. He gave a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder.
What do you have to lose, Miss Eversea?
Her eyes restlessly wandered the familiar lawn, which had always been the setting for play not tragicomedy, and her eyes lit upon Millicent and Olivia. She found no solace there, no clarity or simplicity. Her heart used to leap just a little when she saw either of them, like a dog giving a tail thump when a friend entered a room. But Millicent’s complexion was flushed a golden peach from the walk and she was a little disheveled, her apron caught up in one hand, ringlets glued to her cheeks, all of which no doubt charmed Harry and made him feel protective. Her brown eyes were merry; her head was cocked in exaggerated interest. Olivia looked wryly amused by something Millicent was saying. But then Olivia rarely lost herself in merriment anymore. She had a marvelously abandoned laugh, her sister, and a wicked, wicked way with humor, but bloody Lyon Redmond had taken it with him when he’d disappeared. Left her to pour passion into causes.
And perhaps this was her fate if she simply allowed Harry to propose to Millicent. She’d turn into Olivia. Her whole life muffled, everything she saw and felt, covered over in a soft film of gray, like ash sprinkled over burned ruins.
Reflexively, she glanced toward Harry again, but Millicent was now blocking her view. She was striding over to her with her easy, graceful gait, her apron extended out before her, her bonnet bouncing on ribbons behind her.
She plumped cheerfully down next to Genevieve, and Genevieve instantly reached out and gently resettled her friend’s bonnet atop her head and straightened it.
“Thank you,” Millicent said absently, as though they’d done this a dozen times before—which they had, in fact, because Millicent’s bonnet was forever slipping from her, something to do with laughing too hard and too often. And then she allowed Genevieve to help her pick out the knot before she drew out the ribbons and retied them neatly beneath her chin so she was shaded once again.
When they looked up the duke was watching all of this. Well, watching her. He was absolutely still again and his expression was disconcerting. Almost . . . well, she might have said “yearning,” but that struck her as silly. It could have something to do with the slant of autumn light. And then he turned again, and shaded his eyes, surveying the Eversea land dispassionately. Perhaps calculating how many times over it would fit into his land.
Although between them, the Everseas and Redmonds owned a good portion of Sussex.
What haunt
ed the duke besides being cuckolded? Was no one here at peace?
The thought momentarily darkly amused her: Harry was on pins and needles waiting to propose to Millicent, Ian was terrified of the unpredictable duke and pretending not to be, Olivia was Olivia, bereft of Lyon and filled with plans to save the world from itself, and as for herself, she was slowly dying of heartbreak and stretched on tenterhooks awaiting the death knell of her hope. And now being tormented by a duke.
And Millicent was oblivious to all of it and as happy as usual.
Genevieve could see again the unique appeal of that particular quality now. How very soothing it must be in its innocence and light. When one is satisfied with how the world appears, there is no need to look any deeper or farther. Peeking below the surface of things, one often discovers things one would rather not see, whether it is worms tilled up by the plow or wads of dust beneath a bed.
Millicent gestured to the daisies in her apron. “I thought we could make garlands for our hair. I’ve needle and thread in my pockets. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to assist, Lord Moncrieffe?”
The duke snatched up his hat and coat and shot to his feet so quickly one would have thought Millicent had flung a scorpion into his lap.
“Er, I think I’ll leave the weaving and braiding and whatnot to you ladies. Swinging bats is man’s work.”
He winked at Genevieve—winked!—and bowed to both of them, touched his hat, and strode off to join Ian and Harry.
She followed the line of him. He was so tall and lean, shoulders and spine meeting in clean, masculine angles, coat elegantly hanging from them, strides crisp and long as the swing of an ax. With the sky was a spotless blue, the grass a flat and brilliant green, he was an emphatic slash mark against the landscape.
She saw sunny Harry struggle to produce his usual smile as the duke approached. Hard speculation was, in fact, written all over his face for a discernible moment. Genevieve had never seen him look hard before. She ached a little bit for him, as she did whenever he suffered at all. She wanted the world to be every bit as kind as he expected it to be.
And yet . . . and yet . . . a perverse little song of hope started up in her heart.
Chapter 11
I thought that would drive Moncrieffe away.” Millicent was pleased with herself, as she shook her shawl out and settled herself more comfortably on it.
Genevieve laughed, but the laugh felt strangely weighted. Millicent still seemed new and faintly strange and superior, given that Harry had decided she was worth turning into a wife.
“Were you trying to drive him away, Mill?”
“Well, you didn’t really want to sit there shadowed by the dour, dangerous duke, did you? Of course not. He was terribly rude to me last night. He walked away. You ought to be talking with me and Harry and Olivia.”
Genevieve was so accustomed to sharing everything openly with Millicent. But she’d learned a good deal about strategy in just a few days—most of it in the last few minutes, in fact—thanks to the duke. So all she said was, “I talk to you and Harry all the time.”
Even that was difficult to say. You and Harry. Harry and Millicent. Millicent and Harry. How would people refer to them when they were married? Which of their names would come first? Inextricably linked forever.
Her name would forever be excised from theirs.
The shock and pain and sheer disbelief came suddenly afresh and she was speechless.
Genevieve apparently waited too long to reply, because Millicent’s mouth dropped open.
“Never say that you don’t mind if that man is courting you!”
“I shan’t,” Genevieve said shortly. “Because it isn’t true.”
“It isn’t what others were saying last night.”
Splendid. Others were discussing them.
