“Ah.” Wessex gave an understanding nod. “Northumberland is blooming with fields of wild daffodils right now, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Miss Bursnell’s cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “There is no sight more beautiful.” She smiled at the duke with her whole face, rather than merely turning up her lips while sending him to the devil with her eyes.
Apparently, that particular grin was reserved for Nathaniel.
The side-eyed glance he gave to Wessex was one of supreme annoyance. What had he done to deserve her goodwill?
“I am hosting a house party at Haverly in two weeks’ time,” Nathaniel said abruptly, ignoring a sudden assessing stare from the duke. “Perhaps you and your aunt would care to join us, Miss Bursnell? And Miss Benton is welcome, too, of course. Hampshire is not Northumberland, but perhaps the country air will ease your homesickness somewhat.”
Miss Bursnell lifted her chin and gazed at him with the intense concentration of a lady determined to solve a complex riddle. Finally, she lowered her lashes, although he could not say if she had solved the question or merely admitted defeat. “Will your family be there, as well?”
Why had she asked that? Of whom, in particular, was she inquiring? “Lady Freesia prefers to stay in London,” he said.
“I shall speak to my aunt.” When she looked up again, her expression had changed from puzzlement to one of joy. “I should like very much to go to Hampshire, Lord Abingdon. Thank you.”
“What of you, Miss Benton? Will we see you at Haverly?” Wessex’s voice was cool and pleasant, even a trifle bored, but Nathaniel noted his fingers were fidgeting on his thigh.
“I should like nothing better than to join my friends in the countryside,” Miss Benton said. “I fear you will be quite alone here in London, Your Grace.”
Wessex had the look of a man who knew he was walking into a trap. “Parliament is closed for Easter. I will be at Haverly…if I am fortunate enough to receive an invitation.” He coughed into his hand and looked slyly at Nathaniel, who glared back.
“Ah!” The corners of her mouth tucked up in almost a smile. “Then it will be friends and you at Haverly.”
If the setdown stung, Wessex did not show it. “How delightful that we shall be there together,” he said in a tone so smugly self-satisfied that her eyes widened. “Is there anything more romantic than the English countryside in the spring?”
“I am sure I do not know,” Miss Benton demurred. “I will leave you to discover that by yourself.”
Miss Bursnell’s eyes darted from her friend to the duke and back again. Her chin quivered with suppressed laughter. “Come, Eliza, I think I see meadowsweet. Shall we investigate?”
The ladies curtsied, and he and Wessex rode on in silence.
Uneasiness settled in the pit of Nathaniel’s stomach. Had he really just done that? Yes, he had, and he could not take it back now.
He nearly groaned out loud. He had better tell his mother. His father likely would not notice half a dozen extra persons parading through the estate, but his mother would fret.
“Well. That was interesting,” Wessex said, finally breaking the quiet.
Nathaniel said nothing.
“Exactly how long have you been planning this house party?” When he did not answer, Wessex continued. “My guess is that the idea flitted into your brain at the exact moment Miss Bursnell wished for daffodils.”
Still, Nathaniel said nothing.
“I seem to remember a field of daffodils in the park at Haverly, do I not? To the west of the lake, I believe.”
Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “Wessex.”
“Yes?”
“Do shut up.”
Wessex bit back a retort, closing his mouth so hard his teeth clanked, but he did nothing to constrain his smirk.
Nathaniel twitched the reins as unease spread through his belly. No, not unease.
Anticipation.
In a fortnight’s time, she would be in his home. Not in his bed, but in a bed under the very same roof. The thought alone was enough to make his pulse quicken.
Two weeks.
Chapter Eighteen
Nathaniel was correct. Lady Wintham was, indeed, put out.
He had left immediately and made the day’s journey to Haverly in order to inform her himself rather than depend upon the mail.
