Ripe for Pleasure (30 page)

V
iola sat down to dinner at Skelton Hall with just the duke and duchess. Lord Glennalmond had ridden out in high dudgeon once
he’d grasped that his mother had brought his brother’s mistress home with her. If he’d stayed long enough to realize there
was a chance she could become his sister-in-law, he might have had apoplexy on the spot.

That she was sitting down to this first meal without Lord Leonidas beside her was nothing short of enraging. He’d not caught
up to them by the time they’d reached the Scottish border, nor was he waiting for them at his ancestral home. Worse yet, the
duchess had begun to watch her with eyes that held a hint of pity.

It was galling.

Intolerable.

A bath and a change of clothing had done nothing to improve her mood. Lady Boudicea’s gowns were tight and loose in all the
wrong places, and the skirts were long enough that she was continually tripping over them.
Being obliged to make do with someone else’s clothing and cosmetics and, well, everything was more than disconcerting; it
verged on enraging.

The duke seemed more amused by his wife’s undertaking than anything, cementing Viola’s conclusion that the family were not
just the eccentrics society made them out to be, but fully mad. He’d heaved a heavy sigh and apologized for his eldest son,
then offered his arm and led her into dinner without any further sign of discomposure.

Watched by a veritable horde of footmen, Viola forced herself to eat. Even poached salmon, a favorite dish, was nearly impossible
to swallow. She made short work of the lemon ice that ended the meal, however. How bad could things be when there was lemon
ice?

When the sweetmeats were gone and the table cleared, the duke nodded to his wife and suggested they all retire to the library.
Once there, he poured them all a generous portion of brandy and waved her and his wife to the chairs before the fireplace.

Viola took a moment to shut her eyes and inhale the comforting scents of leather and paper. Lemon ice and a few thousand volumes
bound in red Moroccan: paradise.

The duke set his glass down on the mantel and pulled his wig off, rubbing his hand vigorously across his head for a moment
before resettling the wig as though donning a hat. “My wife has explained something of the situation you find yourself in,
Mrs. Whedon.”

Viola gave him her full attention. She could see very little of Lord Leonidas in his mother, or rather she could see very
little of the duchess in him. It was more his personality that the duchess had bequeathed to him. His
father was a different case entirely—the height, the breadth of shoulder, the finely chiseled profile—they were all present
in both father and son. But his father’s eyes were kinder. Softer. The mossy green almost turned to brown in the flickering
glow of the candles.

The duke set his shoulders against the stone mantel and studied her in return. “If I were to ponder all the details Her Grace
imparted, I’d be forced to a conclusion that does my family little credit.”

“Then perhaps it’s best not to dwell too long upon the topic, Your Grace.”

He shook his head a bit sadly, eyes dropping to the rug for a moment. “Perhaps, ma’am, but given a choice between a comfortable
lie and an uncomfortable truth, I’d still choose truth. Like my wife, I’d stake my life on the fact that no son of mine would
hit a woman, but if I add in the bits of the story our daughter and nephew provided, it becomes glaringly evident that I raised
a man who would.”

Viola breathed the slightly caustic fumes rising off the brandy deep into her lungs and held her tongue. The duke clearly
had a rough grasp of what had happened, but if he wanted more, he’d have to ask his son. She took a sip and let the liquor
burn a path to her belly, where it bloomed like courage.

“You see, my dear? Stubborn.”

The duke nodded in response to his wife, eyes never leaving Viola. “You needn’t bother to tell me I’m right, and please don’t
bother lying to me or trying to convince me I’m wrong, my dear. I’ll have it out of Leonidas when he arrives, every last unsavory
detail. And then it will be my duty to see that things are set to rights.”

He strode across the room to refill his glass, impatience and irritation coming off him in waves. The duchess followed him
with her eyes, a slightly worried frown marring her brow.

“Your Grace?” Viola said.

The duke set the decanter down and turned back to her. He looked tired, eyes shadowed and slightly hollow.

“It’s not my place to tell you Lord Leonidas’s secrets, but I can assure you that
you
owe me nothing.”

