And on the right stood their opposites. In every way. The Talbot sisters had never in their lives worn pastel—they did not follow fashion so much as invent it themselves. They wore bright, beautiful colors that seemed captured from the summer gardens nearby, their hair in elaborate designs—they believed in brash honesty above quiet politesse, and together, they had the grace and tact of a runaway carriage, a fact underscored when Sesily called out, “Oi! Haven! I’d move if I were you—before my poor aim sends a bowl right into your shin.”
“Here’s to happy accidents!” Sophie called out from the table nearby, where lemonade and lunch had been served.
“She does loathe me,” Haven said quietly.
“Indeed, she does,” Sera replied, and she was surprised by the pang of discomfort that came at the thought.
“Is anyone else perishing from hunger?” Sophie added.
“We’re not eating, Sophie,” Sesily groaned. “We’re playing.”
“Don’t think that this obsession with luncheon is about pregnancy,” Seline opined to the suitesses. “Sophie has been hungry for every moment of her entire life.”
“Truth!” Sophie added, popping a tart into her mouth. “No one minds if I start, do they?”
The mothers in the gallery seemed unable to decide if they were more affronted by Seleste’s reference to Sophie’s increasing state, or to Sophie’s willingness to begin eating without permission from the duke or duchess, a fact that only served to remind Sera of how much she adored her sisters.
“I shall do my best to be a gentleman and join you,” Caleb interjected. “I am, after all, a growing boy.”
“Capital!” Sophie replied. “As it is possible I am growing a boy, we shall be a fine match.”
The mothers whispered behind fans as the Marchioness of Eversley once more proved her reputation as a woman with a penchant for brashness.
Haven watched Sophie for a long moment. “Can she be won over?”
“Sophie?” Sera looked to him, shocked. “Why do you care?”
Something flashed in his eyes, something that looked remarkably like truth. “Can you be won over?”
Her heart began to pound.
He was doing it again, trying to win her when he did not want her. Trying to keep her when he did not wish to have her. When she did not wish to be kept. She’d been his possession once before. And it had not ended well for either of them.
She met his gaze. “No.” The word shuttered the openness in his gaze, and she ignored the disappointment that flared in her, saying for all to hear, “I wouldn’t worry so much, Duke, Sesily’s rather terrible at this game. She’s unlikely to hit you.”
“At least, not on purpose!” Seleste pointed out from her spot down the field.
Haven raised a brow. “Now I’m not sure where to go.”
Sesily answered without hesitation. “I could always attempt to hit you, Haven. If that would make you feel better.”
Sera smirked and looked to him. “It is your decision, which team you’d like, of course, as master of the field.” She waved a hand over the collection of bowls.
“Just throw the ball, Sesily,” he said.
Sesily nodded once and did as she was bid, the ball careening down the lawn and landing, quite beautifully, by the small white kitty. A smattering of applause came from Haven’s suitesses, but the Talbot sisters were not nearly so polite. “Oh!” Seleste gasped.
Seline blurted out, “Dear God! She nearly hit it!”
“Have you been practicing?” Sophie cut Sesily a skeptical look.
“I haven’t!” Sesily crowed. “But I’ll be damned if I’m not a natural at this game!” The mothers went into a flurry again, one that only increased when Sesily added, “I told you we were right to bet on ourselves. I am clearly a savant.”
“Oh, clearly,” Sophie said dryly, as Sera laughed.
And then Mrs. Mayhew said, “I beg your pardon, did you say bet? Surely you are not wagering on the outcome of innocent girls’ lawn bowls.”
“Surely you couldn’t have imagined we wouldn’t have done whatever necessary to make innocent girls’ lawn bowls more interesting, could you, Mrs. Mayhew? Besides, you shall be quite happy with the results should your daughter come closest to the kitty.”
Haven was immediately suspicious. “What does she win?”
Sera lifted one shoulder and dropped it.
“No,” he said, and suddenly it felt as though they were alone in the gardens. “No shrugging. What does she win?”
