by Juliana Gray
Wallingford returned her gaze with unspeakable rage. The color climbed up his face to flood the skin atop those magnificent cheekbones. What would he do, she wondered, if she rose from her chair and walked around the table and clasped those dear burning cheeks between her hands, just as she had that afternoon?
“Dear me, Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “You really must endeavor to calm your nerves. I fear you will bring on an apoplexy. Have you any medical training, Mr. Burke?”
“Only a few rudiments, I regret to say. Hardly enough to loosen his cravat.”
Wallingford regained his power of speech. “I am happy to be the source of such endless amusement. But you”—he stabbed his finger at Mr. Burke’s broad chest—“and you”—ditto Lord Roland—“have no idea at all what these women have in contemplation. From the moment of our arrival last month, they’ve been scheming and harassing us, in order to make our lives here so hellish as to drive us away entirely, and leave them the castle to themselves. Do not, Lady Morley, be so insulting as to deny it.”
“I should be very happy to see the last of you, Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “I make no attempt to hide the fact.”
Wallingford narrowed his eyes. Abigail had the uneasy impression that her sister had walked straight into a chessboard arranged with care by the duke himself. The flush had disappeared from his cheeks, and in its place a film of ice seemed to have frozen his features into severity. “Very well, then, Lady Morley,” he said, in deliberate tones. “I should like to propose an amendment to our wager. To increase the stakes, as it were.”
Increase the stakes. Now this was interesting. Abigail leaned forward a fraction of a degree: Would this plan of Wallingford’s disrupt her own carefully wrought schemes this evening?
“Oh, good God,” said Mr. Burke. “Haven’t you a better use of your time, Wallingford? Reading some of that vast collection in the library, perhaps? It is what we’re here for, after all.”
Alexandra ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “He’s welcome to join our literary discussion in the salon. We should be pleased to hear an additional perspective, although I would suggest bringing an umbrella, in case of inclement weather.”
“No, damn it all! I beg your pardon, Lady Somerton.”
Lilibet sighed, so quietly Abigail could scarcely hear her. “Not at all, Your Grace.”
Wallingford straightened forward, gaining another inch or two of authority in his robust shoulders. His voice took on an absurd degree of resonance. “My proposal is this: that the forfeit, in addition to Burke’s excellent suggestion of an advertisement in the Times, should include an immediate removal of the offending party from the castle.” He sat back again, with a look of immense satisfaction.
Silence yawned among them, until Abigail thought she could hear the very flicker of the candles.
Lord Roland whistled. “Hard terms, old man. Are you quite sure? What if it’s us that’s given the old heave-ho?”
Wallingford gave him a superior smile. “You are, I admit, the weakest link in the chain, but I believe I may rely upon Lady Somerton’s honor, if nothing else.”
“Really, Your Grace,” said Lilibet, in a faint whisper.
“This is beyond absurd, Wallingford,” Alexandra said sharply. “All this talk of conspiracies and whatnot. I assure you, I haven’t the slightest intention of seducing poor Burke, and I daresay he has even less desire to be seduced. This is all about this business of the feathers this morning, isn’t it? You’re trying to have your revenge on us . . .”
“If I’m wrong, Lady Morley, you should have no reason at all to object to the increased stakes.” Wallingford reached for the nearby bottle and poured himself half a glass. “Isn’t that so?” He drank, watching Alexandra from above the rim.
Next to Abigail, Alexandra seemed to vibrate. Abigail wanted to tell her not to worry, that everything would work out, that nobody would be rousted out of the castle, that this was all nothing more than the friction of their six unruly bodies as they found their proper places with one another. But what could she say? Alexandra—and though her sister had never spoken a word of it, Abigail made it her business to know these things—lay just now on her beam ends, after financial disaster had visited the jointure left her by Lord Morley; she had nowhere to go from here, no other home except this leaking Italian castle. And Lilibet! Even worse for Lilibet, were she to be forced from this remote seclusion: Brutal Lord Somerton awaited her in London, and was probably even now flooding Europe with his emissaries, searching for his absconded wife and son.
