Why did no one notice, save she?
He met Papa’s eyes for a second before glancing at Theadosia and giving her an eerie half-smile. “Fancy clothes and titles can turn a young woman’s head, but the Good Book says God is not a respecter of persons, and neither should we be.”
“And it also says to give honor to whom honor is due,” Theadosia said.
Pompous twit.
Who did he think he was, lecturing her? If she didn’t know otherwise, she’d think his look possessive.
Yes, something went on here.
She scooted closer to Jessica, not that the cramped carriage allowed her to put much distance between herself and Mr. Leadford.
Every time the vehicle hit a bump, he pressed his thigh into hers.
At first Theadosia believed it unintended, but after the third time, given his previous lewd behavior, she changed her mind. The unscrupulous man took advantage of the jostling to touch her, the roué.
His accommodations might be on the other side of the parish, but she’d begun putting a chair beneath her bedchamber door handle before retiring.
“Your sisters are not accustomed to suave rakehells’ charms, James,” Papa said.
Good Lord, why wouldn’t Papa let the matter go?
“James, I expect you and your mother to keep a sharp eye on the girls tonight. I covet your help as well, Hector.”
Hector? Not Mr. Leadford?
Papa had never addressed the other curates by their given names.
Mama rolled her eyes, her impatience with the subject at an end.
The queer flopping in Theadosia’s belly had as much to do with her growing suspicion as Mr. Leadford’s sly touches.
“As you wish, sir.” Mr. Leadford gave a deferential nod, his submissiveness as phony as Dowager Downing’s ill-fitting false teeth.
Toady. Cur. Debauchee.
Straightening his cuff, Papa nodded his satisfaction. “One cannot be too cautious when dealing with aristocrats.”
For heaven’s sake, he made the Duke of Sutcliffe sound like Satan’s offspring, and yet he remained oblivious to the evil sitting a few feet away.
Victor had never regarded her in the lascivious manner Mr. Leadford did.
The carriage lurched once more, and Theadosia almost yelped when his fingers brushed her waist.
Eyes narrowed, she clamped her jaw.
So help her, if Mr. Leadford touched her one more time, curate or not, she’d scream and pinch his roving hand.
James shook his head, concern replacing his earlier humor. “You don’t know Sutcliffe as I do. There’s no need to worry. He’s a decent chap through and through.”
Dear James exaggerated, but his loyalty to the duke was sweet.
Even in Colchester one heard tattle of the Duke’s exploits. She supposed he was no different than any other young blood in London. Privilege, position, wealth, and power were taken for granted by those who possessed them, and one didn’t have to be terribly astute to know the haut ton had a separate set of rules for the behavior of those welcomed into their elite ranks.
And still, knowing full well his reputation, she’d freely agreed to see him. Had eagerly done so—would continue to.
James bumped her foot again and waggled his eyebrows as if to say, “Don’t worry.”
Lucky James.
He could leave after Sunday service and likely wouldn’t find his way home for another month. There’d be no one to champion her and Jessica. His position as a barrister saved him from Papa’s interference in his life. He had greeted James’s choice to refuse to enter the ministry with his usual bluster. But in the end, her brother had prevailed and was permitted to pursue his dream.
Theadosia wouldn’t be allowed the same license.
Women rarely were.
A few minutes later saw them ushered into Ridgewood Court’s formal drawing room. Once before, after the former duke died, the Brentwoods had sat upon these sage and gold brocade chairs and settees. They’d called to pay their respects and for Papa to confer with her grace about the funeral arrangements.
Confident in her second-best new gown of palest blue-lavender, Theadosia covertly searched the room for Victor.
He wasn’t there.
The two days since she’d seen him had crawled along, inch by endless inch, and worry he might not join them after-all stole her earlier joy.
Wearing a stunning wine-colored gown edged in gold and black with matching rubies at her throat and ears, the duchess stopped petting a bedraggled, one-eyed cat and greeted them with a warm smile.