“Well, if the sisters win, the one who gets closest to the kitty gets to return to London,” Sera said.
“Won’t she be lonely? Best send the whole lot home with her.” She scowled, and he added, “And what of the suitesses winning?”
“A private excursion.”
“With whom?”
“With you, of course.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Mayhew spoke for all the mothers and, by the look on his face, for Haven as well.
Sera thought she would get more pleasure from his shock. She lowered her voice. “You wish a wife, Your Grace. This is how you get one.”
He watched her for a long moment, and then said, “You’re wearing lavender.”
The change of topic threw her. “I am.” The words came out more like a question, as though she did not have eyes in her head and a grasp of the color spectrum.
“Yesterday was amethyst. The day before, a grey like heather in winter.”
She went cold. “I like purple.”
He shook his head, his eyes dark with secrets. She knew it, because hers held the same. “No, I don’t think so.”
She didn’t want to discuss it. Not then. Not as they stood there with what seemed like half the women in London watching.
She didn’t want to discuss it. Ever. And she hated him for pointing out her clothing. Purples and greys. The colors of mourning.
Malcolm said no more, turning to face the girls at the other end of the field, and Sera had the distinct impression that this was what men looked like marching into battle. “Then I think I should stay at this end, and make sure you are impartial.”
She forced a smile. “Afraid I’ll rig the contest to keep my sisters?”
He lowered his voice. “Afraid you’ll rig the contest to get rid of me.”
She stilled. That was the point, was it not?
She’d been too lax with the girls and with him. He had to find a wife. One of these women was going to take her place. And Sera would restore her own freedom. She would get her tavern and her future and walk away from this place and this man and all the memories they wrought. She looked to him. “Haven,” she said. “You must see—”
He cut her off, turning away. “Mrs. Mayhew. I see something must be irksome if you have come out into the sun.”
“As a matter of fact it is,” said the irritated woman. “Your Grace! I must object! These—” She waved a hand at Sera’s sisters. “Women—I suppose one must call them—they are terrible influences. You’ve been positively invisible for nearly a fortnight and—frankly—this is all seeming like a terrible waste of time.”
“Mother.” Mary was in the mix now, calling from her place with the other unmarried women.
“I suppose I should take my shot,” Lady Lilith said.
She hefted the ball high as Mrs. Mayhew pushed on. “My husband is quite powerful and Mary is quite in demand. We’ve passed up numerous invitations to other parties with other eligible men who—you’ll have to admit—are far more eligible considering your circumstances.”
Sera had to admit, Mrs. Mayhew was an excellent mother. She knew what bull she wished for her daughter and was not willing to stand by when she might seize it by the horns.
It was difficult not to see echoes of her own mother in the woman.
And, in those echoes, hints of what would either be a great success or an unmitigated failure.
“Mrs. Mayhew,” said Haven, “I think perhaps—”
“Mother, please!
” Mary was marching across the field.
Mrs. Mayhew was having none of it. “I should think it would not be out of line for you to find time to walk with my daughter, so you might know her beyond her enormous dowry!”
The woman was impressive. And Sera would be lying if she said she did not enjoy Haven looking so hunted.
“Are you out of your mind?” Quiet Mary was quiet no more. Indeed, it seemed the apple did not fall far from the impressive tree.
Haven was in a bind. And, instinctively, he attempted to reverse any embarrassment that the elder Mayhew might have caused the younger. “I assure you, Miss Mayhew, your dowry is of no consequence.”
Mary paid Haven little attention. “Mother! You cannot simply rage at a duke and hope it ends in the marriage you want for me!”
“Not just a marriage I wish for you, darling, a marriage you wish for yourself!”
The other mothers had stopped both fanning themselves and pretending not to watch. All three of the aristocratic ladies were watching with wide eyes and open mouths. Caleb, for his part, was feeding a piece of roast goose to one of the dogs.
“Oi! Out of the way!” called Sesily. “Lilith is throwing!”
