Miss Blakely bobbed another curtsey. She had turned pale, but she was still in control of her temper as she left the room. Simon thought it had been a close-run thing.
“Very generous of you,” Simon said dryly when Miss Blakely was gone.
“Generous? What, giving the girl a dress or two? It’s simply common sense. She can’t look like a ragamuffin while she’s chaperoning the young ladies.”
“Perhaps you could afford new materials, at least.”
“There’s no time to order from London. I suppose she’ll need a simple ball gown too, come to think of it, and something to wear for the wedding… But that isn’t why I wanted to talk to you, Simon. Daphne has been telling me that you were paying particular attention to Lady Reyne on this outing today.”
His sister hadn’t taken long to make her report. Simon should have expected that Daphne would rush straight to their mother. Once a talebearer, always a talebearer.
The duchess studied him over the rim of her wineglass. “I was not aware that Lady Reyne had even been invited on the excursion to the abbey.”
“What a surprise, Mama. I thought you knew everything.” Simon sat down in the chair matching his mother’s.
“Is it true?”
“That I was paying particular attention to Lady Reyne? Quite true.”
The duchess sniffed scornfully and her expression changed. “Do I detect an aroma of horse on you, Simon?”
“You did say you wanted to see me as soon as possible.”
“Well, I didn’t want to smell you straight from the stables. Is this how your new—acquaintance—has affected your manners?”
“Mama, cut line. I know what you’re plotting. With marriage in the air, you’d be quite content if my eye lighted on one of Daphne’s friends.”
“Simon, whatever makes you think I’m trying to marry you off? Though as long as you’ve brought the matter up yourself—”
Simon snorted.
“You’re getting close to thirty, and it’s time to see to the succession. Any one of those girls would be quite an acceptable match for the Duke of Somervale.”
“I’m still closer to twenty-five than I am to thirty, and you know perfectly well my taste runs to ladies who are more mature than Daphne’s friends.”
“Yes, yes. But not to marry, Simon.”
And my taste doesn’t run to marriage—but there’s no sense in admitting that just now. “Why not? Lady Reyne is hardly past her prime. She must be twenty-three at most.” He paused, but when the duchess did not comment, Simon said deliberately, “She’s also a proven breeder—you must appreciate that fact.”
“A girl,” the duchess said.
Simon tried to hide his smile. “My intentions toward Lady Reyne are of the most serious. I suggest you adjust yourself to the idea.”
He settled back and waited for the explosion. Watching his mother sputter and stammer and argue was going to be fun.
But he soon realized that Iris Somervale hadn’t been thirty years a duchess for nothing. “Very well. If I am to welcome Lady Reyne as a potential bride for my son, then welcome her I shall. Wait, please, while I write a note.”
“A note?” Simon asked warily.
The duchess smiled, showing more teeth than amusement. “Inviting her to dinner tonight, of course. Since all the servants are quite busy, perhaps you’ll take it down to Greeley to be sent to the village. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to deliver it to Lady Reyne yourself?”
***
The duke had been as good as his word, for when Olivia entered the cottage the first thing she saw was Maggie, feather duster in hand. The maid looked very much like a whirlwind as she shook the duster around the sitting room.
Or perhaps, Olivia thought as she took a closer look, thundercloud would be a better description. “Do be careful, Maggie. This cottage contains little enough of value, but I must warn that breaking things will not end in you being released to go back to Halstead. The duke himself arranged for you to be here.”
“Duke indeed,” Maggie muttered. “Why is he concerning himself with the likes of me instead of taking care of his own affairs? That’s what I’d like to know!” She gave the duster a final flourish, leaving a dainty vase that had belonged to Olivia’s mother rocking on the corner shelf.
Unwilling to encourage that line of reasoning, Olivia went upstairs to change her riding habit for a day dress. She arrived in the kitchen a few minutes later to find a dozen jars of grape jelly neatly lined up on the table; her pride prickled at accepting the gift, but at least Mrs. Greeley had shown restraint and not sent over a cartload. Nurse was placidly shelling beans at the table, while Charlotte dashed around the room holding a long stick between her knees.