The duke’s gaze flicked over her, tracing the lingering bruises on her face. “You’re wrong there, Mrs. Whedon. Very wrong
indeed. Charles may not be my son, but he’s my responsibility, and his actions have consequences. They must. As must those
of us all.”

His tone was sincere, the words almost a vow. Very similar to his son indeed. A family of madmen with a deeply entrenched
sense of honor. At least when it came to some things. Seduction and theft were clearly not beyond the pale.

The thought tugged a smile from her. This family made no sense, but they clearly understood where the lines were drawn amongst
themselves. But most peers were like that, at least in her limited experience of them.

“Whatever the outcome, you needn’t worry about my nephew ever again.” The duke returned to close their small circle by the
hearth. “As for my son, well, rest assured you’ll be provided for whatever the outcome there. If you prefer Paris or Venice
or Lake Geneva, you shall have it.”

Shock reverberated through her. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. No threat, no bribe, just a
promise of security—of freedom and independence—hers for the taking. Her heart’s desire only a few short months ago.

“And if I took your offer and your son followed?”

The duke shut his eyes, shaking his head slightly, as though discovering a favorite dog had eaten a shoe. He opened them again
with a snap, gaze pinning her to her chair. “Do you mean, what would happen if my son were to refuse to accept your choice,
or do you mean, what would happen if you changed your mind?”

“Either.”

“Her Grace and I want our children to be happy, within reason of course. If you are our son’s choice, so be it. To be frank,
I’d have hoped for something else—someone else—for him, but I’ll not force him to give you up, to live a lie with some respectable
girl, all the while wishing she were you. That kind of stupidity and misery is pointless. But neither will I stand for you
stringing him along or for him persecuting you with unwanted attentions, existing on false hope. I’ll see this sorted and
settled, and once it is, I shall expect everyone to abide by their decision.”

Or there will be hell to pay.
She could hear the threat as clearly as if the duke had shouted the words into the quiet room.

“And if I were to choose Paris?”

“I’d send you there on the morrow and spare my son the pain and humiliation of a final parting.”

“But she’s not going to choose Paris, are you, my dear?” The duchess’s lips were again curled up into the smile that reminded
Viola of a spoiled little girl, convinced she held the world twisted around her little finger.

“No, Your Grace. I hate to inconvenience you all—truly, I do—but I don’t believe I am for Paris.”

The duke attempted to put a coat of marchpane on it by mumbling, “No inconvenience at all,” while the duchess grinned openly.

Viola stared at her, horror mixing with amusement until she was giddy with the dueling sensations. The duchess was enjoying
this, was looking forward to the calamity, to the scandal. “Oh yes, my dear, no inconvenience at all. I shall very much enjoy
forcing the
ton
to swallow you. And if we’re very lucky, a few of them might even choke.”

Bedraggled, unwashed, temper rapidly fraying, Leo ushered his sister into their ancestral home. His parents’ butler blanched
at the sight of him and made a halfhearted attempt to deny him entry.

“My lord, Lady Boudicea is of course welcome, but Her Grace left strict instructions…” His voice dwindled away, as though
he were afraid to convey the duchess’s orders.

“Barred from the house, am I? Not to worry, Byrne. I’ll bide my time in the stables until Her Grace sees fit to bid me come.”

The man’s face showed clear evidence of his consternation. “I’ll have luncheon sent down for your lordship.”

“And for one very large dog as well, Byrne. She’s currently asleep in the carriage, but when she wakes, I’d be mortified if
she ate a stable boy.”

Beau laughed and assured the butler that the dog would, under no circumstances, be eating anyone. She gave Leo a repressive
glance. “Shall I go up and alert
Mother to your presence, or hide with you among the horses?”

“Go upstairs, brat. It won’t harm me to spend a few hours—or days—kicking my heels before Mother deigns to summon me.”

“And if it’s weeks?” She dimpled as she asked, eyes dancing.

“Then I shall have time to become inured to the scent of manure.” Leo bowed to her as though she were a princess and swept
back out the grand front door.

