Seven Wicked Nights (22 page)

T
O
C
LEO’S IMMENSE RELIEF
, Helen seemed like herself again when they walked down to the awnings the morning of the bowling party. Anyone’s nerves would have been strained by their mother’s incessant chattering about how grand and elegant everything—and everyone—was at the party. Cleo had long since grown content with what she could afford, but Helen had never been allowed to do the same. Sir William refused to acknowledge his straitened circumstances, and Millicent was incapable of economy; they had relied on Helen making a marvelous marriage to restore their fortunes. Cleo was fairly certain that burden had put the faint lines around her sister’s mouth and brought a shadow to her eyes.

But the bowling party had revived her. Perhaps it was the weather, which had been nothing short of perfect. A group of young ladies, including the duke’s sisters, had amused them for some time before Lady Sophronia came to grace them with her presence. Helen obviously found the old lady somewhat intimidating, but Cleo thought she was splendid. Sophronia spoke her mind and did as she pleased. When she’d had enough conversation, she simply announced that she was leaving.

“I see a fine cheese over there and want to secure it before someone else makes off with it,” she confided. “The guests at these parties are like wolves, eating up every crumb in sight.”

“Oh! May I fetch it for you?” Cleo offered, privately entertained by the description of the aristocratic guests as hungry scavengers.

“No, no. I can take care of myself.” Lady Sophronia drew—of all things—a small pointed dagger from her pocket. “A memento of my third fiancé, Malcolm MacBride,” she said fondly, showing them the knife. “I was very sad when the consumption took him. Still, it’s a very useful dirk—that’s what the Scots call it. I recommend you get one. No one interferes with a lady who is armed.”

“No, I imagine not.” Cleo’s voice shook as the old lady nodded to them and hobbled after her cheese. She glanced at her sister and saw Helen’s eyes tearing up. “Shall I give you a knife as a wedding gift, Helen?” she asked mischievously. “I don’t want you to lose out on any fine cheese….”

Helen covered her face. “Oh, my,” she gasped, fighting back giggles. “I can only imagine what Mama would say!” They were still shaking with suppressed laughter when Mr. Blair joined them. He immediately inquired what had made them laugh so hard, and Helen told him with animation and spirit, laughing anew at Sophronia’s concern for her cheese. It made Cleo’s heart lift to see her sister happy again. The only thing that might have pleased her more was if Wessex himself had joined them. He had arrived at the party with Mr. Blair, but was intercepted by the duchess. Cleo kept stealing glances at him, willing him to come over to them. He was looking fondly at Sophronia, and it was hard not to notice how attractive it made him. She wondered if he knew about Sophronia’s dirk.

Then, by chance, their eyes met. It was just a passing glance, no more than a moment, but it sent a little shock through her. He was smiling, his dark eyes bright with mirth, and it transformed his face from handsome to mesmerizing. Cleo turned instantly back to Mr. Blair, but she could feel the duke’s gaze upon her. It made her heart beat a little faster even as it reminded her of her vow to be quiet and discreet around His Grace. Helen had been right about one thing the other day: Cleo was more ebullient than her sister. She tended to attract people’s attention. Therefore, she must absent herself when the duke and Helen met, so there could be nothing to distract Wessex from falling in love with Helen.

If it also kept Cleo from becoming more attracted to him, she would be immensely relieved.

When she caught the duke and his mother watching their little group, she murmured an excuse and slipped away. Mr. Blair was charming and had already brought a wide smile to Helen’s face with an amusing story about Lady Sophronia; apparently, the dirk was not her only memento of a former suitor. Cleo knew her sister looked her best today, and if she left, the duke would be able to sit next to Helen and notice how enchanting she was.

Cleo walked down the gentle slope toward the bowling green, where two boys had been arguing for some time. “It seems you’re in need of an umpire,” she said as she reached them. “May I serve?”

“He put his foot in front of my bowl,” said the younger boy at once. He was sturdy and blond, with the look of a boy who spent hours outdoors. “His bowl is dead and I ought to be allowed to replay mine.”

“I did not!” Henry Ascot’s eyes glittered with tears. “I never touched your bowl! It stopped on its own!”

“You did,” accused the other. “And now you’re trying to cheat!”