“Why is my daughter wielding a branch in the kitchen?” Olivia asked.
“I should think you’d recognize a horse when you see one, Miss Olivia. A dead limb from a tree, a bit of paper to draw a head, a yard or so of yarn to make mane and tail, and a ribbon to serve as reins, and she’s been content for more than an hour. You used to do the same thing yourself.”
Olivia walked around the makeshift horse and took her apron down from the hook by the door. “Did Mrs. Greeley send the beans as well? They can’t be from our garden.”
“No, for that would require magic. Somehow the last hills of our beans have been cut off right at the ground. Sir Jasper Folsom’s man dropped these off this afternoon.”
Olivia’s fingers tightened on the apron’s ties for a moment. She doubted Sir Jasper had intended the gift as a neighborly good deed or even charity, but instead as a reminder.
The day when her rent would once more be due was drawing closer. But despite the bargain she had made with the Duke of Somervale, Olivia was in no better financial condition than before. The promise of an annuity was all very well, but collecting might be another matter. If she only knew what to expect, what she could rely on… What had she been thinking last night, not to insist on having a definite understanding with the duke?
But doing so—demanding a cold and practical discussion of financial terms—would have made it impossible to pretend their arrangement was anything but business. Trading her virtue for money carried an ugly name, and one she didn’t want to think about, but as long as there was no direct payment…
Don’t be foolish, she told herself. Just because you’d prefer not to admit the facts doesn’t mean there’s anything romantic about this bargain!
She checked the hidden fold of her skirt where she had fastened the duke’s sapphire stickpin. She had carried it with her since he had pressed it into her hand the afternoon before. Perhaps keeping it on her person was risky, since there was a chance of losing it—but she could hardly leave it anywhere in the house. If Maggie were to see it as she dusted, or if Charlotte spotted the bauble and decided it would be the perfect decoration for her horse’s mane, there would be more questions than Olivia could answer. So the sapphire rested under the edge of her apron, even though it seemed to weigh her down.
She didn’t offer to help shell the beans. She couldn’t bring herself to touch something that had come from Sir Jasper.
After her outing, Olivia was both tired and out of sorts, and she had difficulty settling down to work. She looked in the larder, taking inventory of the contents. If she made a pastry crust and put in all the bits and pieces of meat and vegetables, she could create a sort of shepherd’s pie that, along with the beans and the rest of yesterday’s bread, would fill them all.
As she was rolling out the crust, Maggie sauntered into the kitchen. “It’s the duke come to call. Again. I put him in the sitting room.”
Olivia’s heart gave a little jerk. Only two hours earlier, he had said a hasty good-bye at her garden gate and then caught up with the group of riders as they left the village. What was bringing him back so quickly? Surely he wasn’t foolish enough to think she could invite him upstairs at this hour of the afternoon…
On the other hand, since there was no possibilit
y of indulging his sensual appetite, perhaps this would be a good opportunity to have the unpleasant but necessary conversation that she should have demanded the previous night.
She shifted the pastry into a shallow pottery dish and arranged the bits of meat and vegetables, pouring gravy over the mixture and adding a layer of potatoes on top.
Maggie looked at the pie and said wistfully, “Even in the servants’ dining room at Halstead, the table is so loaded down that it groans.”
“And if you ate all that rich food, you’d be groaning afterwards,” Nurse put in.
Olivia slid the pie into the oven niche at the side of the fireplace and dusted flour off her hands. “Charlotte, dear, your horse is growing loud. Perhaps it’s time to put it out to pasture.”
Charlotte galloped off into the garden.
Olivia brushed off her skirt and went into the sitting room. The duke was occupying the same spot where Sir Jasper had stood on the day he had propositioned her, and for an instant, time seemed to fold in around her. They were such different men—and yet, when all was said and done, the situation she found herself in today was not much different from what Sir Jasper had suggested.
