Rhonda Woodward (21 page)

“Lord Cortland, I do hope the situation with your grandfather has improved?”

“Very much. Quite the concession for him to travel all this way.” He stayed where he was, still watching, still waiting.

“Yes,” she said, wanting to ask more questions but wanting to be in his arms even more. “The two of you are very alike.”

Unable to help herself, she took a half step toward him and that was all it took. He reached out, took her hand, and drew her near. His other hand slipped to the low of her back, pulling her close with one powerful move.

“He thinks you are beautiful, highly perceptive, and that the Hawksmoor sapphires will look lovely with your gray eyes.”

Her heart slammed into her ribs and she snaked her arms around his neck. “And what do you think, my lord?”

He pulled her tighter still, and his hand came up to cup her cheek. “I think, my dearest, most fascinating and alluring Marina,” he whispered hoarsely against her lips, “that he is right.”

A long time later, still in his protective embrace, Marina pulled back a little and met his love-filled gaze with her own. Breathless and with her heart pounding, she saw a hint of amusement lurking in his golden gaze.

“Before I left the house, your butler informed me that your sister was still in the drawing room with your erstwhile beaux.”

With a soft smile, she drew his head back down to hers. “Perhaps, in a little while, we might go in and rescue her.”

Pulling her pliant body close again, he said, “As you wish, my love.”

Keep reading for a preview of another Regency romance by Rhonda Woodward

A SPINSTER’S LUCK

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1816

A chilling wind pierced the air, but the day was bright and there was the sparkle of moisture from a recent rain on the expansive parkland surrounding Harbrooke Hall. This proved an irresistible lure to Drake, the fifth Duke of Severly, and his steed, Blackwind. The duke decided he was enjoying his visit to Harbrooke Hall, his sister’s residence in Kent. Or to be more accurate, it was the home that now belonged to his young nephew, Henry.

Harbrooke Hall brought to his mind many happy childhood associations. Indeed, this very stretch of field, leading to a wooded area to the east, reminded him of when he and Philip Harbrooke used to slay dragons and challenge highwaymen with stick swords. With a quick movement of his heels, he guided Blackwind across the field into the copse of wood, a nostalgic smile touching his handsome face.

Many years ago, before death and war had invaded his peaceful life, Drake and his family had often visited Harbrooke. One particular holiday—a lifetime ago, it seemed—stood out in his mind.

On an exceptionally fine spring day, he and his friend Philip had swaggered about the estate in their doeskin breeches and spurs. They had been drinking themselves silly and making absurd wagers with all the cockiness only young men on term break from Oxford could display.

Imogene had been just a slip of a thing, but already showing signs of great beauty. Philip, to Drake’s disgust, had been casting sheep eyes to the girl who would soon become his wife. During luncheon, to their mothers’ mutual horror, Philip challenged Drake to a steeplechase. Knowing the challenge was intended to impress Imy, Drake, willing to help his friend show off, had accepted with alacrity.

Drake would never forget that wild ride through the cool gloom of the evening, hearing the thudding of the horses’ hooves and feeling the wind whip his cheeks.

Philip, several yards ahead, had thundered into this very wood, hoping for a shortcut. Drake could still see his fair head and hear his whoops of excitement. Drake reined in his horse, cautious for not knowing the terrain as well as his friend. Philip’s horse fairly flew over the hill, leaving Drake well behind.

A moment later Drake heard a loud noise and Philip’s distressed cry. He shouted Philip’s name, terrified that his friend had broken his fool neck. As he crested the ridge, his horse stumbling in its haste, Drake came upon Philip up to his neck in a duck pond. Then Drake’s horse, not being fond of water, had pulled up abruptly, pitching its rider over his head. Drake had landed quite near Philip, sailing face-first into the shallow murkiness.

After righting himself, he brushed a lily pad from his shoulder. Drake gave Philip a disgusted look. “I am certain this is not the way in which you intended to impress my sister,” Drake said to his soaked and muddy friend.

Their fathers had roared with laughter, and even Imogene had hidden a few sniggers behind her hand when they had sloshed back to Harbrooke Hall. A pained smile now touched the duke’s face at the bittersweet memories. He mused at the ironic fact that all their wealth and address had not protected him or Imogene or even poor Philip from fate’s cruel stab.

Philip’s father had died only a short time after the duck pond incident. Philip passed only a few years later from a lung ailment, leaving Imogene a young widow with two small boys. Drake still missed Philip, especially on a day like this. With thoughts shifting to his parents, Drake experienced a faint yet nagging sense of guilt. He had been away on his grand tour, living in a rather disreputable manner, when his mother and father had been struck down by the pox. Now his family consisted only of his sister, Imogene, and her sons, Henry and Peter.