“You cannot be serious, Nathaniel!” his mother protested. “A house party in a fortnight? It cannot be done! The rooms must be prepared for guests. The cook must hire help—she is not prepared to make meals for a dozen extra mouths. Entertainment must be decided. No, my dear, it cannot be done!”
Nathaniel took it as a good sign that she had begun scribbling lists even as she protested.
“Who will be delighting us with their company, if I may ask?” his mother demanded as her pen flew over the page. “Colonel Kent lent support to one of your father’s pet projects, so he must make the cut.”
Nathaniel frowned. He had certainly not intended Kent to join them. “Lady Claire and the marchioness, Miss Benton, their friend Miss Alice Bursnell with her aunt, and Baron Dillingham,” he answered. The baron was the dullest man ever to burden London with his presence, but he seemed to be good friends with Lady Claire’s set, so he could not be avoided. “And Wessex,” he added as an afterthought.
His mother let out her breath in a sharp hiss. “Duke Wessex is coming? You want me to organize a house party at which a duke will be in attendance, and I am to do this in less than a fortnight?”
“Come now, mother, it is only Wessex.”
“Only Wessex?” Lady Wintham put her pen down carefully and clasped her hands as though in prayer. “Heaven grant me patience. My dear son, there is no such thing as only a duke. A duke is always of the highest importance.”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to remind his mother that she had met Wessex several times since Oxford, and that her own husband was an earl, a mere two steps lower than a duke…and a rather important earl, at that. But she had gone back to her list and was muttering busily. He did not wish to impede her progress.
He stooped to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”
She patted his hand distractedly. “Go see your father. He does not know you are home.”
Nathaniel nodded his assent and left her to her list-making. His father was bound to be in the library, his usual haunt, but Nathaniel did not go there straightaway. Instead, he went outside to the garden, to the old oak tree that stood guard at the gate. He sat down unceremoniously in the dirt amongst the roots and rested his back against the rough bark of the trunk.
It was the same oak tree he had fallen from as a boy.
Perhaps “fallen” was the wrong word, since Nicholas had pushed him, thus securing his banishment from the family. Nathaniel had survived with only a broken ankle. It was a clean break and mended quickly. However, combined with their bloody family history, his parents’ faith in the integrity of brotherly love was irreparably shattered.
It made no difference that it was an accident—well, not a complete accident, exactly. He had intended to push Nathaniel…but he hadn’t intended for him to break his ankle on the landing. He wouldn’t have pushed him at all if Nathaniel hadn’t first called him a fatheaded dandy. And even if he had pushed him, Nathaniel wouldn’t have fallen if he had been using his arms to hold on to the tree rather than to demonstrate what, exactly, a fatheaded dandy looked like.
The trouble was that Nicholas and Nathaniel hailed from a long history of fratricide. Their father, an only son, had not participated in the tradition, thank God. But prior generations… Well. Nothing had ever been proven, but it was suspicious, was it not, that in six generations, five first sons had died under peculiar circumstances, leaving five second sons to inherit the title?
Nathaniel, having had several narrow escapes over the years, was, indeed, suspicious. There had been cut leathers and broken ladders and curricles that had mysteriously fallen apart. Most disturbing of all had been a ballerina in
tent on stabbing him to death. But he had survived, and no one had ever proven Nicholas responsible. For any of it.
Nathaniel stared up at the soft evening light filtering through the fresh green leaves. Someday, he hoped, there would be children playing in the branches once again—although preferably without suffering broken ankles. There could be cousins and laughter and jests.
Someday.
If only Nicholas would forgive him. Or at least stop trying to kill him.
If it was, in fact, him. Nathaniel preferred to think it was not his brother attempting to rid the world of him.
Then again, who else could it be? Who else had motive enough to see him dead?
Still, he did not want to believe it of Nicholas.
He wrapped his arm around one bent knee and closed his eyes. He felt a headache coming on. It nearly always happened when he thought about the brotherly conundrum of his life. He focused on the sundry sun-dappled shapes that flitted across his closed eyelids, and took deep, calming breaths. Eventually the pain receded.
