by Diana Quincy
Alarm lit his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Do you really care to test me?” She started for the door.
“Fine,” he snapped, rushing to block her exit. “Just remember to dress and comport yourself in a respectable manner. The guests depart on Monday. Surely, you can keep up appearances for three days.”
She shrugged. “We shall see. Just stay out of my way.” She practically pushed him out the door. “Otherwise, there’s no telling what I might be tempted to do.”
Chapter Seven
“Make certain you give him a good brushing down,” Hunt instructed one of Devon’s grooms as he dismounted. Perspiration trickled down his spine after a vigorous early morning run. The air was moist against his skin, the morning dew had yet to burn off. “I worked him hard today.”
“You did indeed.” Griff eased slowly off his mount, taking care not to jar his left shoulder. “I certainly couldn’t keep up. It’s as if the hounds of hell were after you.”
Hunt might choose hellhounds. No matter how fast or far he’d ridden, he couldn’t outrun reality. Leela was the Countess of Devon.
Of all of the women in England, he’d bedded Lady Victoria’s stepmama. He had the devil’s own luck. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t get Leela out of his mind. As hard as he tried to eviscerate all memories of her, images of their extraordinary night together kept infiltrating his consciousness. Running his tongue along the sweet-salty taste of her gleaming skin. Her mons gloriously bare and open to his gaze. Glistening for him. Hunt wasn’t promiscuous, but he had swived a decent number of women over the years. None of those experiences had been as profoundly carnal, nor as intimate, as making love with Leela.
“What’s got you in such a state?” Griff’s voice cut into his thoughts once they were out of earshot of the stable. “If I were to guess, I’d say it involves a certain mysterious widow that you’ve been unable to run to ground.”
“Wrong,” he snapped. If only Leela’s identity had remained a mystery. “Please keep your conjectures to yourself.”
“And you’re irritable as well.” Griff’s sardonic tone grated on Hunt. “It’s almost as though you are frustrated.”
“Stop prattling on. You’re giving me a megrim.”
“Wait.” Griff’s cool gaze sharpened. “I’m wrong about what? About you finding your mysterious enchantress?”
“Yes, and it was all a mistake.” Hunt cut a path toward the side garden. “I’d be obliged if you did not mention her again.”
“Ouch. Sounds like the subject is a sore one. Where are you going?” Griff gestured toward the main entrance. “Breakfast is this way. Most of the guests will have likely already gathered.”
“I’ve much work to do. Devon has been kind enough to allow Foster and me to set up in his library.”
“Is that why you’ve been noticeably absent for the past three days?” Griff asked. “Why the devil did you bring your secretary with you?”
“Foster always accompanies me when I travel for more than a day or two.” Their boots crunched along the gravel path lined with rich blue flowers mixed with red-and-gold autumn-hued leaves. The flowers were so cloyingly cheerful that Hunt had to resist the urge to stomp the ebullience right out of them. “Running a duchy as vast and diversified as Huntington requires my constant attention and oversight.”
Irritation flashed in Griff’s face. “You should have considered that before dragging me along to this house party.”
“I didn’t force you to come.”
“You are the sole reason I accepted Devon’s invitation. I certainly didn’t expect you to vanish on me. Of all people, you know I don’t relish spending time with relative strangers.”
“No one here thinks you killed your parents. Maybe you should stop spending your life hiding out and acting as if you are guilty.”
Griff’s jaw tightened. Hunt immediately regretted his careless words. By silent mutual agreement, they never discussed the tragedy. Even though the murder of Griff’s parents hung over their surviving son like Atlas bearing the burden of the world.
Hunt softened his tone. “Nobody listens to those old rumors anymore.”
“You mean the ones suggesting that I did away with my own parents? I was the only other person there that night. Is it truly possible that I slept through my parents’ killings?” Bitterness laced Griff’s words. “Why would the killers spare the fifteen-year-old heir?”
