by Reid, Stacy
Everyone was gathered on the south side lawns for archery, and competition had been underway. Miss Cavanaugh had brightened upon seeing him and had bestowed in his direction a very improper and dazzling smile. Everyone had noted it.
Delighted with her genuineness he had bowed and charmingly greeted her, even if he had been more circumspect in his admiration. While he had burned to compliment her beauty, he had instead discreetly admired her prettiness. She was clad in a lime green cinched waist gown with a close-fitting bodice trimmed with white lace, which accentuated her lovely and curvaceous frame. Miss Cavanaugh’s dark hair was caught in a simple chignon with a matching green hat perched jauntily atop her head, curling tendrils dangled kissing her rosy cheeks.
Bancroft had craftily paired Miss Cavanaugh with him, after noting Christopher's interest. Her mother seemed delighted by this, but the lady appeared a bit puzzled by his attention.
It soon became clear to him how very different she was from the other ladies present. How competitive. The other ladies used the opportunity of holding their bow to show off their trim figure and played with little seriousness. Not Miss Cavanaugh, her concentration to the game and her determination to win was remarked upon, and not favorably. It seemed everyone was of a mind to think she should let him win.
Thwack! Her arrow hit the target which sat a remarkably one hundred yards dead center.
A hush fell over the gathering, and admiration rushed through him.
The baroness appeared unduly anxious, and it occurred to him she also believed her daughter should allow him to win.
She strolled toward the target and acting with the impulse he fell in to step beside her.
“Do you not know dukes should always win,” he murmured.
She shot him a side eye glance and then back at the small gathering, which avidly watched their interactions.
“Do you want me to allow you to win, Your Grace?”
“Would you?”
She grinned, and the prettiness of it made his heart lurch.
“No. but it is evident everyone expects me to allow you to win.”
“And you take delight in denying their expectations.”
She laughed and then fell silent for a minute. They reached the target, and she plucked the arrow from its center and handed it to him.
“Your turn,” she murmured, her eyes dancing with mirth.
With a smile, he nocked his bow and let loose his arrow. Of course, he was not as precise as Miss Cavanaugh, and with a sweet chortle his mother would no doubt think vulgar, she made it known she had won.
“I demand a rematch.”
“On what grounds?”
“I was unfairly distracted.”
A smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “By what?”
“By you, Miss Cavanaugh. Your crooked endearing smile, your scent, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, and the unfettered way in which you laugh.”
Her face flushed a delicate, rosy hue, and her eyes lit with amusement and something soft. He wanted to explore that softness more than he wanted his next breath.
"Do not blame the weakness of your play on my crooked smile." Then she headed back toward their party, as if afraid of how intimate their conversation had grown. He hurried to fall in step with her.
“Does my frankness make you uncomfortable,” he asked gently.
"No." She turned her head, looking up into his face with pleading eyes. "It makes me hunger, and it is that reaction which I find alarming."
His mouth went dry at the echo of need in her voice. Thank God it is mutual.
They continued in silence until they reached their small party. Archery continued for another hour or so, before everyone retired for a lavish luncheon. A couple of hours later, several blankets were laid out on the lawns, and many guests reposed upon them playing cribbage.
Miss Cavanaugh had teasingly engaged him with their game of chess, and now they strolled together under the watchful eyes of her mother and what felt like society, but in truth was only about two dozen guests.
However, the guests soon noted he was extremely particular in his attention to Miss Cavanaugh, and their questioning stares were now becoming quite evident. When she realized it, she faltered into astonishing stillness and peered up at him.
“Your Grace…”
“Miss Cavanaugh,” he replied with tender amusement.
She directed him a look of bemused inquiry. He was heartened to see no animosity or judgment, but a distinct hint of curiosity and desire. The memory of their kiss lingered in her eyes along with the sometimes soft, and hesitant manner in which she tried to stare discreetly. "You are spending an inordinate amount of time with me today.” As if we are courting hung unspoken in the air. A frightening and thrilling question in equal measure.