No wonder Alexandra hesitated at Wallingford’s offer. The men might leave the Castel sant’Agata with no more injury than a badly bruised pride; for the ladies, the stakes (as Wallingford put it) were altogether higher.
But he’d backed them so neatly into a corner. Alexandra could hardly refuse, could she? Abigail stole another glance at Wallingford, who sat straight-shouldered at the head of the table, looking quite smug and handsome and pleased with himself.
“Of course I shouldn’t object,” Alexandra said at last, clenching her fingers around the stem of her empty wineglass. “Other than a sense of . . . of the absurdity of it all.”
Mr. Burke cleared his throat and came to his lady’s rescue. “Really, Wallingford. It’s hardly necessary. I don’t see any reason why we can’t continue to muddle on as we are. A tuft of goose down, here and there, doesn’t much signify. And I’m fairly confident I can resist Lady Morley’s charms, however determined her attempts on my virtue.”
Wallingford leaned back and cast his eyes around the table. “None of you, then, not one of you has the fortitude to meet my offer? Lady Morley? Your competitive spirit can’t be tempted?”
“You always were an ass, Wallingford.” Alexandra shook her head.
Oh, the hell with it, thought Abigail. Someone had to speak up and settle things, or dinner would never end, and her plans would be spoilt.
“Why not?” she said, into the silence.
Once more, all eyes turned to her in shock. Really, it was good fun, stunning the table with her pronouncements like this. She turned to Wallingford and gave him the full force of her gaze. “Why not? I can’t speak for your side, Your Grace, but we three are simply going about our business, studying and learning just as we intended. If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted.” She gave her shoulders an insouciant shrug and turned to Alexandra. “It means nothing to us, after all. Does it, Alex?”
Alexandra blinked and took a deep breath. “No. No, of course not. Very well. We accept your stakes, Wallingford. Though it hardly matters, as your suspicions are entirely wrongheaded. In fact, your head itself seemed to be wrongheaded at the moment, and I suggest you turn away from your wild speculations and put it firmly to work as you intended in the first place. We’re on Aristophanes ourselves, just now, and my dear Abigail has already reviewed it twice in the original Greek. I’m certain she would have some useful insights for you. Perhaps she can assist you with your alphas and omegas.”
Oh, what a trump she was! Abigail stretched her hand beneath the table and gave Alexandra’s wrist a little squeeze of support.
“My alphas and omegas are quite in order, I assure you, Lady Morley.” Wallingford dabbed his lips with his napkin and dropped it by his plate. He rose, with a graceful motion of his lean body, and made the briefest of bows. “And now, ladies, if you’ll pardon the unpardonable. I must excuse myself, and leave you to the far more appealing company of my fellow scholars.”
Off he went, leaving the silence to settle in the echo of the shutting door.
And now, Abigail thought, folding her own napkin atop the ancient linen tablecloth, let the games begin.
* * *
Given the cavernous size of the great hall of the Castel sant’Agata, the Duke of Wallingford, crossing it with energy and conviction, hardly expected to collide with Abigail Harewood’s breasts.
Strictly speaking, of cours
e, he had collided with her right shoulder, but when he threw out his hand to steady them both, it had landed—whether by accident or with the reflexive instinct of a homing pigeon—directly into the plush cushion in the center of her silk-covered chest.
“Why, Wallingford!” she exclaimed, not backing an inch. “What on earth are you doing here, at this hour?”
He couldn’t remember. Something to do with a book. The kitchen. A large bronze key floated rather confusingly in the air before his eyes.
“What the devil are you doing here at this hour?” he growled instead, stalling for time. He couldn’t even see her properly, with only a thin shaft of moonlight angling its way through the distant windows, but of course it was Miss Harewood. No mistaking that cheerful voice, that delicate scent of sweet floral soap, of lemons and blossoms. That curving flesh, fitting his broad palm to overflowing . . .