“Tossing!” Seline interjected.
“Ladies, may I suggest we remove this conversation to inside?” Sera asked, attempting for calm. “Or at least away from the assembled audience?”
Sera heard Sophie’s “Oh, no,” in concert with Seline’s “Look out!” and turned just in time to see the ball careening toward them. She leapt out of its path, but Mrs. Mayhew was not so lucky. The ball crashed into her foot and ricocheted toward the kitty as she cried out in pain and nearly toppled over on top of Haven.
“I am so sorry!” Lady Lilith cried from her place at the end of the field.
“Nonsense! ’Twas an excellent shot! Look how close you got it!”
“She hit a woman, Seline,” Sophie pointed out.
“Oh, it’s not like she didn’t deserve it. I wish we could hit every woman who behaves so abominably. Lady Lilith, is it possible your services are for rent?”
Haven choked—Sera looked to him. “Are you laughing?”
He shook his head and coughed. Too obviously. He was laughing.
Sera reached for the hobbled woman, doubled over in obvious pain and embarrassment. “Oh, my,” she said, unable to keep the surprised laughter from the words as she made to help. “Mrs. Mayhew, are you quite—”
The woman snapped to her feet. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “You’re the scandal here. We should have known you’d bring it down upon all of us. You should have stayed in America and left your poor husband to his future. With a decent woman. One with grace and honor and fidelity.”
Silence fell as the last word came, a sharp and angry attack, and Sera could not resist the impulse to look to Malcolm, wondering if he, too, felt the shame she did. Hating what she had brought down upon them all. Her sisters, the girls, and him—him most of all.
Except it was not shame she saw in his eyes, nor even a hint of the laughter that had been there before. It was rage. It was protection. It was loyalty.
For her.
And, before she could steel herself from it, before she could keep herself from feeling it, pleasure and pride and something much much more terrifying threaded through Sera. Something with an echo of memory she had sworn not to resurrect.
The memory of the Malcolm she’d loved.
But before he could give his fury voice, Miss Mary spoke, her own ire given free rein. “I should like it noted that you ruined this, Mother,” she said, raising her voice and one long finger to her mother’s nose. “I was willing to play your silly game and come here and vie for this man’s title because I’ve always done what you and Father think I should. But these women are different and they are interesting and they are brave and so I think I should be as well. I’m not marrying the duke—though I cannot imagine I was in the running, as I cannot imagine why a man such as he would tie himself to a mother-in-law such as you. I am going home. To marry Gerald.”
Sera’s eyes went wide. “Gerald?”
“Who’s Gerald?” This from Felicity Faircloth.
“Felicity! We don’t interject into others’ personal business!” The Marchioness of Bumble found her maternal voice.
“I’ve never understood that rule, you know,” Lady Lilith said to her friend. “I mean, this personal business is very public, isn’t it?”
Mary ignored the other girls, instead turning to Sera. “I am sorry. I should never have come here. I’ve a love at home. Gerald. He’s wonderful.”
Sera could not contain her smile. This girl had such a voice. It was remarkable. “I imagine he is if he’s won you.”
“He’s a solicitor!” Mrs. Mayhew cried.
“So was Father before he was in Parliament!” Mary pointed out.
Mrs. Mayhew began to mottle. “But now . . . you could have a duke!”
“But I don’t want a duke.” She smiled at Malcolm then. “Apologies, Your Grace.”
Mal shook his head. “No offense taken.”
“I’m sure you won’t understand, but I don’t care that you are a duke. And I don’t care that he is a solicitor. I’d have him however he came.”
Malcolm’s gaze flickered past Mary to Sera. “Rat catcher.”
Sera stopped breathing.
Mary smiled. “You understand.”
“I do, rather,” he said, and still he watched Sera, seeming to understand how she struggled with the echo of their past. When he finally looked back to Mary, he said, “I am sorry we did not get more of a chance to talk.”
