Once Upon A Dream (18 page)

They ambled into the shade, pausing before the closed garden door.

Sedgemere cast around for some encouraging words, some cheering sentiment he could leave Miss Faraday with. Her course was set: She would retire to the
country, nurture her affronted dignity, and grow thorny roses—or something.

“What’s the worst part of it?” he asked, settling his hat on his head. “What makes London unbearable?”

For London was the only place he was likely to see her, assuming she ever again ventured south.

“The money,” she said, in the same tones somebody else might have referred to the scent downwind from a shambles. “People don’t see
me, they see the money. They resent it, they covet it, they gossip about it, and all I am is a means to that money. Papa doesn’t understand. I
didn’t understand myself until the marriage proposals started.”

From that pack of nasty, presuming earls, no doubt.

“For me, it’s the title,” Sedgemere said. He and the lady were parting, their paths likely would never cross again, and he could be
honest with Anne Faraday as he wasn’t honest with even Hardcastle. “I never wanted a damned title, much less a ducal title. I’m not a
man, I’m a title, a deep pocket, consequence, estates.”

“So,” she said, straightening a wrinkle in his coat sleeve over his biceps, “you snarl and sneer, and arch the eyebrow of doom, lest any
presume on your good nature. Good for you, sir. You’re entitled to your privacy, and to deal with the world on your own terms.”

Anne Faraday addressed him not as a duke, who endured toadying and deference without limit, but rather, as a man who’d put up with enough, and had a
right to order his affairs as he saw fit. Nobody else had spoken to him thus. Nobody else had dared.

Nobody else had understood.

Sedgemere meant to kiss her cheek, truly he did. Maybe she meant to kiss his too, for when Sedgemere lowered his head, lips at the ready for a
chaste—if bold—buss to her cheek, she presented her lips, also at the ready, and a kiss occurred.

Not a kiss to anybody’s cheek, but a collision of lips, surprised at first, then curious, then… enthusiastic.

Wonderfully, lustily enthusiastic. Everything external fell away from Sedgemere’s notice—the inn yard commotion beyond the garden wall, the
clatter and clank of dishes from a kitchen window ten yards off, the lowing of a cow in the pasture behind the inn.

While everything inside Sedgemere, everything that brushed up against the slightest aspect of that kiss, woke up.

And rejoiced.

Anne had three more days on the king’s highway before she reached her destination, three days of jostling, bouncing, and ignoring Effie’s
prattle.

Three days and two nights of failing to find the right words to describe the Duke of Sedgemere’s kiss. That single kiss had been surprising. Anne
hadn’t realized she was capable of flaunting convention to the extent of putting her lips on the ducal person.

And the surprises didn’t stop there. Sedgemere’s kiss intrigued, offering contradictions and complexities, like a business opportunity in a
foreign culture. His kiss was confident without being arrogant, gentle without being chaste, ardent but respectful, intimate without presuming.

Anne would be a lifetime analyzing one kiss that for Sedgemere had probably been an unremarkable moment in a life of casual privilege and sophistication.
He’d not even smiled at her, but rather, had handed her up into the coach, tipped his hat, and wished her safe journey.

“We’re coming to the gates,” Effie said. “Thank the Almighty, we’re finally coming to the gates.” 

“Effie, you’ve never traveled in such comfort as you have the past three days,” Anne said, for once the Duke of Sedgemere’s first
team of coaching horses had been put to, the hostlers at subsequent inns had replaced them with further loans of Sedgemere horses. Meals had arrived to
Anne’s rooms hotter and faster. Her chambers had been the best the premises had to offer.

The woman who became Sedgemere’s duchess would have a lovely life, in some particulars.

“Traveling is traveling,” Effie harrumphed. “And now we’re to deal with the staff of a duke and duchess. Mark me, miss,
they’ll want their vales and be as high in the instep as the duke himself.”

Veramoor’s estate lay in the Lakes, snuggled right up against the Whinlatter forest. Anne had enjoyed the scenery, which was unlike even the sweeping
green landscape of the Dales. She did not enjoy the prospect of the next two weeks. Communication with Papa would be difficult, for she’d brought
only so many pigeons.

And Veramoor had doubtless invited a number of bachelor earls, for he and his duchess fancied themselves matchmakers.

