Seven Wicked Nights (23 page)

Wessex won another point. They walked to retrieve the bowls and she was glad again she didn’t have to say anything. “What can I tell you?” he murmured, facing her thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

“Something from when you were young,” she suggested, thinking it would be safer. “A fond memory.”

“Ah.” He grinned. The wind lifted his hair from his forehead, and he looked boyish for a moment. “Blair came to Kingstag when he was about ten. His family fell on hard times and my mother invited him; his mother is her cousin. As you might imagine, we had a grand time, two boys with all this to explore.” He swept one hand in a wide arc to encompass all of Kingstag. “One day I conceived a plan to go boating on the lake. Blair wasn’t as eager but he went along with it, and we soon were in the middle of the lake, two sporting gentlemen at leisure.” He shook his head. “Imagine my shock when I looked down to see an inch of water in the bottom of the boat. We neither of us wanted to swim—my mother would have punished us for spoiling our clothes and boots, to say nothing of taking out an old, leaky boat—so Blair bailed water with his hands while I rowed ferociously. We managed to come within a few feet of the shore before it sank entirely. Both of us had the most incredible blisters.”

“That’s your fond memory?” Cleo smiled. “Blisters!”

“No, it was the thrill of saving ourselves from disaster.”

“That I can understand, particularly if you didn’t get caught.”

“We didn’t,” he assured her, his eyes twinkling. “Blair and I have always backed each other up.”

She laughed. “All the sweeter!”

“Indeed. It was one of the few times I truly escaped responsibility.” He met her gaze. “Today seems like another. I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

Cleo’s heart felt warm and light even as she tried to tell herself he was just being polite. “Nor I, Your Grace.”

“Wessex,” he said. “Please.”

Now her face felt warm. “Very well. But you must call me Cleo. After all, we shall be family.” Perhaps if she reminded herself of that, forcefully and frequently, it would blunt the attraction she felt.

The expression on his face certainly didn’t. If anything, it made things worse. Wessex had a way of looking at her that made the breath almost stop in her chest. “Very well, if you wish,” he said after a moment. “Cleo.”

She shouldn’t have. She’d made a mistake. It sounded too familiar, too tender when he said it. Cleo glanced back at her sister in despair. Helen hadn’t looked at Wessex any more than Wessex had looked at Helen. Not only had Cleo failed to discover the duke’s feelings for her sister, she had only succeeded in making her own feelings worse.

If she didn’t catch herself soon, she would find herself utterly in love with him.

A
S SOON AS POSSIBLE
, Gareth excused himself and went in search of oblivion. He found it in the stables. His cousin had the right idea, avoiding all the females. Some of the men looked a trifle guilty—Lord Warnford hastily hid a pair of dice behind his back—but Gareth just raised his hand in greeting and retired to a corner to contemplate the trouble he was in, a bottle in hand.

He brooded over his brandy while a tedious conversation about a horse race occupied the other men. The only person who appeared less interested in the race was the Earl of Bruton, who arrived shortly after he did and looked as grim as Gareth felt. He caught his old friend’s eye and invited him to have a drink, not surprised to see Bruton here. With that slashing scar down his face, the earl had long avoided the ladies.

“Thank God for Willoughby,” cried one decidedly drunk fellow all of a sudden. “He’s saved us all with this refuge from the ladies.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered the rest of the company.

“No offense intended, Wessex,” added the man, still swinging his tankard of ale in one hand. “Felicitations on your marriage.”

God help him; even drinking in the stables couldn’t save him from that topic. He nodded in acknowledgement and poured another gulp of brandy down his throat, wondering if he could drink enough to purge the sound of Cleopatra Barrows’s laughter from his mind. He could still feel the touch of her hand on his arm.

He left the stables, handing his bottle to Lord Everett as he went. If they raised a toast to his bride, he might be ill. There was one inescapable thought circling his brain, and he didn’t know how to address it.

He was marrying the wrong woman.

Chapter Eight

C
LEO WENT DOWNSTAIRS EARLY
two mornings before the wedding, which was finally almost at hand. After their match of bowls, she had taken care only to cross the Duke of Wessex’s path in company. Even at the ball last night, she had determinedly kept her distance. It hadn’t kept her from noticing how very attractive he was, or how kind and good-humored he was with his sisters, or even how gallant he was to Sophronia. How could one dislike a man who was so wonderful? Cleo had clung to her sister’s side and tried to interest herself in the wedding plans, but that had difficulties of its own. She thought she might scream if she didn’t escape her mother’s hawk-like watch for a few hours. As the wedding drew nearer, so apparently did her fear that Cleo would say or do something unacceptable.

Since Cleo knew very well that she was doing something unpardonable, it was hard to argue with her mother. She had diligently avoided talking about her shop except when directly asked, but her real sin was far worse, even though her mother could have no idea. She had tried everything to keep her wicked thoughts in check, to no avail, and now she had only one option left: avoidance. If she spent her time wandering alone over the estate and secluded herself in her room the rest of the time, she could endure until the wedding was over. Then it would be perfectly acceptable to make her excuses and return home to her little shop, where she couldn’t ruin anyone’s life but her own.

