The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex Book 1)
Page 14
“I cannot permit you to be in danger,” Sebastian said.
Perhaps Bonaparte would scare away his cousin if he could not. And then he could remain at the estate by himself, recovering from his encounter with William in the comfort and seclusion of his bedroom and library. He longed to lie in his bed now and pull the covers over himself.
“As if I can permit you to go into danger!” Penelope planted her hands on her hips. “I was always much braver than you anyway. I am certain you need me.”
“If by brave you mean your startling habit of jumping off tall fences, I rather think your lack of sense quite needed my presence.”
“Exactly. So you will take care of me. And soon, I hope, Marcus will come down, and you can both take care of me together.”
“There is no arguing with you, is there?” Sebastian sighed.
“No, not at all. Are you not going to have Crowley show me to a room? He will need to get a maid to prepare it for me. It’s already growing late; we would not want to be inconsiderate to anyone.”
“No, of course not,” Sebastian said, watching as Penelope swished past him in search of the butler. He did in many ways admire his cousin’s character. Perhaps she would distract him from the recent days’ experiences.
“Captain Carlisle will come too, of course.” Penelope called from the hallway.
Sebastian froze, forgetting how to breath. Images of William above him, beside him invaded his mind.
Sebastian struggled to steady his voice. “The captain? Did he say anything to you?”
“Oh, no. I left straight after I heard you were coming here. Luckily I was already packed. I imagine my lady’s maid can stay here too?”
“Of course,” Sebastian said, startled, uncertain if he was relieved or sorry she had not spoken to William. He peeked out the window. Penelope’s slender lady’s maid sat on the carriage stoop, reading.
“Stay away from her.” Penelope laughed, catching him looking out the window as she returned to the room with Crowley behind her. “You’re Dorothea’s now.”
“Naturally.” Sebastian’s skin heated, and he turned away from the window.
Crowley looked at him with suspicion. He had most certainly not been eying Penelope’s lady’s maid. How easy it was for some people to take him for typical in his desires.
He cleared his throat. “I am not sure about inviting William. The house is disordered. Many of the servants left because of the impending threat of Bonaparte and the thefts in the house.”
“Thefts? Have there been thefts in the house?” Penelope spun around.
“Yes.” Sebastian crossed his arms. “One more reason for you to return to the safety of London.”
“Oh, but how exciting. I always longed for a true mystery. Such as in one of those marvelous books by Ann Radcliffe.”
Sebastian shivered. “This is not a Gothic romance, Penelope.” He tried to speak in his sternest voice but was greeted only by laughter.
“Oh, but it may be when your beloved Dorothea comes along.” Penelope giggled. She glanced around, her eyes settling on the high ceiling. “I imagine this place can be quite spooky in the nighttime.”
“Please do not say that.” Sebastian shuddered, eyeing the marble fireplace that stretched to the ceiling, golden mythological images covering it. “I already find it traumatic I am not in Yorkshire.”
“Where everything is safe and boring,” Penelope said. “Yorkshire has not changed since goodness knows when. Even worse, the province prides itself on its ineptitude at changing. Indeed, I am quite pleased you are here. I only hope Marcus and Dorothea will join us soon.”
Sebastian was grateful she did not say William as well. Perhaps she would forget about him.
They strolled out of the house together as the maid prepared their rooms.
“How does it feel to be a duke?” Penelope gazed at the view outside of the garden. Classical sculptures guarded the main path at regular intervals, and a massive sundial stretched before the sky, useless in the gray March day. “All of this belongs to you now.”
“I rather wish it did not come with our relatives’ untimely deaths,” Sebastian replied.
Penelope’s smile faltered. “Of course. But you must find everything somewhat appealing, surely?”
Tenderness flowed through him. He sighed. “I was not raised to expect such things. I would not have missed it had fate not intervened.”
“Oh, Sebastian. And you have hardly spent a great deal of time managing your estate. Your horses were still tied to the carriage when I came around.” She paused. “Besides, you mustn’t refer to London in such a negative manner. I cannot imagine the process of finding a new wife was that trying for you. I quite enjoyed the process of finding my husband.”
Sebastian smiled. He did not doubt his cousin was a flirt. She would have found her season immensely enjoyable.
“Oh, but how exciting,” said Penelope. “We must explore the property, especially since no gardeners are around. We might meet a French soldier.”
“Why would we possibly want to encounter one, dear Penelope?” asked Sebastian.
“You are really far too sensible,” said Penelope. “One day we will discover a passion for you. Just imagine, the French soldier, his uniform soaking from the rain, shivering and afraid, separated from his fellow soldiers—I mean, they are French, how organized can they be?”
“You think we shall convert him to Englishness?”
“Of course. This is the land of the great and glorious.” Penelope swept her arms as she praised the country, and Sebastian had little doubt she believed in the veracity of her statement.
*
The wind howled and branches from the chestnut tree outside rapped on the window. Perhaps Penelope was correct in referring to Ann Radcliffe. Sebastian shivered, undressing in a hurry and scrambling underneath the crisp covers the maid had managed to find for him.