“I find your company to be most charming.”
Her eyes widened. “Certainly not more than any other lady here. Miss Charlotte Hufford has been sending us very unpleasant glances. At first, I thought it was because I trounced her in archery, but I am beginning to suspect it is entirely something else!”
He placed a hand across his chest. “Perhaps my hopes to kiss you is not as masked as I’d intended.”
She blushed rosily, the pulse at her throat fluttering madly, and stammered, “Yo…you should not say such wicked things.”
“I cannot help wanting to woo you.”
The woman laughed. “How excessively diverting.” And he could see that she did not believe him to be sincere.
While past hurts had not made her bitter and wretched, she was untrusting. And it made Christopher question the tender yearning he saw in her lovely gaze.
“Do you still wish to exact revenge on me, Miss Cavanaugh?”
Pippa’s eyes swiftly raised and held an arrested expression. “I declare I never stopped.”
This piece of audacity was uttered in the most casual, and indifferent manner.
Amusement and devilry stirred. “If you are determined to unmask me as a debaucher, I daresay I should provide you with some material.”
“My attention is snared,” she said, her eyes laughing at him.
“The very first image you looked at…I want to do that to you…here, now. I wonder, Miss Cavanaugh; will you be wicked with me?”
He felt briefly surprised by himself for he had never been the one to cross sensual wits with a lady of society.
Though they did not touch, raw need flamed in her eyes and burned him. Their gaze held, and in the depth of her eyes he saw the same compelling desire which he held for her, an all-consuming hunger and a need, but he also saw mistrust. Shadows were still in her eyes and a hint of fear.
He breathed evenly, controlling his body's startling reaction to well…her response. It was wicked, unexpected, proper, and so damn honest.
She glanced away breaking that contact, and he drew in a harsh breath at the loss of it. And without answering him, she walked away from him, every line in her body still in evident denial of the cravings stirring in her heart and body for him.
Her mother appeared shocked at her daughter’s abrupt actions, and made apologies then bid him a good day as she hurried after Miss Cavanaugh.
Chapter 11
A soft rain pattered against the windows of the countess's drawing room. The slight rain had been unexpected and had halted the walk into town Pippa had promised Miranda who wanted to order hats and laces. The plan had been to visit a tea shop afterward for refreshment, or Gunter’s for an ice. Instead of the outing, they were ensconced in the drawing room, a merry fire crackling in the hearth. Pippa was reading the serial Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, which was the current rage and quite deserving of its popularity. The writing was evocative and painted a very vivid picture of the injustices of England, yet Pippa’s attention was torn from the riveting words. She did not believe in such nonsense like magic, but if someone offered a potion with the promise it would allow her to stop thinking of a certain duke, she would consume it within a blink.
I cannot help wanting to woo you.
She drew in a hard, deep breath. Such ridiculous nonsense, and very similar to words Mr. Nigel Williamsfield had said to Pippa on so many occasions with earnest adoration and flattery. Except, the duke hadn't been artful. She’d only sensed raw honesty. Also, I would be foolish to believe, and Pippa accepted she must be a damn fool, for she felt the duke wanted her. Every stare had communicated his desire and admiration. Her heart begged her logical mind to take the duke's hand and go on the adventure he invited. Even if only once.
Miranda lowered the fashion magazine she had been reading. “I am terribly excited about tonight’s masquerade ball. Lord Aaron has been paying me the loveliest compliments, and I daresay I find him quite charming," she said with a tinkling laugh.
Pippa frowned. “Lord Aaron? I thought he had a tendre for Miss Elisabeth Fairfax.” At least that is what she had written some weeks ago as Lady W, and the couple’s popularity within the ton had soared, and everyone had celebrated the match.