His gaze roved over her face so intimately that Olivia could feel his touch. “I came in the hope of a friendly greeting.” The duke’s words were perfectly amiable, but his tone—lazy, sensual, like melted butter flowing over newly baked bread—made clear what he had in mind. He took a step closer. “It has been hours since I kissed you, and I feel the lack.”
Her insides began to quiver, and she felt an embarrassing rush of warmth between her legs. She shifted uncomfortably, and Simon smiled—a knowing, predatory smile.
Bad enough, she thought, that all he had to do was murmur in her ear and she grew wet and ready for lovemaking, but worse yet was the fact he knew it.
“I should like to speak with you in private,” she said firmly.
“That is my dearest wish as well. Except for the part about speaking.” He captured her hand and lifted it to his mouth. His lips moved with agonizing slowness down her fingers. “My dear, you smell of lovely things. Chicken, perhaps?”
“Only gravy.” She could barely hear herself think. “It’s shepherd’s pie for dinner.”
“Then I wish I could stay and share it.”
“You would have trouble explaining your absence to your guests. In any case, there isn’t enough for us to invite an extra.”
He turned her hand over and touched the tip of his tongue to the center of her palm, sending a dart of sheer pleasure through her. “Fortunately, the pie need stretch only to serve three, for you are summoned to dine this evening at Halstead.”
“Whose mad idea was this?”
“My mother’s. She sent a note inviting you. I beg you not to inform her that she is mad. She takes the suggestion badly, you see.”
“I can’t come to Halstead.”
Suddenly the lover was gone and he stood before her every inch a duke. “If my mother is to be convinced I am courting you, it will be necessary for me to appear to court you.”
Olivia quailed for an instant. Then she rallied, reminding herself that this man was not her husband and she had not given him power to compel her. “You cannot flaunt your mistress directly under your mother’s nose, sir.”
“Exactly,” he said softly. “Which is precisely why you are coming to dinner not as my mistress, but as a potential wife. If you recall, my agreement regarding an annuity was based on that performance, not on whether you occupy my bed.”
“Then I shall not feel it necessary to entertain further advances in that direction, Your Grace.”
“Yes, you will, Olivia, because you want to.” His voice was low and lazy. “Making love is simply an added pleasure for both of us. Don’t waste your breath trying to deny it, for your face gives you away.” He brushed her eyelid with his thumb. “Even now you’re looking at me like a woman who’s hungry for her lover.”
She tried to clench her legs together to stem the flood of wet heat, but without success.
The duke smiled. “I thought so… The carriage will call for you in ample time. Until this evening, my lady.”
He did not close the sitting room door behind him, so Olivia heard the clatter of Charlotte’s galloping come to an abrupt halt in the hallway.
“I thought you were afraid of horses, Miss Charlotte,” the duke said.
“Only if they’re big ones,” Charlotte admitted shyly. “Like yours.”
“So that’s a pony you’re riding now? What is his name?”
“She,” Charlotte said indignantly. “She’s a girl horse.”
“Indeed. Since this is a house full of females, only a girl horse would fit in. How foolish of me to think otherwise!”
Olivia stepped into the hallway. “Go find Nurse, Charlotte. And as for you, sir, if you expect me to be ready when the carriage comes, you’ll take your departure right now.”
Charlotte frowned. “Are you going away again, Mama?”
“Only for a little while, my dear. I’ll try to come home in time to put you to bed.”
“Unlikely,” the duke said.
Olivia glared at him and turned back to the child. “And if you’re already asleep, I’ll tuck you in again anyway. Run along, now.”
Charlotte sidled past the duke, eyeing him steadily, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“How flattering that you sought once more to be alone with me.” The duke lifted her hand to his lips.
An observer, Olivia realized, would notice only the cool correctness of a gentleman paying tribute to a lady—the sort of elegant gesture he might perform even in a crowded ballroom. But an observer would not have felt the deliberate caress of his breath lingering against her skin and reminding her of even more intimate fondling. Her breasts tingled, and Olivia made a mental note to keep a shawl with her all the time she was at Halstead—just in case the duke happened to feel playful.