“My, my, my,” Effie whispered, gawking out the window. “It’s a bloomin’ palace, miss. You’ll need a ball of twine to
keep from getting lost between the bedroom and the breakfast parlor.”

The façade was majestic, a massive Baroque structure that put Anne in mind of the Howard family seat in Yorkshire. Two enormous wings projected from a
central dome, the whole approached by a long drive that ended in a broad carriageway encircling a fountain.

Thus did dukes live. The grandeur of Veramoor House was a reproach to any banker’s daughter who longed for more kisses from chance-met dukes. Papa
could afford such a dwelling, but neither he nor Anne would know what to
do
with it.

“I was wrong,” Effie said as the carriage drew to a halt. “You’ll need six balls of twine, miss. Promise you won’t leave
without me. If I get lost, there’s no chance of anybody finding me in this palace.”

“You’ll be given a map, Effie,” Anne said, as a liveried footman opened the carriage door and flipped down the steps. “And I
won’t leave without you.”

Effie might not be the only person Anne knew, but she’d definitely be the only person Anne could trust here.

Inside the house, Anne was greeted by the duchess, a petite, fading redhead with snapping blue eyes. Despite the grandeur of the entrance hall, Her Grace
commanded the entire cool, soaring space, ordering footmen this way, porters the other.

“Oh, my dear Miss Faraday,” Her Grace said, taking Anne by both hands. “You are the image of your mama. May I call you Anne? You must not
call me Margot, alas, or the other ladies will be scandalized, but your mama called me Margot long ago. She talked me into trying a cigar the year she made
her bow, and I—a sensibly married woman at the time—have never been so sick in all my days.”

The duchess’s tone was welcoming, her grasp warm and firm, and yet, she was warning Anne too. Special favor might be shown, but Anne must not
presume.

Not that she would, ever. She’d kissed a passing duke by chance and for three days, been plagued by his memory. Missed him even, when she’d yet
to spend more than two hours in his company.

“I had not heard this about my mother,” Anne said. “You must tell me more when time allows.”

“Harrison will show you to your rooms,” Her Grace said, “but before the mob descends, you’ll take tea with me, won’t you?
I’ll send a footman to collect you in an hour or so, and your maid can sneak in a nice lie-down. Will that suit?”

The Duchess of Veramoor would not have taken three days to deal with matters at Waterloo. She’d have dispatched the Corsican by noon on the first day
and been entertaining callers for luncheon thereafter, not a hair out of place.

“Tea would suit wonderfully, Your Grace. My thanks.”

Sedgemere’s teams must have made good time, because Harrison, an underhousekeeper, told Anne she was among the first to arrive. Most of the guests
would be along as the day progressed, with more arriving tomorrow.

“And there are always stragglers.” Harrison was a tall blonde who moved at a brisk pace, a set of keys jangling at her waist, a touch of
Ireland in her words. “Her Grace never plans much for the first day, but we’ve high hopes for this year’s gathering.”

Anne had high hopes she’d be allowed to snatch a nap before her tea with the duchess. “I’m sure we’ll all have a lovely
time.”

Until the gentlemen arrived and started bothering the maids, drinking too much, making inane wagers, and ogling Anne’s bosom.

“Our record is four engagements,” Harrison said, unfastening her keys. “That was three years ago, and one of them doesn’t really
count because it was Their Graces’ youngest. Gave us a start, that one did, but she’s wed happily enough and is expecting her second. Do you
fancy any particular gentlemen?”

Merciful days.
Longing shot through Anne’s weariness, yearning for a quiet, fragrant walled garden, and a duke who was brusque, kind, and a surprisingly adept
kisser.

“I beg your pardon?” Anne managed.

“Their Graces pride themselves on knowing when a couple might suit,” Harrison said, thrusting a key into a lock. “They make up the guest
list with the young people in mind, if you take my meaning. Her Grace says I talk too much, but you seem like the sensible sort.”

“Thank you, though right now I’m the tired and dusty sort. This is a lovely room.”

Early afternoon light flooded a cozy sitting room, one appointed in blue-and-gilt flocked wallpaper, blue and white carpets, blue velvet upholstered
furniture, and bouquets of red and white roses. The impression was restful and elegant, and the blue and white decorating scheme carried into an airy
adjoining bedroom.