“I am not a cheat.” His voice quivered, and Cleo could see how desperately he was trying to contain himself.

“‘Cheat’ is a dangerous word,” she admonished them both. “One should never cast it about without proof. Do you have proof that he impeded your bowl? I presume you’ve measured every cast so far.”

The first boy clamped his mouth shut and dropped the bowl in his hand. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I guess we ought not to play anymore.” He ducked his head and walked away.

Cleo stooped to pick up the discarded bowl, giving Henry a moment to collect himself. He was tall and a bit gangly, with an uncompromisingly square brow and dark hair. Lady Bridget had called him a horrid pest, but he didn’t look very dreadful now. “I hope there wasn’t a wager riding on the match,” she said.

He sniffed. “No. Not one I could win, at any rate.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes. The poor boy looked thoroughly dejected. “I never win at bowls,” he added softly.

“There’s more to life than bowls.”

“I know. There’s boxing and racing and quoits and all manner of sport where I can be a disappointment to my father.”

Cleo bit her lip. She knew more than a little about that herself. Before she could reply, though, someone else did.

“Every man has his talents, Henry. I daresay yours will turn out to be of far greater import than bowls.”

Henry looked warily at the Duke of Wessex, who had walked up behind Cleo. “Do you really think so, sir?”

“I wouldn’t say so otherwise.”

“Of course not.” The boy blushed. He shifted his weight, then awkwardly offered Cleo the bowl in his hand. “Thank you, ma’am, for settling things. I think I’d rather take a walk. Do—do you happen to know where my sister Charlotte’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, no,” said Cleo. Charlotte had disappeared with the rest of the young ladies some time ago, very soon after Henry and the other boy had reached the green.

“Toward the lake,” said the duke. “I believe she was with my sisters.”

Henry’s dark eyes lit up, and Cleo got the idea he’d be quite a handsome fellow in a few years. “Thank you, sir!” He hurried off with a spring in his step.

“What a devoted brother, wanting to see his sister,” she said lightly.

“Perhaps,” replied the duke with a wry look. “I suspect it’s more of an urge to torment. After I sent them back to the house the other day, Bridget came to me to lodge an indignant complaint that he had thrown mud on them.”

“The things a man will do for love.” Cleo heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’ll wager a shilling he has a bad case of calf love for one of them.”

“It had better not be Bridget.” Wessex shuddered. “I had to order her not to put treacle in his bed. She didn’t take it well when he ruined her favorite dress.”

Cleo laughed. She started down the green to collect the abandoned bowls. “Have they really gone toward the lake?”

“I did see a group of young ladies in the general vicinity of the lake today,” he confirmed, walking beside her. “It might have been some time ago….” Cleo laughed again. “But a long walk will do him good. He ought to clear his mind before he finds them. I’ve rarely seen one girl this week without three or four others nearby; the poor lad will be severely outnumbered.”

“It builds character,” she said.

“He’ll need it if he fancies Bridget. I daresay she’ll make Sophronia look demure and quiet.”

“Yes. Lady Sophronia showed me her dirk.” Cleo grinned at the way he cast his eyes upward and sighed. “A rather unusual remembrance of an old love.”

“There are many unusual things about Sophronia.”

“She is your great-aunt, I understand?”

The duke paused. “Great-great-aunt. Perhaps. I’m not entirely certain. I think I inherited her along with the house.”

Cleo snorted with laughter, and this time he laughed, too. Something seemed to melt inside her at the sound. His laugh was a rough rumble, as if he didn’t use it often. She stooped to retrieve a pair of bowls, holding them to her chest. When she rose, Wessex was holding the jack. He gave it a little toss, catching it easily in one hand. “Would you fancy a match, Mrs. Barrows?”

Cleo watched his fingers curve around the bowl. Good heavens, he had fine hands. “I haven’t played bowls in a very long time.”

“Neither have I,” he said. “But it’s a fine day out, and the greens are marked.”

She glanced at the awning on the hill above as they walked to the head of the green. Helen was still in conversation with Mr. Blair, but she raised her hand and gave a cheery wave. Cleo was torn. It was a fine day, and she wouldn’t mind a lighthearted game in the sun. Since the duke had invited her, surely not even her father would find it objectionable. She could suggest inviting Helen and Mr. Blair to join them, except that she knew her sister hated bowls. And perhaps this was her chance to determine the duke’s feelings for Helen.