He dropped his hand, as if from a scalding teapot.
“I was just coming downstairs from putting Philip to bed,” she said, without a trace of self-consciousness. “He made me read several stories from a great book on warhorses, which he’d purloined from the library, quite unsuitable for bedtime of course, but what can one do when a little boy takes an idea into his head, especially when . . .”
The library.
Wallingford’s head cleared.
“Never mind all that,” he said. “Do you know where I can find this housekeeper of yours? The kitchen, I presume? The door to the library is locked.” He paused. “I suppose that boy of yours did it accidentally, on his way out. Left the light on, too; most dangerous.”
“Strictly speaking, he’s Lilibet’s boy.”
“Regardless. I require the key at once.”
A little pool of silence opened up between them. Wallingford had the sense of fidgeting, there in the darkness where she stood.
“Well,” she said slowly, “in that case, I shall go and look for Morini. But I’ve little hope of success. I quite expect she’s abed by now.”
“It’s only eight thirty.”
“She keeps country hours.”
Wallingford shifted his feet impatiently. “Then you must wake her up. We can’t leave the lamps burning in the library all night. It’s dangerous, for one thing; and for another, I require a book.”
“What book? I’ll find it for you.”
“Miss Harewood,” he said, with deliberate scorn, “I need hardly remind you that the library remains in the territory of the gentlemen’s side of the house. It is not your business to be fetching books for me from its shelves.”
“I daresay you’re used to having books fetched for you,” she said. “I daresay you haven’t fetched your own books since you were a boy, and probably not even then.”
“Then you’d be mistaken. I’m quite capable of finding my own books. I . . .” Wallingford paused. In the silver gilt darkness of the hall, surrounded by cool stones and still air and the faint warmth of Abigail’s invisible body a few feet away, he felt once more a sense of fidgeting nervousness, a dangling of Abigail’s spirit. “Are you trying to distract me, Miss Harewood?” he said quietly.
“Of course not,” she said, too quickly. “I always speak this way. Never could keep to a single topic. What were we discussing? Keys, or books? Or both?”
“Specifically, the key to the library,” said Wallingford.
“Oh. Well, there’s your problem, right there.” She made rustling movements, as if smoothing her dress.
“Problem? What problem? The library is locked, and therefore we find the housekeeper and obtain the key. Perhaps you might care to lead the way, Miss Harewood.” He spoke with stern authority. He was quite sure, now, that she was hiding something. The very hairs on his skin seemed to know it. Miss Abigail Harewood might flummox the rest of them, but he knew her cunning. He knew her, inside and out. She couldn’t hide a single flutter of that ebullient manner from him; no, not a single hesitation of her voice nor wasteful movement of her hand.
“Ah, well, you see, Your Grace,” she said, “and perhaps you ought to know this already, if you were properly familiar with the library in question, but you see . . .”
“Yes, Miss Harewood?”
“It locks from the inside.”
Check.
Wallingford folded his arms. His eyes were growing more accustomed to the ghostly light, and he thought he could pick out Abigail’s smile, just tipping the corners of her mouth, as if she were fighting to control it. Her dress rustled slightly, a shifting of petticoats around her slender legs. His right hand, he realized, was still warm from the accidental meeting with her breasts.
“What are you suggesting, then, Miss Harewood?” he said. “That the library door has locked itself?”
“Why, no. Of course not. But perhaps your brother has locked himself in. Did you think of knocking?”
“Why on earth would my brother lock himself in the library?”
“Why, for privacy, of course. To keep himself safe from interruption.” She leaned forward and warmed his collar with her sweet breath. “From Lady Somerton’s treacherous attempts at seduction, perhaps.”
Was she laughing at him?
“Lady Somerton hasn’t a treacherous bone in her body,” he said confidently, and leaned forward, too, ostensibly to intimidate, but really because he wanted to catch once more the sweetness of Abigail Harewood’s breath in his nose, the drift of warmth from her skin. “You, on the other hand, Miss Harewood . . .”