“Her Grace puts her special guests on this corridor,” Harrison said. “You have the best views and the most quiet. The bell pull is near
the privacy screen, and a tray will be sent along shortly. We’ll have a buffet tonight. Guests gather at seven in the blue gallery. Any footman or
maid can give you directions.”

No balls of twine, alas. Harrison went bustling on her way, Effie disappeared to locate Anne’s trunks, and for the first time in days, Anne was in
the midst of complete silence.

So, of course, memories of Sedgemere’s kiss resonated only more loudly. Of his gloved hand cupping her cheek, his tongue brushing over her bottom
lip, his leg insinuated between her thighs.

“If I’m to have only one forbidden kiss in my life, that one will at least linger in memory until I forget my own name,” Anne murmured.
She twitched a lacy curtain back and cracked open the window. Her room overlooked the side of Veramoor House that faced the stables, magnificent buildings
that might well have been lodging for another titled family.

Carriage houses sat beside the stables, and green paddocks stretched behind them up to the slope of the woods. A woman of artistic talent would gorge
herself on views like this, while Anne’s imagination went to the expense of such a facility.

That too had been in Sedgemere’s kiss, a sense of wealth leading back across the centuries, tens of thousands of acres of tradition and stability,
not merely a pile of newly minted coins. Sedgemere’s kiss spoke of resources so vast, the man with title to them could dispense with time in any
manner he saw fit, even if that meant indulging in a pointless kiss with a woman who should not have presumed on his time, much less his person.

“I’m not sorry I did it,” Anne said. “I hope he’s not sorry either.”

Carriages tooled away from the main drive and over to the carriage houses, and grooms bustled about while porters transferred baggage to carts. Papa would
need to know of Anne’s safe arrival, and he’d doubtless send her dispatches requiring immediate replies.

Anne allowed herself one more moment at the window, one more moment to inhale a breeze scented by the nearby forest, the extensive gardens, and the
magnificent stables. This was what a duchess’s world smelled like of a summer, and it was lovely.

Another carriage made the trek from driveway to carriage houses, two horsemen riding ahead. The horses under saddle were beautiful animals, but their heads
were down, their legs dusty. Both men dismounted, both took off their hats and gloves, both handed horses off to grooms.

Between one flutter of the lacy curtain and the next, Anne’s mind confirmed three things that her abruptly pounding heart already knew.

First, the tall gentleman with the moonlight-blond hair was Sedgemere.

Second, if Anne were prudent, she’d never ever be alone with him again.

Third, if she did happen to find herself private with the duke in the next two weeks, she’d be helpless not to kiss him again—every chance she
got.

“I say we should have arrived late,” Hardcastle groused. “We ought to have tarried an extra day at Sedgemere, so you might have gone
calling on a pretty neighbor in Yorkshire. But no, you are Sedgemere, so you heed no counsel save your own, and all creation must align itself for your
convenience. You finally meet a woman who’s up to your mettle, and instead of bestirring yourself to pique her interest, you lend her the fastest
teams in the realm to speed her away from your side.”

Hardcastle was nervous. Next he’d be spouting Latin, for that was how Hardcastle coped with the anxieties a bachelor duke must never exhibit before
others.

“I say we needed to arrive early,” Sedgemere replied, because short of Latin, a good argument settled Hardcastle’s nerves. “One
wants to scout the territory, befriend the help, study the maps, as it were. Veramoor is all genial bonhomie, but do not turn your back on his
duchess.”

“One doesn’t,” Hardcastle retorted, tugging at a cravat that had become dusty hours ago. “Not unless one is abysmally ill-mannered.
What are you staring at?”

“Those are my blacks,” Sedgemere said as a team of four coach horses was led around to the carriage bays, where the harness would be removed,
polished, and carefully hung. “I know my own cattle, and those are my blacks.”

“You must own two hundred black horses,” Hardcastle said, withdrawing a flask and uncapping it. “One set of equine quarters looks the
same as another.”

“The heat has provoked you to blaspheming, and I know that team. I bought them from a Scottish earl not a year past, the first transaction I’ve
done with the man. He brews a beautiful, lethal whisky.”