A large black shadow suddenly blocked the sun. He cracked his eyes open and saw his father looming over him.
“Ah, so you are home. Your mother assured me it was true, but as you were nowhere to be seen, I thought she must be mistaken. But, no! Here you are. And that is a very good thing, because even as we speak, your mother is conspiring with the housekeeper and the cook, and I would hate to spoil her fun. So, we are to have a house party in a fortnight’s time, I hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel clambered to his feet and braced himself for what was coming.
His father raised a quizzing glass and focused on him. “Does this have anything to do with a lady, perchance?”
“No, not at all.” A lie was better than attempting to explain Miss Bursnell. Miss Bursnell was simply unexplainable. Quite marvelously so…for reasons that remained a mystery.
“Pity.” His father tsked softly. “By the time I was your age, I had done my duty twice over and ensured the continuance of our line. You do not mean to shirk your duty, do you, lad?”
Nathaniel could not resist such an opportunity. “You did your duty so well, Father, that it doesn’t matter in the slightest whether I do mine. If I do not provide an heir, Nicholas will. The earldom is in no danger.”
Wintham snorted brusquely. “Nicholas is no closer to settling down than you are. And the earldom is always in danger of those terrible cousins inheriting.”
“Gordon and John are not as bad as all that,” Nathaniel said mildly. “I daresay, they might even make improvements. Gordon is a very imaginative man.”
His father clasped his hands behind his back, legs akimbo, and glowered. “Do not even jest. They’re Scots.”
Nathaniel chuckled. “Very well, Father. Send word to Nick that he must hurry along with creating the next generation. You cannot look to me. Women do not like me.” He kept his tone jocular, masking the strength of his feelings.
Not for all the earldoms in England would he tell his father the truth—that it was possible his brother was attempting fratricide, and that Nathaniel could not trust that any woman who showed interest in him was not in league with the plan. He and Nicholas had been separated to prevent such a fate, and yet, that fate seemed to be an ever-present stone upon Nathaniel’s back.
How could he trust his safety to a woman when he couldn’t trust his own flesh and blood?
His father rolled his eyes. “Women don’t have to like you. You are a viscount and the heir to an earldom. Any personal preference is quite beside the point. And as for Nick… Well, he would marry a French gel just to spite us, I’m sure. Imagine a half-French Earl of Wintham!” He shuddered. “Worse than a Scot.”
Nathaniel laughed and stood. “I must dress for dinner.”
His father laid a hand on his arm, halting him. “A moment, son. Just a moment.”
Nathaniel looked at him sharply. When had his face taken on that gray cast? “Are you quite well, sir?”
“Quite.” His father smiled faintly. “But we must speak of something rather important, I’m afraid.”
Nathaniel waited, frowning, as his father gathered his thoughts.
“It seems there is an issue with my heart. Sometimes it beats off tune. The doctors have advised rest, although not too much of it, and other than that…” He shrugged.
Nathaniel stared at him blankly. “Your heart? Surely not.” He had sincerely hoped the Earl of Wintham would outlive them all.
“It is likely nothing serious. A mere oddity, that is all.”
How could an oddity that affected one’s heart not be serious? One could not live without one’s heart, after all.
“I have been, I think, a loving and lenient parent. I have not asked much of you—not too much, I hope.” His father paused. “But I find now that I wish I had done some things differently, and I must make a few demands, after all.”
Nathaniel looked at him warily. “What demands?”
“You must marry expediently and follow that with an heir.”
He paused, his expression somber.
Nathaniel waited for the other boot to fall.
“And you must bring Nicholas home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Alice was having a crisis. She should have been packing for a glorious two weeks in Hampshire, but instead she was pacing the plush gray carpet of her dressing room while Eliza watched in bemusement from the window seat.
