A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (33 page)

Jeremy stared at her, silent as a gate post.

“We have a lambkin born not a week ago.” The duchess smiled at him. “The thing is so tiny, the likes of which you’ve never seen. The mother rejected the poor mite so we are keeping her warm by the fire in the kitchen. Cook fashioned a bottle from a gardener’s glove. The little glutton drinks constantly. She’s wrapped up in a blanket at the moment. If you care to, you may hold her to your heart’s content. Feed her if you wish. I have. It’s great fun. Come along.” She held out her hand.

To Suri’s amazement, Jeremy slipped his hand in the duchess’s and disappeared with her out the door.

…

Dinner began promptly at eight with neither Trent nor Edward in attendance and with the duchess acting as though nothing was amiss. Where the devil were they?

She and Suri supped in the lesser of the two dining rooms which, despite being described as
smallish
during the tour the duchess had given Suri that afternoon, could easily seat twelve at the elaborately set table. Still, coziness pervaded. Small golden pagodas etched on bright Chinese red paper covered the walls. Candles in silver candelabras gave off a soft glow, while trays of food lining the sideboards released aromas so enticing, Suri’s stomach growled.

Well into the second course of a flaky puff pastry filled with forest mushrooms and savory wild game—far too exquisite a work of art to be destroyed by a fork—the main door to the dining room opened, and Trent entered. Didn’t he look the handsome one, though? Dressed in gray flannel trousers, a black superfine jacket, charcoal waistcoat, and white shirt with a black stock tie, he could have fit in at the finest salons in London. He was as handsome a man—next to John—as Suri had ever laid eyes on.

But then Edward stepped through the door and her breath caught in her lungs.

He could be John’s twin!

Her knife and fork hung in midair before she could think to set them down. By the time she remembered her manners and placed her hands in her lap, her fingers trembled.

Edward focused on no one as he entered the room, his line of vision falling haphazardly about the room in an indolent and resigned manner.
Why, he doesn’t wish to be here!

But then he glanced Suri’s way and paused in his movement toward the upholstered chair at the head of the table. A glint of curiosity skated through his eyes. The gray in them deepened as he scanned her face and hair.

“Edward, this is Miss Suri Thurston, our guest,” the duchess said. “Miss Thurston, meet Lord Edward Fairfax.”

Relief washed through Suri at the idea that he didn’t insist on using his new title until he’d been granted the legal right. She didn’t think she could tolerate anyone taking John’s name just yet. He inclined his head to her, and she responded in kind.

A footman pulled his chair out for him. He sat down and flipped a serviette onto his lap. “I suppose this is where I should say something civilized about welcoming you to my home, but since I’ve only recently learned it is mine, I fail to find anything decent to say.”

“Must you, Edward?” the duchess said in a voice so calm it could have passed over water without a ripple.

Edward focused his eyes on his mother and tipped his head. The silence was as thick as the soup Suri had consumed during the first course. And then, to Suri’s surprise, he winked at his mother. Winked!

“Yes, I must.” He lifted his wineglass and signaled for the footman to pour.

Trent, sitting in the chair opposite Suri, reached over and retrieved the glass from the footman, then slid the wine decanter filled with a ruby liquid from Edward’s reach. “Thought we’d been through this already,” he muttered.

Edward turned to Suri. “Just full of sizzle, isn’t he?” Behind the gray in his eyes, mischief glowed like banked embers.

Could he be inebriated?
Flabbergasted, she looked across the table to Trent, who only arched a brow before helping himself to the puff pastry a footman held before him.

Another footman filled Edward’s plate, one he paid no particular attention to since he was busy staring at Suri.

“Edward’s been out hunting all day, haven’t you, sir?” the duchess said in a voice laden with all the sweetness of a garden filled with flowers.

“Need something to wash this down with,” he responded with his mouth full and his focus on the wine decanter. “Dry as old leaves.”

Suri looked to the forkful of pastry Edward had shoved into his mouth and then back to Trent, who smirked and pushed a glass of water Edward’s way.

“There’s a nice hunter’s sauce to go over it,” the duchess offered in her same calm voice. “Without it, you might find the dish a bit too dry for your taste.”