Sebastian dreaded sleeping in Lewis’s old room. Though sumptuous, the chamber lacked comfort, at least given the recent commotion. Perhaps he could charge Dorothea with redecorating it after they married. Women liked that, didn’t they?
He closed his eyes, settling into bed. It was comfortable, much more so than his carriage ride had been despite Sam’s smooth driving and the velvet interior. He allowed himself to relax, urging himself to sleep. His mind returned to William, and for a few moments, he was once again running his fingers over his silky skin, brushing his cheek against William’s stubble, throwing his arms about him—he jerked his eyes open.
He must not think of William. Not like this. And certainly not in the half-dressed state he imagined him in. A burgundy Bible lay on his night table. Had his soul already been doomed for all eternity, or could he ever redeem himself?
Soon he would be married. He should focus on that. Even he could not fail to notice that Dorothea was a beautiful woman. He forced himself to think of her rounded body and sweet voice, but his mind taunted him, returning to the morning’s events with pernicious consistency.
A few hours later, his cousin’s voice echoed through the door, “Sebastian.”
He searched for a clock in the room. Surely it was far too early for her to call him. He rolled over, reaching for his robe and stepping on the cold floor. He swung open the door.
He frowned, observing his cousin, clad in morning dress. “You do know this is hardly a decent time?”
Penelope’s skin flushed, but her back soon straightened. “You are not living in London by yourself now. You must entertain your guests.”
“Even though you are my only guest?” He groaned.
“Especially because of that. I am quite important,” Penelope said. “The sun is shining now, and I would not like to miss out. Who knows when the weather will be as magnificent?”
“Oh, Penelope, you need not be so dramatic,” Sebastian said. “Sussex has an excellent reputation for sunshine. You must be a bit more patient.”
“Please?” Penelope asked, pouting.
The estate did seem nicer in the sunshine. The hills might not hold the same majesty as those in Yorkshire: they were smaller, and the grass might not be quite as green as in his home county, but it was still a vibrant shade of light green. Penelope was right to drag him outside.
He followed her through the gardens, stopping with her as she exclaimed over the lilacs.
“How odd to see such an estate so empty,” Penelope said. “When are you going to get people to look after it?”
“If they fear Bonaparte, I cannot make them work here. I would also feel uncomfortable giving their jobs away to other people. The gardens will survive some neglect. It can be remedied later. These are trying times.”
“Are you afraid of Bonaparte?” Penelope asked him.
Sebastian paused. The peasants of France had chopped the heads off his counterparts there with little warning, in great masses. Lewis had died overseas, his body mangled beyond recognition. And even William, strong William, was wounded.
“I will not let Bonaparte dictate my fears when he has not even crossed the channel. If the news becomes horrible, we can always move to Yorkshire. We are lucky to possess that option. Most people are not as fortunate and do not have a horse and carriage installed at their place which they can draw upon should they need to leave in haste.”
Penelope smiled. “You are a good man, Sebastian.”
They wandered farther into the gardens. A red brick structure peeked between the sturdy trunks of the chestnut trees.
“Is that the old gatehouse?” Sebastian asked.
“Oh, yes. So it is. Before Capability Brown rearranged the garden and created the lake.”
Sebastian nodded. Getting Capability Brown to design the gardens had been a success story for past generations. Though Sebastian preferred the wilder landscapes favored by Italian-influenced landscape designers, he did appreciate the order and idyllic pastoral scenes the Georgians created, even if it meant changing the entrance to the building.
“Let’s go inside,” Penelope said.
Sebastian followed. The gatehouse might make a good temporary hiding space for a thief. “Do you think this is wise, Penelope?”
“Shhh.”
Sebastian possessed little desire to disturb any thieves.
He followed Penelope’s lead, walking to the gatehouse, slowing, setting each heel down as quietly as he could. He crept straight to a window, stepping over plants, not wishing to scare any thief by opening the door. He peered into the old gatehouse, his eyes adjusting to the dark, noticing two chairs and a wooden table with a bowl filled with some apples. A small bed lay near the table.
Everything was quiet. Nobody was there. He stepped back.
“Let’s go, Penelope. There’s nothing here for us.”
Penelope’s eyes widened, and she hurried back after him. “Did you see that?”
“Yes,” said Sebastian. “It didn’t look like anyone was living there. I’m sorry, Penelope. No French spy this time.”
“You must be in jest,” Penelope said.
Sebastian blinked.
“Oh, you are thick sometimes.” Penelope sighed. “Why would a bed be made if the gatehouse hasn’t been used since Capability Brown changed things up here?”
Sebastian pondered the question.
“Exactly. It would not be made. We already know there are no other staff apart from the house staff here. So it cannot be for them. I doubt those sheets have been there since the 1770s.”
“No, I suppose that would be most odd.” His cousin had a point.
“Precisely. And why were there apples on the table? Who would have put them there? Not animals.”
“Let’s go back to the manor house,” Sebastian said. He did not quite fancy living close to such unsavory people. “We should stay away from the gardens in the future.”