Miranda arched an elegant brow. “Everyone thought the earl would have offered for Miss Fairfax because of her dowry. It is rumored to be one hundred thousand pounds and a villa in the south side of France. Why everyone knows that is the only reason she had so many beaux this season. She is rather plain faced and coarse in her manners.”
“I think her charming and quite elegant in her manners,” Pippa rebutted. Not at all pleased with Miranda’s disparaging words.
Miranda sniffed. "You are far too careless in your compliments, but that is expected with the company you've been keeping."
They stared at each other across the expanse of the drawing room. “And what company is that?” Pippa said softly.
“Carlyle!” Miranda snapped, her eyes flashing with a good deal of ire.
Hearing the name startled Pippa, for this was the first time in weeks Miranda spoke of the duke. After Pippa had seen his genuine shock at her accusation of his debauchery, and his earnest offer to call upon her mother after kissing her, she had attempted to speak of him to Miranda to clarify what had happened between the two. But Miranda had decline to have any discourse about the man.
“I’ve warned you of his odious—”
“The duke did not seduce you,” Pippa whispered, gently closing Oliver Twist.
With a gasp, Miranda surged to her feet. “Why ever would you say this now,” she said, her eyes darting to the closed door of the drawing room.
“The countess and mamma have gone for an early morning ride in the park, and I am certain they have sought shelter from the rain. We shan’t be disturbed.”
Miranda huffed. "I do not wish to speak of it. That is the past, and I do not wish to recall the humiliation of it all."
Pippa considered her friend and everything she had been learning of the duke. He was undoubtedly wicked in the manner he had stolen kisses, more than kisses, for he had compromised her heart. If Pippa was honest, most days she wanted to fall at the altar of his debauchery, and she could not blame him for her weakness in wanting his sensual adventures. However, he hadn't made any false promises, nor had he attempted to force her or even seduce her.
Why then would he have tried to seduce Miranda? She was not worldly, and far too innocent for the duke. “I despised the duke because of what he did to you. I’ve spoken to him…on a few occasions…”
“Then the rumors are true?”
“I am not sure what the gossips are saying.” Pippa had ignored reading tattles except the ones she contributed. “I am saying, I have formed my own idea of the duke, and it does not match with your account,” she said gently.
A flush rose in Miranda’s cheek. “And what is your opinion?”
Pippa braced herself. "He does not seem to be the sort of man who would behave with such rank dishonor. I've seen a great kindness and consideration of others in him."
Miranda’s lips curved in a sneer. “You are hardly the best judge of a man’s character. If you had been, surely you would have been more discerning of Nigel!”
Pippa gasped, and regret lined Miranda’s face.
"Oh Pippa, I am ghastly. Forgive me." She took a deep breath. "It is always difficult to think of the duke…to speak of him."
"You must tell me what happened, for I have promised you not to tell a soul so to ask Christopher for the details is not something I can do, but I must know the truth.”
Miranda froze, her eyes flashing with indecipherable emotions. “The duke is Christopher to you?”
Jealousy and hurt were thick in her tone, and Pippa flinched and closed her eyes. She now felt like a cad. The memories of his touch and heated kisses filled her. She shouldn’t have allowed him, no matter how compelling she’d found him. Not when Miranda’s heart was still hopelessly entangled with the duke. Oh, how wretched Pippa felt. “That was a mistake, I—”
“Do you love him?” Miranda demanded, fisting her hands at her side.
"What? Of course not! Do not be so absurd." The denial made her heart tremble. Dear God. Was she falling in love with the duke? How preposterous would that be?
Miranda folded her arms under her bosom, impatient annoyance evident in the elegant line of her posture. “Then why do you need to know more?”
Because the honor Pippa had spied several times of his character had undermined Miranda’s claim in Pippa’s opinion. “I should be astonished if I discovered that the duke did seduce you, Miranda, please be honest with me.”
“I never said he seduced me,” she cried.