Hunt winced, recalling those dark days at Harrow after the murders. When students whispered that Griff had indeed had the most to gain from his parents’ gruesome demise. Sure, a few trinkets were stolen, but the boy inherited his father’s title and considerable fortune.
As boys, it was a shared burden of society’s unkind scrutiny that initially bonded Hunt and Griff. It was as if the ton held its collective breath waiting for each man’s baser nature to emerge.
“My apologies,” Hunt said. “I spoke out of turn. I’m not myself.”
“Perhaps you should take a break from your duties.” Griff’s tone lightened. “As they say, ‘All work and no play makes Hunt a dull boy.’”
Hunt scoffed. “My late brother adhered to that philosophy, and we both know where that got him.”
Besides, Hunt couldn’t relax. Everything in his normally ordered world was suddenly off-kilter. For the first time in his life, he found himself in an undesirable situation that couldn’t be sorted out by wielding his considerable wealth, influence or carefully honed diplomatic skills.
Crying off from a betrothal to Lady Victoria—official or not—at this late juncture would be a catastrophe. As a duke—and a man—he would emerge relatively unscathed, but the consequences would be dire for Lady Victoria. Being jilted would do immeasurable damage to the young lady’s reputation and future marital prospects. None of which she deserved.
Lady Victoria was blameless. As was Leela. The same could not be said for him. As a gentleman who was practically betrothed, Hunt should have been the one to behave more honorably.
“Think of how disappointed Devon’s guests are that the ever-reclusive Duke of Huntington has closeted himself away yet again,” Griff remarked.
Hunt kicked some pebbles along the path. “You are the recluse. Not me. I simply don’t enjoy society functions.”
“This isn’t just any house party. It’s practically being given in your honor.”
“I’ve been at supper.” It was torture, the pretense akin to being stretched on the rack. It took everything in Hunt to act as if his world hadn’t contorted into something he no longer recognized. He felt like a fake, a fraud. He might as well be Keane treading the boards at Drury Lane.
Pity he couldn’t just vanish as Leela had done. She’d stayed out of sight since their unfortunate encounter on the terrace. Devon and Lady Victoria both claimed she was ill. But Hunt knew better.
“It is almost as though you are hiding out,” Griff observed.
“Whatever would I be hiding from?” Hunt forced a bland tone.
“That’s an excellent question.” Griff peeled away from Hunt, heading toward the manor’s front entrance. “While you play hide-and-seek, I’m off to my bedchamber.”
“What about your breakfast?”
“You are not the only man here who prefers to take his meals in private.”
Hunt rolled out his neck as he headed for the Venetian door leading directly into the library. For the first time in his life he felt adrift. He’d stepped outside of the precise parameters he’d built around his life. A man walked the line, made sound decisions, or risked losing his way and ending up dead at the bottom of a lake like his brother. With Leela, Hunt had deviated from his self-imposed rules of conduct only to find he had no idea how to repair the damage he’d done.
A flash of blue silk through the open library door caught his attention. Lady Victoria. He grimaced, chagrined that he’d avoided the lady, when he should be taking this opportunity to become better acquainted with her.
Shadow partially obscured
her face. Devon’s library was a dark space lined with stepped walnut bookcases. Hundreds of books, bound in morocco and tooled in gold, filled the shelves. Limited light streamed through the Venetian windows flanking the door. Hunt paused there to observe his future bride.
She chatted animatedly with the normally taciturn Foster, whose flushed pockmarked face was alight with interest. They spoke across the library table at the center of the room that Hunt had commandeered to serve as his desk. Made of a walnut wood that matched the shelves, the table contained drawers, cupboards and kneeholes to accommodate Hunt’s long legs.
“Remember the author’s description of picnicking in the orchards under the fig trees? And the beautiful fruit gardens laden with oranges and lemons and olives?” she asked.
“And the pomegranate trees with clusters of scarlet flowers,” he added. “The author wrote so vividly that I could well envision the abundant cultivated gardens.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “I felt as if I could almost taste the figs.”