If he was lucky, he had a few minutes before his mother became aware of his presence or put her mind to winkling out how unlikely
it was for him to await her pleasure in the stables. If he went around the side and took the servants’ stairs up, he should
be able to make it to the south wing, where guests were housed, before his mother had time to think of it and cut him off.
And once he was there, he could simply lie in wait.

Leo raced around the side of the house and slipped up the servants’ stairs with a wink for one of the housemaids. The girl
watched him with bemused eyes, but she made no attempt to stop him. His mother’s orders must not have trickled down so far
as the lower servants.

The stairs gave onto a corridor, which led to another flight of stairs concealed behind a bit of paneling. At the top of them,
he finally found himself in the guest wing, which seemed eerily quiet. He checked each room in turn, ten of them in all, without
finding a single sign of habitation. Everything was covered in Holland cloth and tidily closed up.

That meant his mother had put Viola in the family
wing, which was interesting in and of itself, but also meant the number of rooms she might have been assigned was reduced
to two: the Boucher or the Stubbs suite. And there was only one choice there: the Boucher, with his
Triumph of Venus
dominating the room, angry little
putti
glaring out at you while the goddess smiled over her shoulder atop a settee born by dolphins and Triton.

Yes, Her Grace would have found the irony of that room assignment too sweet to forgo. The only question was, had he any chance
at all of reaching it undetected?

He wandered back down the servants’ stairs and stood studying the house. His own room was easily accessible via the great
vines that clad the back side of the house, but not so the Boucher suite. He could storm the main staircase, but the risk
of interception and expulsion was greater than merely slipping from his room to the suite beside it…

Decision made, Leo wrenched off his boots and struggled out of his coat. Leaving them at the base of the house, he said a
silent prayer that the vines would hold—not a sure thing by any means; he hadn’t attempted such since he was a stripling—and
began the climb.

Each new footing and handhold sagged as it took his weight. The sensation of the vines being pulled from the stone was distinct
and slightly sickening. Near the top, a small wren exploded out of the leaves, and he nearly lost his grip. A wing tip brushed
his cheek as he ducked out of its path.

His heart hammered madly. His hands tingled with anticipation, as they did before a fight. He was so close.

The first window was locked, but the second slid up
with only token resistance. Leo heaved himself over the sill and into his room, attempting to be as quiet as possible. The
floor protested with every step, and the hinges of his door gave a squeal that seemed destined to wake the dead.

Leo held his breath and counted to ten, but no other door opened along the corridor. Perhaps they were all downstairs and
his climb had been for naught. A score of quick steps and he was turning the handle to the Boucher suite; two more and he
was inside.

A sleepy “Is it time to dress for dinner already?” greeted him, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“No, my dear. It’s time to flee the premises.”

“Leo!”

Viola sat bolt upright on the settee she’d been napping on. The book she’d been reading fell to the floor with a muffled
thump.
Leo grinned. That was the first time she’d called him
Leo
without the distraction of lovemaking.

“Come on, Vi. No time to lose. Even now Beau is alerting my mother to our arrival.”

She blinked at him and rubbed her eyes. Her hair was tumbled and disordered, and she appeared to be wearing one of his sister’s
old gowns, pink-sprigged muslin that clashed wildly with her hair. She was lovely, and if he could get her out of the house
before his mother caught them, he might just manage to hold on to her. And keeping her had become something of a moral imperative
during the past few weeks.

“Come. I’ve Pen and your trunk outside in a coach.”

She shook her head, sending curls bouncing all around her face. Leo’s heart sank. He’d been so close to convincing
her. So close to bringing her around… and his mother had ruined it.

“No, my lord. It’s—”

“Back to
my lord,
am I? A moment ago I was
Leo.
”

Viola glared at Leo, sleep vanishing under a surge of annoyance. He was smiling, eyes brimming with mirth. Coatless, hatless,
in his stocking feet, he looked like a pirate.

“A moment ago
I
was asleep. And besides, you’re late. Days late. And now you have the temerity to—”

He squeezed himself onto the settee beside her, thigh pressed against her, arm slipping behind her, hand gripping her waist.
“To rescue you? Most certainly, my love.” He dropped his head for a kiss.