“I’m so delighted you accepted Sutcliffe’s invitation. Now that he’s home, we intend to entertain more often. I’m sure you’ve received the invitation to the house party and ball by now.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Mama affirmed. “It arrived two days ago.”
Theadosia exchanged glances with Jessica. Had Mama convinced Papa to permit them to attend?
“You must all promise to come. It’s to be a very special occasion. Why, there’s never been anything quite like it in all of Essex. I shan’t take no for an answer.” The duchess looked directly at Theadosia and smiled again.
She’d forgotten how tall the duchess was. It made her feel less conspicuous and awkward.
“Of course we shall.” Mama agreed before Papa had an opportunity to contrive an excuse not to. “I, for one, cannot wait. A fairytale masquerade ball sounds so fascinating.”
On occasion, Mama’s Scottish temper flared as red as her hair. The determined set of her chin brooked no argument. They would attend the house party and ball, except, unlike the other guests, they’d return home to sleep, their journey lit by the full moon. Unless the weather continued to be exceptionally cool, as the summer had been so far, and clouds filled the sky.
The butler entered bearing a tray with a sherry decanter and glasses.
“Shall I pour, Your Grace?”
“Yes, please, Grover.” Her smile brightened even more as she glanced toward the entrance. “Ah, there you are, Sutcliffe.”
Theadosia slowly turned, bracing herself for the onslaught of emotion and sensation that beset her each time she saw Victor. Her breath stalled nonetheless. Formal togs suited him well. The truth was, he could wear rags, and she’d react the same.
He directed one of his dazzling smiles at her; the one that made her pulse dance and her stomach tumble, and, uncaring who witnessed the exchange, she smiled back, letting the upward arc of her mouth reveal how delighted she was to see him.
In short order, Theadosia found herself seated on a settee between him and Mr. Leadford, each holding a glass of sherry. Rather, she’d unwisely sat upon the settee to pet the bedraggled cat, and Mr. Leadford had promptly plopped down on the other cushion.
Much like a large raptor hunting its prey, he’d swooped in to claim his quarry.
She’d nearly fallen off her seat when Sutcliffe lifted the cat, and after setting the miffed feline on the floor, took its place.
He’d sport orange and white hairs on his behind when he stood.
Theadosia eyed him from the corner of her eye. She didn’t quite know what to think.
He almost acted . . . jealous.
Preposterous notion. Delicious, wonderfully absurd idea.
Jessica and James stood beside the fireplace, entirely too amused expressions on their faces as they looked on. She gave them a narrowed-eyed, stop-being-great-loobies-look.
Her parents chatted with the duchess, but Papa’s frequent unsettling glances in Theadosia’s direction had her shoulders cramping with tension.
Something was off.
She didn’t know what, but every instinct she possessed screeched a warning.
Ever since Mr. Leadford’s arrival, Papa hadn’t been himself. Always serious and not ever inclined to silliness, he’d become short-tempered, impatient, and critical as well.
Even Mama had raised her brow askance several times.
Mr. Leadford, his countenance all congeni
al interest, rested his forearm on the arm of the settee and cocked his head.
“How does your search for a bride go, Your Grace?”
His question bordered on impertinent, but for the life of her, Theadosia couldn’t prevent herself from glancing at Sutcliffe.
How did his search go?
Bloody, horridly awful, she hoped.
They’d not discussed that subject during their walks. She hadn’t wanted to know if he’d chosen a bride yet. Not likely, since he’d only been home a short while, but not impossible either.
She deciphered nothing from his closed expression. So very different than the man in the cemetery with his easy smile and twinkling eyes, or the relaxed companion who’d strolled beside her by the lake.
Sutcliffe shifted his attention to her for a moment, and something fascinating flashed in those cool grey depths. Just as quickly, the gleam vanished, and he took a sip of sherry.
“It goes.”
He crossed his legs, and, resting a long arm across the settee’s carved back, dismissed Mr. Leadford.