“Very well. But we must have stakes.” She grinned at his raised brow. “Not money! After each cast, the winner must share something of himself or herself. After all, we shall be family within the week, and we ought to become acquainted, don’t you think?”

He looked at her for a long moment. In the sunlight, his hair seemed to have a hint of auburn; the breeze had ruffled it until he looked quite tousled. And his eyes were so dark, unfathomably deep as he regarded her. Cleo heard the echo of her own words—
we shall be family
—and felt her heart sink a little. Oh, why had he followed her, thwarting her intent to avoid him? He ought to be sitting beside Helen right now, gazing at Helen, making Helen yearn to smooth his wild mane and imagine his large hands on her skin.

“Of course.” Wessex bowed his head. “Will you set the jack?”

Unnerved, she turned toward the green and pitched the jack. It didn’t roll far enough, and she clenched her hands as he strode out to get it. She had to wrench her gaze away as he bent over to pick it up; good heavens, he was a finely made man, from all angles. And he would be her brother. Sisters did not look on their brothers so admiringly.

The second time she managed to set the mark appropriately, and the duke stepped to the footer to cast his first bowl. “Were you a good bowls player, when you last played?”

Cleo laughed. “Oh, my. I certainly thought so, but I was a girl then.” She delivered her first bowl, pleased to see it roll to within a respectable distance of the jack. Nearer than his, in fact. “I suppose you’re far more accomplished, given that you have a bowling green within sight of your house.”

He made his next shot. “Merely having a green doesn’t make one skilled.” His bowl wobbled off the green into the ditch.

“It takes a while to learn the bias of the bowls,” she said diplomatically, hefting her own. It was smooth and dark, shaped more like a fat egg than a round ball. This time she misjudged, and the bowl came to rest at the edge of the green.

They played the rest of the end and then walked down together to score it. “One point to you,” said Wessex, collecting the bowls. “What secret do you want to tell me?”

“Se-Secret?” she stammered, laughing nervously. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean a secret—”

“But we’ve only just met,” he said, watching her in that too-intent way he had. “Everything about you is a mystery.”

“Helen and I had a game, as children,” she said after a moment. “We would choose a play—one of the great works of antiquity, most often—and act out every part. It nearly killed my father when we performed
Lysistrata
, even though Helen and I had very little idea what it was about.”

“How old were you?” he asked, looking a little incredulous.

“About twelve,” she said airily. “And Helen only eight.”

Wessex coughed, then he laughed. “I would pay a fortune to have seen your father’s face. He doesn’t seem the type to take it well.”

Her father didn’t take most things she did well. Cleo’s smile faded. “I was a bad influence even then,” she murmured before she could stop herself. The duke gave her a keen glance but said nothing.

They bowled another end, and this time Wessex won a point. Cleo shook her head as she retrieved two of her bowls from the ditch but was glad that it was his turn to reveal something. “I inherited my title when I was sixteen,” he said. “Barely older than young Henry.” Her eyes rounded in shock. “My sisters were infants, my mother was heartbroken, and I was responsible for everything.” He turned to face the house, squinting against the sun. “I was deathly afraid of letting my father down by making a hash of it.”

“I’m sure he would be very proud!” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. “Kingstag is beautifully maintained. Your sisters are lovely young ladies, and it’s clear to all that they adore you. No man can be a failure if his family loves him.”

His arm flexed under her fingers. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “My sisters’ happiness is very important to me.” He paused. “As is, I think, your sister’s to you.”

Cleo snatched her hand away. “Yes, very important.” She went back to the mat, trying to ignore the faint question in his voice at the end. Helen’s happiness
was
very important to her, and yet here she was, almost flirting with her sister’s fiancé. She turned toward the awning again, both relieved and disconcerted to see Helen still absorbed in conversation with Mr. Blair. It should be Wessex sitting there with his head next to Helen’s, bringing that glowing smile to her face. He should want to be there, instead of here in the sun with Cleo. But when the duke joined her, bowls in hand, she didn’t say anything. She put her foot on the mat and bowled.