She paused before a mirror in the hall to tie her bonnet ribbons. The castle was still almost silent, populated only by the servants moving quietly about. Everyone would probably sleep late after the ball the previous night. In spite of everything, she would be sorry to leave Kingstag. It really was a wonderful place.

“Good morning,” said a voice behind her.

Cleo jumped. The one voice she’d been trying to avoid but somehow still longed to hear. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she managed to say, knotting her ribbons before facing him. “I was just setting out to indulge myself with a long walk.”

“As was I.” He wore a long coat and carried a rather battered hat. Cleo’s pulse leaped as he pushed one bare hand through his thick dark hair. “I rarely have the time to step out later in the day.”

“Oh! Please don’t let me disturb you,” she began, but he raised one hand.

“On the contrary. I didn’t expect to meet anyone this morning, but it would be a pleasure to have company.”

She should say no. She drew an unsteady breath. “I hate to oblige you….”

“Please,” he said, and Cleo closed her mouth. Without another word she put her hand on the arm he offered, and together they walked out the door.

A blanket of mist covered the ground, lending an unearthly air to the scene. Cleo drew in a delighted breath, loving the cool, earthy scent of the country. They strolled along the gravel, heading toward the lake, which lay still and quiet beyond the fog. “How beautiful,” she sighed. “I rarely see such a sight in town.”

“Are you always an early riser?”

She blushed. She had to be awake early to open the shop. “Yes. I love the morning light.”

“My sisters and mother prefer not to rise until the sun is high in the sky.”

“I’m sure they have good reason, particularly today,” she said lightly. “It would be very hard to rise early when there are guests and entertainments every evening.”

He smiled. “They are creatures of candlelight, even when there are no guests.”

“As long as they are all the same, I see no cause for worry. If Bridget were to favor the morning while the others did not….” She shook her head and sighed as the duke chuckled. “It’s lovely to see sisters so close.”

“Barely three years separate them. My father was away for much of my childhood as a diplomat.” Wessex slanted her a look. “My mother was quite joyous at his return.”

Cleo sighed, but with a smile. “How lovely to find a married couple in love.”

“And how sad when they are parted too soon,” he murmured.

She said nothing. It was true. The last time she had walked arm-in-arm with a man had been two years ago, before Matthew was cut down by an inflammation in his lungs. Not since then had she ever once felt the same easy companionship she seemed to have fallen into overnight with the Duke of Wessex. He was nothing like Matthew and yet … in some ways he reminded her of her husband. He had a wry way of putting things. He was even-tempered with everyone, from his ebullient sister Bridget to Cleo’s own flighty mother; even querulous Lady Sophronia never ruffled him. And he had a way of looking at her that made her feel every lonely minute of her widowhood.

“I understand you know too well how sad that is,” he said quietly. “Forgive me for mentioning—”

“No!” She squeezed his arm lightly. “I have nothing but happy memories of my husband.”

“Does that make it better or worse?” He cleared his throat. “To have loved and lost, I mean. My mother was destroyed when my father died. I was only a boy, but I became utterly convinced she would have been far happier if she hadn’t loved him.”

“I suspect she would disagree,” Cleo murmured. “Love is worth the risk.”

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am beginning to agree with that.”

“I am as sure of that as I am sure the sun will rise in the east. I took a great risk and suffered a great loss, but I would do it all again. Real love is very much worth it.”

“A great risk,” he echoed, sounding pensive. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on something in the distance. She was under orders not to tell him and yet the words spilled out. “Helen knows, after all, so you would be sure to hear of it eventually. I eloped when I was seventeen. My parents have never forgiven me.”

He stopped, and she had to stop, too. Cleo realized how far she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “As bad as that?”

The concern in his voice made her flush. He wasn’t haughty and arrogant, looking down on her for keeping a shop—unlike her parents. The temptation was too much. “Oh, yes,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m only here on sufferance.”

“Oh?” His voice was soft and warm, comforting and seductive.

“Yes,” she barreled on. “He wasn’t enormously wealthy, titled, or extremely famous; he was a merchant. And my parents have never recovered from the shame.”

“I see.” He leaned forward a little. “Why did you do it, then?”

She smiled wistfully. “Because I loved him. He made me laugh.”

The duke seemed mesmerized for a moment. His face was so still and yet rapt.

Cleo supposed she had just displayed her common nature, impulsive and reckless, and gave a little shrug. “There is so much of life that must conform to duty or polite behavior, but I don’t know how people endure it all if they aren’t
happy
, or at least content. My parents were horrified that I would run off like a hoyden with no care for how it reflected on my family. I suppose they only wanted better for me, but I…. I was happy. For that, I could endure any discomforts life brought.”

“Yes,” he said, as though very struck by her words. “How very wise you are.”

“Oh! Not really.” She blushed at the look he gave her, direct and probing. “Headstrong. Willful.” Those had been two of the kinder words her father used.

“What is headstrong and willful in a woman is often called decisive and bold in a man.” He took a deep breath. “I wish we had had this conversation several months ago. You have shown me a multitude of errors on my part.”

They had passed the bowling green by now, the awnings still standing like lonely sentinels over the bare rinks. Cleo felt again the way her heart had turned over when Wessex grinned at her over the bowls, the breeze ruffling his hair. Why did it have to be her sister’s fiancé who made her heart leap? “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That wasn’t my desire.”