On the one hand, Alice would like nothing better than to escape the clogged London streets and inhale the sweet spring country air of Hampshire. On the other hand, that sweet Hampshire air would be inhaled at the estate of a man who had done something entirely inappropriate to her mouth, and must therefore be abhorrent to her.
But she must go to Hampshire if she wished to solve the riddle of Lord Abingdon’s brother, Nicholas. Surely their childhood home would afford some clues. Even if Lord Abingdon was abhorrent to her, she must go.
Unfortunately, she was not completely convinced that she abhorred Lord Abingdon quite as deeply as she ought. She was rather afraid she liked him, which was quite unacceptable and ought not to be encouraged…if she had any hope of keeping her virtue intact. It would be far safer to stay away.
But what of Adelaide’s revenge?
Unless she intended to murder her sister’s seducer—which would definitely be going too far—she needed to glean as much information about the man as she could. At Haverly, she could go places she should not, read private papers not meant for her eyes, and search high and low for clues about the man who had once lived there and where he might be now.
It was, admittedly, a bit of a pickle.
“Alice, dear, stop that infernal pacing and finish your packing! We should have left this morning. Now we will arrive at least a day later than the other guests,” Eliza said impatiently.
Alice slumped onto her bed. “Perhaps I should not leave London just now. There is ever so much to do here, and I have never explored London before. You had better go without me.”
“Nonsense! You are dying to escape the city. Anyway, the entire ton will be away until after Easter. London will be deadly dull.” Eliza studied her with narrowed, searching eyes. “Whatever is the matter, Alice?”
Alice stared miserably at the floor. How to revenge without being seduced, that was the question…
But she couldn’t very well confess her confusion to Eliza.
Well, not on that point, at least.
“Lord Abingdon kissed me,” she said bluntly, then immediately clapped a hand to her mouth, wishing she could take back the words.
“No! Did he?” Eliza rocked backward and clapped her hands gleefully. “Oh, was it dreadful? He is such a sullen man. I imagine his kisses must be terribly polite.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me all.”
Alice made a sound like a strangled goose honking. A hot blush blazed across her cheeks.
“Oh! Oh, I see.” An impish smile tugged up the corners of Eliza’s mouth. “Not
so polite, then?”
Alice found her voice. “It was…” Hot. Wet. Fierce. “Not polite.”
“Dear me, I shall swoon!” Eliza lifted a hand weakly to her forehead and fluttered her silky lashes dramatically.
Alice laughed. “Oh, do be serious! You see why I cannot go to Hampshire. It would be…reckless.”
Eliza blinked at her uncomprehendingly. “Why reckless? You are a lady of good family with a healthy dowry. He is a viscount, and will one day be an earl. You are not beneath him, and I do not think you have ambitions to go higher. You are both of an age where one must think seriously about settling down. Why ever are you in London for the season, if not to secure a husband?”
Alice saw her opportunity and slyly seized it. “Why ever are you in London, if not to secure a husband?” she countered. “You are the prettiest girl in England, and you have a large dowry of your own. And I do believe Duke Wessex is utterly smitten with you.”
Eliza wrinkled her nose. “Wessex is utterly smitten with his own ego. He cannot understand how any woman under the same sun and stars as he can be ambivalent to his charms. As for the rest, very well. It is true that I could be married, if I so chose.” She stood and turned to the window. “But I do not so choose. I most emphatically do not. I have a cottage of my own in Surrey and enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. My parents are dead, and my brother is kind and lets me do as I please. Trust me, I would find no such freedom in marriage.” Her knuckles turned white as they gripped the back of the chair.
Alice got to her feet. “What if it were a love match?”
Eliza laughed softly. “But, my dear, a love match would be the worst shackle of all. How terrible to put a man’s needs and desires above your own! How terrible to wait for him at night while he is with his mistress! Even in a love match, a man is not easily satisfied with just one woman.”
Alice frowned in annoyance. “If marriage is so terrible, you needn’t be so eager to throw me into it! No, I shall stay in London.”
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