The young woman smiled. “I think you would not have liked me, anyway.”
“There, you are wrong, Miss Mayhew. I shall watch the papers for the announcement of your marriage. And in exchange for you removing your mother from my land, I shall send you and Gerald a very generous gift to celebrate your marriage.”
Dipping her head to hide her smile, Mary dropped into a little curtsy. “That seems like an excellent arrangement. With apologies, Your Grace.”
It did not escape Sera that that particular Your Grace was not directed at Haven, but at her.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Sera said, eager to forget the scrape of truth in Mrs. Mayhew’s words. To put the whole event behind them.
“There is everything to apologize for,” Haven said, cold fury deepening his voice to a tenor that Sera knew all too well. She saw the fear spread across Mrs. Mayhew’s face. “No one speaks to my wife the way you did, Mrs. Mayhew. You will leave this house, and you will never return. Make no mistake, you are never welcome under Haven roof again.” The woman went white as a sheet as he finished. “There was a time when I would have set out to ruin you. I would have fought for vengeance. You should get into your carriage and thank God that time is passed, and that I find I rather enjoy the company of your daughter.”
The older woman opened her mouth to speak—perhaps to defend herself, but Malcolm held up a hand and said, “No. You disrespected my duchess. Get out of my house.”
And then he was turning his back to the women, and they were dismissed, summarily. Having been on the receiving end of that cool dismissal, Sera knew its sting better than any.
Particularly when he turned to the group and said, “Lady Lilith, I must say the physics of your throw were quite remarkable.”
Lilith smiled and replied, “I wish I could take credit for them, Your Grace. It was very good luck.” It was a lie; everyone could see Lilith had fought for her friend.
Lilith was a good match. She would be lucky to have Haven.
That was, Haven would be lucky to have her.
And still, the echo of his words consumed Sera. My duchess.
Of course, he meant his wife in the vaguest, broadest terms. He did not mean Sera. How many times had he made it clear he didn’t want her? How many times had she said she did not want him?
And she hadn’t. Not once she’d stopped
wanting him.
Not once she’d left.
She’d spent nearly three years not wanting him. Proudly not wanting him. Proudly planning a future devoid of him. And now . . . with a handful of words—words like my duchess and rat catcher—he was reminding her of the dreams she’d once had. The expectations, unrealistic in the extreme.
Women did not win love and happiness.
At least, Sera did not. Those prizes were well out of her reach. Far enough away that she’d focused on other, more attainable goals. Like freedom. And funds. And future.
Leave love to the others.
As though she’d spoken aloud, Malcolm acted upon the words. “Lady Lilith, one almost feels as though you should win the prize by virtue of succeeding in such a valuable mission. Not that I’m any kind of prize, as I’m sure Lady Eversley will attest.”
Sophie smirked. “With pleasure, Duke.”
Lilith dropped a curtsy. “I’m sure that’s not true, Your Grace.”
Sera hated the beautiful young woman then. Hated her for her confidence and her poise and her damn skill at lawn bowling. And she hated Haven for the way he took to her, the way he smiled down at her with aristocratic kindness, as though he had nothing in the world he’d like to do more than commend Lady Lilith Ballard on nearly breaking the ankle of a terrible old woman who deserved it. It was irrelevant that Sera herself had been willing to lift Lilith onto her shoulders in triumphant glory when it had happened.
But mostly, Sera hated herself, for caring whether Malcolm liked Lilith at all.
From the luncheon table, Caleb cleared his throat, drawing Sera’s attention. He looked at her for a long moment before tossing another piece of goose to the waiting dogs below and raising one supercilious eyebrow in masculine braggadocio, as if to say, I see what’s happening.
He was wrong, dammit. Nothing was happening. Sera had come for her divorce, and she was going to get it. She was coming to erase her past. And write her future.
A life Malcolm could not give her.
A life she had to take for herself.
Chapter 17
Women’s Wiles Await! Mind Yourselves, Men!
The Day of the Duchess Page 18