“Miss Brentwood, do you and your sister ride? Our horseflesh isn’t getting enough exercise, and I am hopeful you might be willing to take a horse out a couple of times a week.”
As it had in the cemetery and that day they’d shared seedcake, the world shrank until it was just the two of them.
What was it about this man that stirred her very soul?
His mouth ticked up on one side. “Do you ride?”
What had he asked her?
Oh, yes, did she ride?
“I do, but not terribly well. I’d appreciate the opportunity to practice.”
If Papa could be persuaded to agree.
About as much of a chance of that as the Regent serving them dinner wearing a pink wig. No wonder Althea had revolted under their father’s firm hand or that James had escaped to London rather than follow in their father’s footsteps. Mutinous stirrings plagued Theadosia also, and if Papa continued down this track of oppressiveness, Jessica might well rebel too.
“Surely your stable hands are capable of exercising your cattle.” Mr. Leadford did not ride. In fact, from what she’d observed, horses frightened him. “Miss Brentwood admits she doesn’t ride well. I’m sure she’s only being polite by agreeing. A gentleman wouldn’t impose—”
“No, Mr. Leadford, I am not simply being polite.” The infuriating man. How dare he? “Please do not speak on my behalf. Unlike you, I quite like horses, and it is no imposition to take a horse out now and again. In fact, I would consider it a refreshing change of pace.”
Enough was enough.
She’d risk Papa’s ire by speaking her mind. He must be apprised of Mr. Leadford’s behavior: his galling forwardness and impudence. He, too, was a representative of All Saint’s Church and, since Sutcliffe’s entrance this evening, had been nothing but insolent.
Leveling Mr. Leadford a scathing scowl that would have wilted a man with any degree of common sense, Victor shrugged. With an offhand flick of his fingers he answered the curate.
“I am short-staffed at present, and we’ve not had many visitors of late to take advantage of our stables. Guests will be arriving for our house party in a fortnight, but the horses need to stretch their legs before then.”
“I cannot imagine why you must marry so soon, especially since you haven’t even selected a bride. A bit of a conundrum and no small degree of awkwardness, I should say.”
Is he an utterly ill-bred buffoon?
His abrupt change in subject earned him a cocked brow from Sutcliffe.
No doubt the smile Leadford bestowed upon her was meant to flatter, but all it did was turn her stomach.
“I could only wed a woman who’d captured my regard.” His calculating gaze trailed over her, and she barely resisted the urge to fold her arms over her breasts. “Then I would court her for a respectable period before our wedding, to prevent gossip or speculation.”
The bounder mocked Victor whilst attempting to stake claim to her.
If they’d been alone, she’d have unleashed her temper and tongue.
“Some of us aren’t allowed such luxury.” Sutcliffe’s dry as chalk response only served to confuse Mr. Leadford.
“Since when is love a luxury?” Mr. Leadford asked.
“When you hold a title, circumstances compel decisions, not emotions.” Even to Theadosia’s ears Victor’s clipped response resonated with aloofness.
Inexplicable disappointment dampened her mood.
Again, Sutcliffe’s gaze found hers. This time, his held a trifle longer, and something invisible passed between them, almost as if he sent her a silent message.
Why must he marry in such haste? He’d never told her.
There must be a compelling motive. He didn’t seem a man of impetuous whims.
“I’m sure the Duke has his reasons, and in truth, they aren’t any of our business, are they?” Theadosia arched a condemning brow at Mr. Leadford as she lifted her glass and took a drink.
A man of God should be more discreet and considerate.
The butler entered, thankfully interrupting the stilted silence on the settee. “Dinner is served, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Shall we pass through?” The duchess accepted Father’s extended elbow.
Victor rose and, since Mama was the highest-ranking female, offered her his arm. The look he slid Theadosia suggested he’d rather have escorted her, and her heart leapt at the secret glance that passed between them.
“Mrs. Brentwood, I wonder if I might persuade you to make that delicious marmalade I remember so well?” Victor said. “I’ve not had the like in years. I even brought oranges home, hoping you’d indulge me.”