“I always imagined the Levant as one big desert with camels roaming freely,” Foster remarked, “which makes me feel quite foolish now.”
“That is what I adore about reading. You can learn so much about the world.”
“That is very true.”
Hunt had never seen this side of Lady Victoria. This cheerful engaging person was miles away from the young lady who mostly blushed, stuttered and stared at the ground whenever Hunt came within twenty feet of her.
“It would be most enchanting to see the ancient city of Petra in person,” Lady Victoria said.
“Ah, ’tis but a dream for a man of my limited means. I have no hope of ever making such a journey.” Foster gave a rueful grin. “I shall have to content myself with looking at the sketches in the book.”
As Hunt’s eyes adjusted to the reduced lighting, he registered how Lady Victoria’s expression fell at the reminder of Foster’s reduced circumstances. But the secretary quickly continued in a bright voice. “Thank you for the loan. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed a travel memoir quite so much.”
“You are most welcome. I understand the second volume will be published soon.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the library table’s flat broad surface. “I would be happy to loan that to you as well, once I have finished reading it. We could discuss our impressions afterward.”
“I would like that,” Foster said. “That is very kind of you.”
And generous as well. Books were expensive. For someone like Foster, a workingman on a limited income, they were a luxury he could ill afford.
“Good morning,” Hunt called out, focusing primarily on the young lady. “You are up early.”
Lady Victoria immediately straightened. “Good morning, Your Grace.” Her face shuttered when she registered his presence. Hunt watched her reserve click politely, but firmly, into place. “I make a habit of rising early to . . . erm . . . ride.”
She smoothed the front bodice of her riding costume, a nervous gesture that drew his attention to a trim form that gave every appearance of curving in all of the desirable places. But her proximity had zero physical effect on him. Unlike Leela. A mere look from the woman had brought him to a point more than once during their short time together at the Black Swan.
Mortified by the direction of his thoughts, Hunt forced himself to say, “Lady Victoria, perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you on your morning ride tomorrow.”
Surprise flickered across her face. “I should . . . like that”—she blushed furiously—“very . . . much.”
“Excellent.” A sharp pain spasmed in his chest. God, how had he not seen how young she was before now? “I shall look forward to it.”
The moment stretched. An awkward silence lingered among the three of them—Foster maintaining a respectful silence, Lady Victoria staring down at her feet and Hunt wondering if he was having a heart attack.
The secretary cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Your Grace, my lady, but I must return to work.” He set a book on the library table. “Thank you again for sharing this with me.”
Hunt recognized the title, Travels in Arabia, the intriguing travelogue he’d recently read.
“It was my pleasure.” She smiled brightly, finding her tongue again while reaching for the book. “I am so pleased . . . you enjoyed it.” Her smile showcased plush lips and straight teeth so white they put new-fallen snow to shame. Yet the sight stirred nothing in him.
“When did you have time to read a book?” Hunt asked his secretary. The man retreated behind a small oak desk in the corner by the door that had been brought in for him at Hunt’s request.
“Lady Victoria was kind enough to loan it to me when I first arrived, Your Grace. I was so engrossed that I read it in two days.”
Hunt nodded. “I must admit that I found it riveting.”
Lady Victoria’s blue eyes rounded. “You . . . you . . . have read . . . Travels in Arabia?”
“I have.” Hunt forced warmth into his voice, hoping to set her at ease. “I am also looking forward to the next volume.”
Interest filled her gaze. “I did . . . not realize,” she stammered, “that you enjoy reading . . . for pleasure.” All of her easy amiability of just a few minutes ago, from before Hunt joined them in the library, had vanished.
“I do enjoy reading,” he said encouragingly, “but you are correct that work keeps me from enjoying as many books as I might like.” He saw the hope in her eyes that here, at last, might be something they had in common.