Not that life did not have its compensations. The duke was proud of his family seat in Derbyshire, a beautiful mansion in the Georgian fashion. Recently, he had gone to some expense in modernizing the huge place, even installing water closets in a number of the bedchambers and gas lighting in the staterooms. An invitation to Severly Park in the winter was a much-sought-after favor.

He tried to visit his sister and nephews two or three times a year, but his days were occupied with the running of his vast estates and other manly pursuits in which he so excelled. Though the duke would not admit it to anyone, it was a source of personal pride that he was becoming a respected speaker in the House of Lords. He also took care to ensure that no one could say that he had not added to the already immense family coffers. All in all, he was a man contented with his lot.

As the duke continued to gallop, he crested a knoll and decided to let Blackwind drink from a nearby pond so he could see how the terrain had changed in the last few years.

Upon hearing childish voices and splashing water, he pulled the horse to a slow walk. From a vantage point protected by an ancient oak tree and a dense thicket at the edge of the wood, the duke looked for the source of the voices. Soon he saw his nephews and their governess skipping stones on the recently thawed pond a little distance away.

“Is this a good stone, Celly?” Peter asked in his high little-boy voice.

The young woman bent to examine the stone.

“That should do very well, Peter,” she responded seriously.

Peter turned and threw the stone at the pond. It sank without skipping once. Henry, the older of his nephews, and already showing signs of being tall like his father and uncle, had a better understanding of it and threw his stone with more expertise.

“One . . . two . . . three!” the dark-haired Henry counted the skips excitedly.

“Why don’t my rocks skip?” Peter kicked a clod of dirt, dejected, as little brothers often are when an older brother can outdo them.

“Well, let’s see what we can do,” said the governess as she stooped to look for more rocks, lifting her skirts almost above her ankle to avoid the mud around the pond. “Ah, here is one. Now Peter, hold the stone so. Very good. Now hold your arm like this. Crook your elbow. That’s it. Hold it out sideways. When you throw, throw it sharply from the wrist, thusly.” She made the proper wrist movement to demonstrate.

With a deep breath Peter braced his sturdy legs, and, doing his best to follow instructions, he gave a flick of his wrist, forearm, and elbow.

“One . . . two . . .” Peter grinned with delight as Henry and the governess praised his effort.

The duke, sheltered by the trees, enjoyed watching his nephews’ youthful fun. He decided not to disturb them because he had noticed a tendency for them to become rather self-conscious in his presence. Bending down to pat his restive horse’s neck, Drake let his curious gaze drift to the governess. From this distance he judged her to be slim and fairly tall, with an elegant way of carrying herself. He noted her golden brown hair but could not recall any specific details of her face. In fact, he could recollect addressing the young woman only two or three times in the last ten years. He remembered fussing a bit when Imogene had engaged her, because the girl had been so young, but the boys had seemed to thrive, so he hadn’t given it much thought since then. His curiosity grew. His nephews were luckier than he had been, he thought with some chagrin. The duke’s own governess had been quite plump and would never have dreamed of skipping stones with him.

“Come, we must return to the hall now,” directed the governess.

The boys protested this loudly.

“You are both filthy,” Celia chided gently, “and if you are to get cleaned up before you have tea with your uncle, we must go now.”

“Please, just a little longer, Celly?” Peter pleaded.

Henry scrambled around the edge of the pond for a suitable rock. With a triumphant cry he held up a beautifully flat, round stone to his governess. “Here, Celly, you skip this one,” he encouraged.

“All right, but just this last one,” she warned. Taking the stone from him, she crooked her elbow, and with an expert flick of the wrist she sent the stone skimming across the water.

“One. .. two .. . three . .. four . . . five . . . six!” the boys counted in unison, and Peter jumped about in excitement.

“That was the best ever,” said Henry. Both boys turned to their governess, awestruck, as little boys often are when they discover that someone is proficient at skipping stones. The governess dusted off her hands, shook her skirts, and picked up her reticule from a nearby rock.

“Let us go; we do not wish to be late,” she said calmly, and turned toward the house.

The duke watched the retreating figures for a few moments with a slightly bemused smile on his face before steering Blackwind back toward Harbrooke Hall. He had no desire to be late for tea.

***

On the third floor, in the cheery nursery that faced the back garden, Celia was trying to comb Peter’s hair. With his face contorted into a severe grimace, he was resisting her ministrations when Imogene, the Duchess of Harbrooke, swept into the room with the smell of lilacs surrounding her.