Edward snapped his fingers at the footman. “Sauce it is, then.”

Mercy.
Suri kept her eyes focused on her plate while a snigger crawled up her throat, one of those rogue giggles that had always sent Marguerite and her into hysterics at the most inappropriate of times. Fatigued as she was, if it took hold, there would be no stopping the madcap laughter that was sure to ensue. She swallowed hard and prayed for relief.

The man was clearly foxed. No telling why, but she suspected his condition had something to do with their arrival and how their visit was tied to his brother. Where women wept to purge their grief, weren’t men more prone to these sorts of acts? The thought quelled her terrible urge to laugh. But what of the duchess’s odd response to him? What made her cater to his behavior as though it were an everyday occurrence?

Oh, dear, perhaps it is.

The duchess cleared her throat. “Have some trout, Miss Thurston. It’s freshly caught.”

How long had Suri been preoccupied? Long enough so when she looked up from her plate, she found everyone staring at her. “Forgive me, I was lost in thought.”

“Obviously,” Edward said. When had he leaned back in his chair and studied her as if he read her every thought?

She stared back.

A shiver ran down her spine at his remarkable likeness to John. Except for the mouth. Where John’s sultry lips had sent her heart stuttering at a mere glance, Edward’s mouth, although well made, did nothing to convolute her insides. Even though the physical similarities were uncanny, the brothers acted nothing alike. Was his behavior always so rude? Or should she blame it on the drink—and the circumstances? Tonight, she had no right to pass judgment.

She didn’t know how she got through the rest of the meal but, at some point, Trent turned the conversation toward horses where it remained until after the dessert course. When the men retired to the smoking room, Suri begged off for the rest of the evening, eager to check on Jeremy and relieve the maid who watched over him. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, so fatigued she doubted she’d make it down the long corridor without falling asleep on her feet.

Once in her bed, however, memories of John and what life must have been like for him at Ravenswood Park robbed her of sleep. Thoughts tumbled about in her head like so many stones being polished. Frustrated, she tossed the coverlet aside and slid off the opposite side of the mattress from where Jeremy slept in his own bed, buried beneath the covers. She slipped into a wrap and lit a candle. After creeping over to the armoire across the room and retrieving a carpetbag she’d tucked inside, she set the bag on the bed and removed Shahira’s emerald and diamond collar and golden chain.

“Take it, sell the stones and gold,” Trent had told her. While she’d readily accepted the cat’s belongings, selling them was another matter entirely. She couldn’t bear to part with them. The chain warmed in her hand as she held it to her breast. Bittersweet memories swept through her. Shahira had taken right to her that first night at dinner. And when the cat had practically climbed into bed with them, Suri had found the cheetah compelling.

The memory of being tied to the sissoo tree slammed into her with such force, a shudder ran right through her. There had been no hope of setting herself loose. No hope of rescue. Only wild cats stalking their next meal. She’d been stripped to the soul back then. But just as she had given up and accepted death, just as she had slipped over the edge and awaited the painful strike that would end her misery, Shahira had appeared out of nowhere.

Wonderful, protective, complex Shahira. God in heaven, not only did she miss John, but she grieved the loss of the cat as well. Dreadfully so. What had happened to her? Had she met her demise, as well? Or was Shahira like one of those faithful pets Suri had read about who lay beside its master’s grave, the animal grieving for the rest of its life? Shockwaves pumped through her at yet another awful truth—there was no grave for John. Certainly not in India…and for other ugly reasons she couldn’t bear to consider. Sucking in a ragged breath, she fought the demon of stark despair yet again.

Jeremy rolled over with a little moan. Suri locked her emotions down tight lest she lose control altogether and begin sobbing aloud. She stood still, waiting until Jeremy’s breathing took on an even rhythm.

Moving silently to the mantel, she laid the collar and chain on it. Trent was most likely right, selling these precious items would give her something measurable to live on. But until such a time arrived…

She gathered two candlesticks and set them on either side of Shahira’s things. Next, she collected a small vase of flowers from the bedside commode and tucked it into the center ring of the collar. Fishing John’s signet ring out of her reticule, she placed it next to the flowers and stepped back with a sigh.