A flush of pleasure tinted Mama’s cheeks. “I would deem it an honor, but I must confess Theadosia’s surpasses mine these days.”
He looked over his shoulder, and pleasant warmth swathed Theadosia again. “Then might I persuade you, Miss Brentwood?”
Oh, he could persuade her to do a whole lot more with those sultry glances.
“Of course. Just have the fruit delivered to the parsonage. I can make it next week.” Did she sound too eager? “I’d planned on making preserves anyway.”
There, that made her willingness a little less obvious.
James’s mouth hitched upward an inch before he schooled his features.
Drat and blast.
He knew. Or at least he suspected.
Mr. Leadford, the uncouth boor, offered her his elbow. Did the man know nothing of protocol? As the eldest daughter, she was to have gone in with her brother. James outranked him, but unless she wanted to appear intolerably rude, she must accept the curate’s proffered arm.
A slight grimace pulled her generally jovial brother’s brows together as he escorted Jessica past. She rose up on her toes and whispered something in his ear, and he nodded, then shrugged.
Theadosia barely rested the tips of her fingers atop Mr. Leadford’s arm as he brought up the rear. She’d prefer touching a dead rat. Her revulsion would definitely be less.
Mama and Papa had taken seats to the right and left of Victor, and a footman was in the process of refilling Papa’s wine glass. He’d also indulged in two sherries before dinner. Most unusual behavior. He rarely drank more than one glass of spirits during an entire meal.
James had claimed his rightful position beside Mama, and Jessica sat opposite him.
Which meant Theadosia was spared Mr. Leadford’s presence next to her for the meal, for only two chairs remained.
On opposite sides of the table.
Praise God and hallelujah.
His ignorance proved her saving grace. Otherwise, she’d be sitting where Jessica sat, and have to endure his intolerable presence with a forced smile whilst trying to keep down her meal.
Mouth turned down, his annoyance as obvious as the red pimply thing on the end of his chin, his attention wavered between the empty chairs. He paused before sluggishly dragging Theadosia’s chair o
ut.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Jessica. I believe I’ve committed a faux pas and usurped your brother’s right to escort your sister to the table. Please sit here, and Miss Brentwood can take her rightful place.”
Beside him.
The smile he gave Jessica might’ve won over another, but she wasn’t having any of it.
She might be timid, but her insight and intelligence were razor sharp. As regally as if she were the grand hostess this evening, she unfolded her serviette.
“I do thank you, but since we are already seated, and I should not like the soup to grow cold, let’s remain as we are. What say you, Your Grace?”
She looked to the duchess for confirmation.
Another bravo for Jessica tonight. Two times in one evening she’d voiced her opinion. Perhaps she was outgrowing her bashfulness.
“Indeed, Miss Jessica. I do so loathe cold white soup.”
The duchess lifted her spoon, and pointedly looked to the other vacant chair.
“Of course, Ma’am,” Leadford mumbled, the tips of his ears tinted red as he held the chair out for Theadosia.
To Theadosia’s credit, she suppressed her jubilant smile as she slid onto the seat but couldn’t resist a secret wink in Jessica’s direction.
Victor saw it and lifted his wine glass an inch in a silent salute.
“Spared by a hair, sister dearest,” James whispered in her ear.
The meal proceeded pleasantly for several minutes. Theadosia’s attention seemed to have developed a mind of its own and kept straying to the head of the table. More than once she caught Victor’s eye, and something glowed there that fanned the fire burning within her ever hotter.
She’d better take care lest Papa notice too.
He’d emptied his wine glass twice already, and this was only the third course.
Mama had noticed too, and a little furrow wrinkled her forehead.
“Miss Brentwood,” her grace touched the back of Theadosia’s hand. “I’ve never thanked you for attending my late husband’s grave.”
Theadosia swung her focus to the duchess.
How did she know?
The duchess must’ve seen the question in Theadosia’s expression.
Only a Duke Would Dare Page 6