Off in the distance she saw the duke demonstrating what appeared to be a very fine cricket swing. She bit her lip against a laugh when she saw Ian flinch every time the duke swung the bat. A traitorous thought, but it really did serve him right.
What about you? Is Harry courting you, Millicent? Why is it she hadn’t Olivia’s talent for directness? Did it come with courage? Perhaps she hadn’t any of that, either.
“But good heavens, Genevieve, he is a duke and if you marry him you’ll be—”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” Genevieve frantically prepared to cover her ears.
“—a duchess. Which wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”
Genevieve closed her eyes slowly. Did no one see? Had no one considered her a match for Harry? How was that even possible? Everything in her recoiled from the notion of being married to anyone but Harry. She could envision such a joyous, easy future with him. The duke’s blood ran so cool he found everything faintly amusing and could calculate a revenge in which her life would be ruined in order to show the world he would not tolerate being crossed. Ever.
He was all too aware of the failings of his species and he knew how to use them to his advantage. A fascinating skill. A useful one. But hardly a loving one.
Your hand is unconscionably soft, Miss Eversea.
The words rushed back at her, and inwardly she shied from them again.
Millicent lowered her voice to an exaggerated hush. “Ah, but I heard he poisoned his first wife for her money. If you married him you mightn’t be duchess for long.”
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Everyone has heard that. How true do you think it likely is?”
She didn’t believe it. But what if his wife had cuckolded him? What then?
“Not very,” Millicent admitted. “That sort of murder is probably less common than pantomimes would have it. Not a thing was proved. Besides, I heard she was a rare beauty.”
As if beauty precluded murder. Ian was quite lovely for a man, but he would have gotten himself murdered very neatly if he’d cuckolded a more hotheaded duke. As it was, he was hardly in a comfortable position.
The duke went to hand the bat to him. Ian dropped it. His hands are probably sweating.
“Dead wives are always rare beauties.”
They both giggled wickedly at that. The three masculine heads swiveled, hoping and worrying that the girls were talking about them.
But she felt instantly guilty. What must his wife have been like?
She knew irony was a veil through which the duke saw the entire world. And of course nothing could hurt him if everything amused him.
The realization struck her dumb for a moment.
“I do think he’s in search of a wife since Lady Abigail threw him over,” Millicent said, piercing a daisy stem, her tongue between her teeth to help her concentrate on her suture.
“She didn’t throw him over. The end of their engagement was mutually decided,” Genevieve said so shortly she realized she sounded very much like she was defending the duke.
She was even more surprised when she realized that she was defending the duke.
“Perhaps he’s tired of sleeping alone.”
“Millicent Emily Blenkenship!”
“Nevertheless.” Millicent dimpled in a way she always had but which now made Genevieve wonder if Harry was enchanted by the dimple, too, and what Millicent knew about how men wished to sleep, and with whom. “So why on earth he could find fault with Abigail Beasley is beyond me, as she is considered a great beauty and she doesn’t lack for charm. I like her well enough. Perhaps he was releasing her from her obligation to him because Abigail had fallen in love with someone else and he couldn’t bear the notion. Still, it’s difficult to imagine a man like him marrying for loooooove.”
She drawled the word with exaggerated sentimentality. Because Millicent was funny and sunny and open, not careful and clever and watchful.
No wonder Harry wanted to marry her.
Correction: thought he wanted to marry her.
And that subversive thought was courtesy of the duke.
“Why are you staring at me so oddly?” Millicent said suddenly. Her needle and thread paused midair.<
br />
Genevieve blinked. “I think there’s an ant crawling up your neck.”
“Aaaaargh!” Millicent swiped at the nonexistent ant.
“Have you ever been kissed by a man, Millicent?”
“Genevieve!” Millicent’s turn to gasp.
Her hand dropped to her lap, and her jaw all but swung down on its hinges.
Genevieve had surprised herself by blurting the question. Two days ago she would have asked it much more easily. No, that wasn’t true: Two days ago it wouldn’t have occurred to her to ask it, because she was certain Millicent would tell her if such a thing had ever happened.
“Well?” Her own daisy chain was about six inches in length now. About a third of the way to becoming a crown.
“Not . . . as such.” Millicent wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Why? Have you been kissed?”
“I asked you first.”
They momentarily abandoned their daisies to their laps. And regarded each other in wary, stubborn, embarrassed silence.
“Have you thought of marrying?” Genevieve pressed. Why hadn’t they discussed this before?
“I’m not on the shelf yet, Genevieve,” she said reprovingly. “Nor are you. We can eke out a few more seasons before we live happily ever after and have broods of our own and set about marrying them off. Why do we need to talk of it at all? Perhaps I’d prefer to run off with the Gypsies.”
Was Millicent really pragmatic as all that? Or was she dodging the question?
It didn’t matter. Genevieve had lost her nerve. She hadn’t the duke’s ruthless patience for interviewing a clearly reluctant subject or Olivia’s tenacity in pursuing an ends. What if Millicent was simply trying to spare her feelings? What would she do now if Millicent admitted she was passionately in love with Harry?
She didn’t want to lose both friends.
She wanted to turn back time to the day before she knew Harry intended to propose to Millicent, or she wanted to turn the calendar ahead to the day when Harry and Millicent were married and she was done with her grief, or had at least come to an acceptance, had acquired four cats and settled into a wing of her parents’ house with Olivia to grow old.
What I Did For a Duke Page 13