***
The duchess’s offer to provide her with a new habit had been welcome enough, for even Kate wasn’t so proud that she would refuse to accept a replacement for a garment she’d ruined while in the duchess’s service. But Iris Somervale’s announcement that Halstead’s castoff scraps would be good enough for someone like Kate had been harder to swallow. In any case, there were things she needed much more than a new riding habit. Whatever employment Kate ended up taking, horses and rides were likely to be scarce.
When Lady Stone, coming out of a bedroom, called her name, Kate almost didn’t hear her.
“Miss Blakely, I have not as yet had an opportunity to wish you well in your betrothal,” Lady Stone said, her beady eyes bright. “Give me your arm along the corridor, if you please—unless you are engaged on an errand.”
“I am to find the modiste and send her to the duchess,” Kate admitted.
“Then you must not delay to assist me. What is the emergency, pray? Has Lady Daphne measured the pin-tucks on her wedding gown and found one shorter than all the others?”
Kate had to repress a smile at the picture of Lady Daphne with a ruler, checking out each line of stitching. “Her Grace has decided I require a new riding habit.” She waved a careless hand at the slick spots of moss on her skirt.
“I should think so. Though, knowing Iris, she may be more concerned that the dressmakers are idle at her expense while they wait for one of the bridesmaids to tear a ruffle.” Lady Stone’s voice was as gravelly as always, but her eyes were alight with mischief.
For once, Kate thought before speaking. After all, Lady Stone was not simply a guest at the wedding but a good friend of the duchess, close enough to have been named Lady Daphne’s godmother. “I am grateful for Her Grace’s thoughtfulness, and any fabric grand enough to have been stored in Halstead’s cupboards must make a far more elegant dress than anything I am able to afford.”
“My dear Miss Blakely, are you truly determined to make yourself into the perfect companion for Iris? I assume in that case you aren’t in
tending to marry the vicar after all. Of course, there is such a thing as being too close a cousin, so perhaps you’re wise to think twice.”
As Kate turned to offer her arm to Lady Stone, she collided with Andrew, who had just come up the stairs. He paused with his hand on the door of a nearby bedroom—the same bedroom, Kate couldn’t help but notice, that had been assigned to her until his untimely arrival had shuffled her off to smaller and much less convenient quarters in the east wing.
“Our patient seems to be doing well, Miss Blakely,” Andrew said. “I spoke to the doctor as he was leaving. He believes Miss Emily will be fully recovered in time to take part in the wedding festivities.”
“I’m sure Lady Daphne will be relieved to hear it.”
“Would anyone care to place a wager on that?” Lady Stone asked blandly.
Kate was startled when a tall chair standing in the niche at the top of the stairs seemed to chuckle. Then Colonel Sir Tristan Huffington unfolded himself from the chair, leaning to one side to peer at them. “Whichever way you’re betting, Lucinda, I’ll take the other side. And if you’re getting so feeble in your old age that you need an arm to support you down the stairs, I consider it my duty as an officer and a gentleman to offer my assistance.”
“An officer, yes,” Lady Stone sniffed. “I’m not so sure about you being a gentleman.” She let go of Kate. “Thank you for your offer, my girl, but Mr. Carlisle appears to have something on his mind—though I recommend you move away from the top of the stairs before you share any more secrets.” She started down the stairs, and the colonel followed.
“Is that where you were hiding to eavesdrop last night, Kate?” Andrew asked. “Behind a very convenient chair?”
“I was not hiding,” Kate said. “I was merely…” Dodging bridesmaids. “Did you have something else to add about the accident?”
“No. But I couldn’t help hearing what Lady Stone said.”
“You couldn’t help hearing? What an interesting distinction! When I overhear something, you seem to think it’s because I have been hiding and eavesdropping. When you overhear something, it’s the fault of the person who was talking.” She started past him.
The Wedding Affair Page 17