Pippa stared at her friend, not wanting to accept the logical conclusion. “You tried to compromise him,” she guessed faintly. “Deliberately…and he refused you. Oh Miranda, what were you thinking to act with such rank disregard of your reputation and standing in society?”
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “I wanted to be his duchess,” she said on a shaky breath. She sank onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands, her slender form convulsed by deep sobs.
“He did not deserve the discredit you laid at his door.” And she owed him an apology, as Pippa Cavanaugh and Lady W. She closed her eyes, already envisioning the fight from Mr. Bell. He would not want to print a retraction only more salubrious speculation. Pippa felt wretched. “If you knew the manner of man the duke is, you would not have acted so silly.” No wonder Miranda had not wanted to inform the Earl and Countess.
“And you do?” Miranda said with scathing contempt.
“I do not wish to fight with you, but you let me believe the worst of the duke when you had been at fault, Miranda.”
Her eyes flashed with ire. “He did see me naked!”
Pippa stood and walked over to her. "Did he kiss you? Did he seduce you with words and touches, taking off your clothes or assisting you to take them off?"
Miranda blushed and turned away. “No!”
Pippa continued, “And did he invite you to his room?”
Her shoulder trembled. "No. We sat beside each other at dinner, and he was so charming and attentive. We spoke of the weather, his travels to India, tigers, and elephants. I thought…mamma was so certain he was interested. She praised me for snaring his regard when so many others had failed. Then I heard him speaking of possibly traveling to Europe for several months, and I recalled the rumors of the Russian heiress. I…I had to act."
Pippa felt such disappointment in her friend’s conduct…and in her own gullibility she almost cried. How ready she had been to cast the duke in the same dishonorable light as Nigel and her father when he had not deserved it. “You went into his room,” Pippa said softly, knowing Miranda’s nature of pursuing what she wanted at all cost.
&nb
sp; "I waited in my robe, and when he entered, I shrugged it from my shoulders."
Pippa’s heart beat a furious rhythm as she asked, “And what did he do?”
"Turned away!" Miranda said on a pained wail. "He simply turned away and said nothing would induce him to marry a calculating wench, not even the threat of a scandal, and left his room. I was so mortified."
Now she understood the surprise in his eyes when she had refused his visit to her mother because of his kiss. How many ladies had tried to compromise him? How many had only seen the title and wealth and not the man beneath all of that? “You were ill-judged to act so, Miranda!”
“I was not!”
Pippa recognized an exercise in futility when she saw one. Miranda would not take responsibility. "I am disappointed that you will not see it. The duke deserves an apology from both of us. It would be poor of your character if you did not render him one."
Then she walked from the room, ignoring her softly sobbing friend.
In the hallway, she spied her mother hurrying toward the drawing room with a letter in her hand. There was a sheen of distress in her mother’s eyes.
Pippa increased her pace. “Mamma? Is all well?”
“A letter…” she took a deep breath. “A letter came from her.” Her mother handed over a peach vellum sheet of paper.
Pippa took it, feeling astonished to see it addressed from Miss Annmarie Calvert, of a New York address. Pippa guided her mother toward a smaller sitting room for privacy. It upset Pippa to see her mother so clearly rattled by the other woman’s letter. She slit it open delicately with a letter opener.
Dear Miss Pippa Cavanaugh,
It is with regret that I write to you, your father, Lord Cavanaugh has taken ill. Doctors attend him and have given good reports, and I have hope he will recover. It is not at all certain, and he has begged for his wife and daughter to visit him in New York. I suspect your love for him is low, but I beseech you, Miss Cavanaugh, to attend to his bedside. I've enclosed a draft for one thousand pounds—
Unable to carry on reading, she lowered the letter and handed it to her mother. It seemed today was the day for dreadful revelations. Her heart pounded, and her throat was tight with pain and worry. How Pippa loathed that she worried about a man who had turned his back on his family with little regard for the circumstances in which he had left them! And now to demand they drop everything and voyage on a ship, so that he might soothe his conscience?