“Do you not think we should call the magistrate?”
“And say what? That there are some apples on the table and we do not know how they got there? No, thank you. I would rather blend more into my community. The magistrate has larger things to worry about. But do not, I pray, wander into the gardens alone,” Sebastian said sternly.
“As you wish.” Penelope shivered.
Sebastian realized she would probably be unwilling to return to the gatehouse alone. Penelope might be headstrong, but she was hardly foolish.
Chapter Thirteen
William already regretted venturing on his first excursion since the incident with Sebastian. He drummed his fingers against the lush leather armchair. His brandy remained on the table, taunting him, reminding him of better times. He did not feel like doing anything, even drinking. His feet sank into the thick carpet. If he ignored the pained sensation in his chest, he might claim he was comfortable.
A few men sat scattered about the club, discussing their latest jaunts across Europe, their murmurs about Parisian mistresses and gambling broken by occasional bursts of laughter.
He shifted under their gaze, recognizing some from Harrow. He tended to avoid White’s. Associating with conservative gentlemen of aristocratic origin was not how he preferred to spend his time. Even now his visit was not of his own volition. He sighed. Had his father not proved to be practically bankrupt after his death, he would have felt more at ease there. As it was, his membership to White’s, secured in happier times, endured as one of the few reminders of his father’s legacy. He picked up his drink and glided his fingers over the crystal glass. He imagined the life he never lived, the one his father had envisioned for him, where he would be at the gaming table, telling stories of cavorting with courtesans.
A shadow fell over his seat.
“You have seen better days, my dear captain.” His companion slipped into the chair opposite him.
William’s fists tightened, not quite ready for conversation. “You brought your famed charm, Reynolds.”
Lord Reynolds shrugged. “I merely do not like seeing you so distraught.”
William scowled, his hand touching his cheek, meeting the texture of stubble. The problem with maintaining exceptional grooming for years was that the moment he grew lax in his efforts, everyone commented. “I am hardly shabby looking.”
“The circles under your eyes fail to suggest liveliness. It is obvious you are unwell.”
William’s mind returned to school, where he had first met the lord. He and Reynolds frequented the racquet court, both aggressive. Reynolds still played sports, now donning exquisite clothes in typical Corinthian fashion, his wife by his side. And William was relegated to India, needing his commission to support himself and leaving his sister to fend for herself.
William’s jaw clenched. Undoubtedly Sebastian had been correct to flee from him.
And now Dorothea, the sister he loved, abhorred him.
“Penelope is anxious for the two of us to go to Somerset Hall. She writes that she is finding pleasure hunting for French spies on Sebastian’s new estate.” Reynolds’s eyes misted, his adoration obvious.
William straightened his back in spite of himself at the mention of Sebastian’s name. Surely Sebastian did not condone this activity?
“But she also is adamant,” Reynolds continued, “that she would like the two of us to join her. As well as Miss Carlisle, of course.”
William considered the offer of visiting Sebastian’s new home. For a moment he lay in Sebastian’s bed again, his legs brushing against Sebastian’s legs, his hands running across Sebastian’s chest, lingering on his nipples and the scattering of hair that surrounded them. For a moment, he was making Sebastian laugh, and everything was wonderful. He shook his head. That vision was impossible.
“I’m afraid I must decline.” William crossed his arms, r
ankled that Reynolds had persuaded him to meet. He cursed his desperation for news of Sebastian, despising that all Reynolds told him was that he did not look well. As if he were unaware. “I am busy here.”
“Doing what? You do not even gamble. I shall be sacrificing a great deal to go down to Somerset Hall at this time of year.”
“I am certain your bank account will appreciate the hiatus,” William said.
“Why does everyone think I do not do well gambling?”
“Are you saying they are vicious rumors?” William asked.
“Something like that,” Lord Reynolds grumbled.
Dorothea wrote Sebastian long letters daily, and from the time she spent poring over the letters she received from him, Sebastian was dispatching her long letters in return. The man had not written William once. Dorothea and Sebastian planned for a large wedding, which from what William could see, merely existed to give Lady Reynolds and Dorothea something to do.
William walked Reynolds to the door and grabbed his coat. Even if he declined Reynolds’s forceful offer for a rest in Sussex, he resolved to leave London. Injury or no injury, he was a soldier. Napoleon might be invading, and he was damned if he was going to hang around Somerset Hall, making puppy eyes at the new duke.
*
William stood in the parlor, fiddling with his gloves.
“You’re leaving?” Dorothea put aside her embroidery and raised her eyebrows. “To go where?”
“Does it matter?” William fidgeted, leaning against the door of the drawing room. He glanced at the letter tray, noting that a new one in Sebastian’s elegant hand had arrived.
William had avoided Dorothea, but he needed to tell her he would no longer be around.
“Don’t say you’re going back to India.”
“Would you miss me if I did?”
Dorothea remained silent. Embracing her fiancé had not drawn them closer. “I couldn’t stand in the way of His Majesty’s army . . .”
“Well, I’m not.” William scowled.
“Oh?”