With her coffee-colored hair and hazel eyes, the duchess greatly resembled her brother, Drake, in countenance, though she appeared petite and almost fragile in her lavender tea gown compared to her brother’s large-boned masculinity.

“I can see you two are almost presentable,” Imogene observed with a smile, approaching her eldest son and straightening his lapel fondly.

“Mother, why doesn’t Celly have tea with us when Uncle Drake is here?” Henry queried. This subject had been on his mind of late, and Henry’s brow furrowed from concern. He felt Celly was one of the family, and it did not seem right to him that she did not come to any of the meals when Uncle Drake was visiting.

The duchess gave Celia a disconcerted look. She knew Celia felt uncomfortable around Drake and took measures to avoid him during his stays. But how could the boys be made to understand this?

As she gave a last flick of the brush to Peter’s hair, Celia flashed a helpless smile back to Imogene. The boys had been questioning Celia since returning from the pond, and she felt at a loss as to what to tell them.

A mischievous smile raised a dimple at the corner of Celia’s mouth. She tried to imagine how they would respond if she said, “I have no tolerance for your arrogant and heartless uncle. And even if I did, he would raise a disgusted brow if a mere governess were so familiar as to join him for tea.” No, that would not do, she thought with a mental shake of her head. Especially with Henry. He would never stop asking questions until he was satisfied with the answers. Celia knew something had to be said, and since Imogene didn’t seem inclined to offer a response, the job was left to her.

“I am sure your uncle would like to spend some time with the two of you without me tagging along.” It was as good a response as any to offer, she thought as she put away the hairbrush.

Henry gave Celia a level gaze with his surprisingly mature blue eyes. “Mother is always there at mealtimes when Uncle Drake visits,” he pointed out logically.

What could she say to that? Celia wondered in dismay, looking around the cozy nursery for a clue. At thirteen, Henry would not easily be fobbed off with evasions. Imogene, Henry, and Peter stood in the middle of the room, staring at her expectantly.

With an inward sigh, Celia decided to be straightforward with her charges. “Henry,” she began carefully, “it just would not be seemly for me to join you and your uncle at mealtimes. After all, I am not a member of the family, and your uncle is the Duke of Sev—”

“Yes you are too family!” interrupted eleven-year-old Peter. He looked at his mother and older brother with wide brown eyes, not understanding how Celly could say such a thing.

“
I
am the Duke of Harbrooke,” Henry said, and for the first time in his young life he sounded like it. “Mother and Grandmama are both duchesses. You
always
eat with us unless Uncle Drake is here.”

“Such a fuss over nothing.” Imogene, seeing this conversation was not progressing well, stepped forward. “Celia just means that she does not know Uncle Drake, and he, of course, does not know her. Really, we can’t expect him to love Celly as we do. Besides, the only time Celly gets a chance to read or sew is when you two are otherwise occupied. My goodness, I did not realize how selfish you two have become! Uncle Drake is waiting for you. Now run along, and I shall be down presently.”

This seemed to satisfy Peter, but Henry still frowned, though neither one said anything as they left the room. Both women sighed in relief as the door shut behind them.

“My, you’ve been having a time of it, haven’t you?” Imogene observed as she seated herself before the fireplace and watched Celia pick up the boys’ discarded clothing.

“Yes, rather.” Celia laughed, a lovely, trilling laugh that usually elicited an answering smile from those who heard it.

Celia looked at the duchess, her expression changing to chagrin. “My goodness, Henry sounded like a barrister! Can you imagine what the duke would say if Henry had dragged me to tea?”

Celia envisioned the duke sneering down his perfect, aristocratic nose and ordering her from the room for being so presumptuous. Not that she had any desire to be included. In fact, for the last ten years she had been successful at avoiding any contact with the duke on his visits to Harbrooke. She had paid close attention to his habits, when he rose and retired, which parts of the house he rarely visited, all so that she could avoid the imposing man. Granted, Napoleon had aided her, for the duke had been much away because of the war, but it was still disquieting when he did arrive. The whole house became unsettled. The maids and footmen bustled about nervously. Even the cantankerous cook strove for unusual perfection in the normally delicious meals she served.

“I cannot imagine that Drake would say anything,” the duchess replied. “This is my home, and Drake is too well mannered to censure me for who sits at my table. Besides, Celia, you are my dear friend and it would be natural for you to dine with me.”

Imogene had never understood Celia’s marked aversion to her brother. She always suspected that Celia knew that years ago Drake had been critical of so young a girl caring for the boys. Even so, she never pressed Celia on the subject, out of respect for the sensitive girl’s feelings.