Tomorrow, she’d see to it Edward got the ring. But for now, what little remained of her beloved would hold a place of honor on her new altar.

…

“Jeremy. Where’s Jeremy?” Suri awoke with a fright to find his bed empty and Becky setting her things out for the day.

“He’s down in the kitchen with the lambkin, milady.”

“Really? He left me?” She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “And I slept through it?”

The maid smiled. “Her Grace allowed yer nephew to name the babe.”

“How could he do that when he has yet to speak?” Her breath stopped somewhere in the middle of her throat. “Or has he begun now?”

“No, milady. He plucked a rosebud from the garden and showed it to Her Grace, then pointed to the lamb. I think he’s made claim of little Rosebud. Hasn’t left her side.” Becky held up a pale yellow morning dress. “What of this, milady? Does it suit you today?”

“What? No, the riding habit will do, thank you.” What kind of magic had the duchess worked on the boy? A gnarled heap of worry should have moved out of her belly. Instead, the idea of Jeremy attaching himself to an animal was bound to complicate matters when the time came to leave. Her mood shifted downward a notch, but she slid out of bed and asked the maid to help her dress before melancholy could take hold. “What time is it?”

“Nigh on ten, milady. You slept sound and all.”

“When I finally managed to fall asleep,” she muttered. Her stomach grumbled in response. “Is there still breakfast to be had or am I going to embarrass myself walking into an empty morning room?”

“There’s plenty, milady. Always is, this time of day.”

“Let us hurry then. I’m famished.”

Dressed, she fastened John’s ring on her finger and scurried down the stairs to the breakfast room where she stumbled to a halt when she saw the only person in attendance—Edward. Her heart missed a beat. He sat at the table with a half-empty plate of food in front of him, his face buried in a newspaper.
The Times,
she could make out from where she stood.

He lowered the paper and those gray eyes of his met hers. He nodded. And then his gaze swept the length of her and back up. Ever so slowly.

Discomfort trickled down her spine.

“Your Grace,” she said and moved toward the chair a footman held for her.

Edward slashed her a dark look. “Don’t call me that. I’ve no right to use the title until all legalities have been met.”

She paused in front of him, her heart pumping faster. “Sorry, Your…sir.”

“Which could take years,” he finished. “Not that I care to have the title dumped on me. Call me Edward, Miss Thurston.”

She tried to smile but it didn’t quite hold. “You may call me Suri, then.”

His eyes shifted to her clasped hands.

The ring. Of course, the ring.
She slipped it off her finger and handed it to him.

He studied her open palm. A line creased between his brows. “How did you come by my brother’s ring?”

“John…the duke…your brother gave it to me before…well, before I was led away. He told me, if he didn’t make it, to give it to you.” She wouldn’t, for the life of her, tell him John said Edward would take care of her had she been with child. “It’s yours.”

He laid the paper aside and sat back, a hand resting on each muscled thigh, staring at the ring as if it were something disgusting. “Keep it. At least until I have a right to wear it.”

Not knowing quite how to respond, Suri slipped the ring back on her finger and sat down. Watching the footman pour her tea, she said, “I’ll see it’s placed in safekeeping.” She’d give it to the duchess in due time, but for now, she desperately wanted it back on the altar she’d fashioned—alongside Shahira’s collar and chain. Somehow fashioning the altar out of their things had given her a modicum of peace she couldn’t grasp before. She’d ended up staring at it the rest of the night while fantasies of what life might have been like, had John survived, roamed the corridors of her heart.

Edward retrieved a silver flask from inside his jacket, poured something into his coffee that, even from where Suri sat, smelled distinctly like spirits.

In the morning? At breakfast?
“What is that?” she blurted out.

“Whisky. Want some?” He reached over her tea with the flask.

She slapped her hand over the cup. “Certainly not!”

A chuckle, low and melodious, rolled out of him. He returned the flask from whence it came and lifted the cup to his mouth.

Stunned, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Not that it’s any of my concern, but didn’t Trent remove the liquor bottles from your control last night?”