“I shall . . . have to recommend . . . this book . . . erm . . . Travels in Arabia . . . I mean to say . . . to Lady Devon.” Lady Victoria’s cheeks were as colorful as the autumn flowers he’d resisted stomping in the garden. Pallor everywhere but for those hot spots. “She has just . . . returned from traveling in the . . . region.”
Hunt jumped at the opening. “I trust the countess is well?” He felt an urgent need to speak with Leela, to settle this indelicate matter between them, to fix it so that the two of them could manage to be in the same room without Leela casting her accounts.
“Delilah is . . . better . . . much improved,” the girl responded haltingly. He noted she pronounced it Da-leela. “So much so, in fact, that my stepmama . . . has promised to . . . join us at the Venetian breakfast party . . . this afternoon.”
To hear Lady Victoria refer to Leela as stepmama provoked a visceral reaction in Hunt, He felt even more wretched. “Breakfast party?”
“Surely you recall . . . not that I am suggesting . . . erm . . . that you are forgetful . . . I know you are quite busy—”
Hunt tamped down his irritation and forced a gentle tone. “Recall what?” He wished she would just come out with it. Attempting to have even the most basic conversation with the girl proved excruciating. Surely he wasn’t so terrifying that Lady Victoria couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.
And then he recalled that she was eighteen, a full dozen years younger than him. Perhaps this was how all eighteen-year-olds behaved? The unbidden memory of how easily the conversation, and everything else, had flowed between him and Leela at the Black Swan assailed him. Making him even more miserable, ornery and guilt-ridden.
“Lord Devon is hosting . . . the entertainment.” Lady Victoria finally managed to string the words together. “The neighbors and local gentry . . . have been invited.”
“Yes, of course.” He’d been so preoccupied with Leela that he’d forgotten about the Venetian breakfast, an afternoon party that would last for hours, going well into the night.
“It is fortunate the weather . . . is so fine.” She tilted her dainty chin upward to gaze out the window. Bathed in the soft morning light, her profile was a study in perfection—with a lovely nose and high cheekbones. Yet any instinctual male attraction on his part remained absent. He might as well be a eunuch. “They’ve already . . . begun to set up the . . . erm . . . tents on the lawn.”
She looked over at Foster, who
was seated at his desk writing. “I hope you will join us, Mr. Foster.” Again, Hunt noted how easily words came to Lady Victoria when she spoke to anyone who wasn’t him.
“Thank you, my lady. But I do not think that would be appropriate.”
“It’s fine,” Hunt interjected. Servants were not normally included on such occasions but as the duke’s secretary, Foster was not exactly a servant. He was actually of somewhat decent birth, very distantly related to a baron. “You may attend.”
“I wouldn’t know anyone there, Your Grace.”
“I shall ask Devon’s steward to introduce you around,” Lady Victoria interjected with a warm smile. As before, she didn’t stutter when speaking with Foster.
Hunt realized something else that made him feel even worse. If that were possible. Lady Victoria was truly kind. Despite her own obvious discomfort in Hunt’s presence, she managed to be generous in her dealings with Foster, a plain-faced man far beneath her in society’s eyes, when she had absolutely nothing to gain from it. It spoke well of the young woman that she remained gracious to her inferiors even as she prepared for her future role as a duchess.
A rush of warmth prompted Hunt to do what was expected of a gentleman courting a young lady. “I hope you will save a dance for me, my lady.”
“Oh! Of . . . course.” She blushed and cast her eyes downward. “I shall be . . . pleased . . . errr . . . very pleased indeed . . . yes.”
Chapter Eight
“What a striking couple!” Aunt Helene admired Tori and Elliot as they glided across the dance floor. “They truly match. They’re even wearing similar colors.”
Leela sat beside Douglas’s spinster aunt, among the matrons perched on stuffed furniture the servants had dragged out to the lawn for the breakfast party. The bright notes of the violin wafted over her as Leela watched the pair dip and swirl among other couples on the wide wooden platform set out on the lawn for dancing. They moved in step to the lively country dance medley performed by the five-piece orchestra set up on the lawn.