“I . . . what? I’m treacherous?” She laughed. “Surely not. I’m straightforward to an absolute fault. I’m a living monument to straightforwardness. Why, my sister would be delighted if I were less straightforward. You must strive to obtain a few wiles, Abigail, she tells me, or you’ll never catch yourself a husband.”
“Oh, you’ve wiles enough,” Wallingford heard himself growl. Almost as if . . . good God, it couldn’t be so. He couldn’t be flirting with her, could he? He wanted to jump back, but his shoes seemed to have glued themselves to the flagstones.
“Wiles enough for what, Your Grace?” Her voice twinkled in the shadows. “For a husband?”
“For anything you damned well please. Isn’t that right, Miss Harewood?”
She laughed. “You have a great deal more confidence in my abilities than I do, Your Grace. Why is that?”
“Because I have seen them at work. Now tell me, Miss Harewood, in the plain, straightforward language of which you own yourself proud: Exactly what is going on in that library right now?” He spoke forcefully, putting a feral snap into the words what and library, and looming over her so closely that scarcely an inch or two of empty space remained between their respective bodies.
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, “how I adore it when you speak like that! Towering over one like a colossus! It gives one the most delicious shivers, straight the way down one’s back.”
“Answer the question, Miss Harewood!” he thundered.
“It’s the same way you spoke at dinner tonight, and—I speak in confidence here, Your Grace—it was all I could do then, not to fling myself in your arms and insist you ravish me, right there on that enormous old table. Well, once you’d ordered all the others out of the room, of course. I am not so depraved as that.”
Wallingford opened his mouth and found he had not the smallest word to say.
“Now tell me, Wallingford,” Abigail continued, with perfect composure, “what you meant by all this business of raising the stakes? Of ousting us from the castle, lock, stock, and all that? It seems so excessive.”
Wallingford’s brain, still reeling, returned no answer.
“And smacking rather of hypocrisy, if you don’t mind my saying so. After all, strictly speaking, you and I are the guiltiest parties of all. Are we not?” She placed her hand on his sleeve, so gently he might not have noticed the pressure at all, except that this was Abigail and Wallingford’s every available faculty recorded her movements, her words, her expressions, in minute detail.
Not th
at many of Wallingford’s vaunted faculties were available at the moment. At the words ravish me, right there on that enormous old table, an image had leapt into his brain of such voluptuous depravity, such extravagant sensuousness, such luscious sexual possibility, it rendered him helpless as a newborn.
“Guilty?” he mumbled, fastening on a word at last. He wished she would take a step or two backward, to allow a little space between her tempting warm body and his. Perhaps then he could gather his wits about him.
“Quite guilty. If I hadn’t made that silly comment upstairs in your room—for which I am deeply sorry, Wallingford, I should never think of our liaison in such terms, never—why, I daresay I shouldn’t be standing here now, as I am.”
“As you are?”
“As a maiden, of course. You would have quite despoiled me, and I should have been very glad of being despoiled, and we would probably be upstairs furthering my ruin at this very moment. I say, are you quite all right? I haven’t been too straightforward with you, have I?”
“I think, Miss Harewood,” he said at last, in a strangled voice, almost a whisper, “you had better lead the way to the library directly, and I shall endeavor to forget this conversation ever took place.”
“I have shocked you, haven’t I?” She sighed. “You see? No wiles whatsoever. Here you are, a notorious seducer, and here am I, quite willing to be seduced, and yet somehow . . .”
“Miss Harewood,” said Wallingford, working frantically to stave off the imminent explosion of his brain, “the library!”
“Oh!” Her hand dropped away from his sleeve at last. “The library. Of course. Do you think it might be better to head ’round the bottom of the main staircase, or to . . .”
He was going to kiss her, Wallingford realized in horror, if only to stop her mouth. With heroic effort, he forced his shoes to separate from the flagstones, stumbling backward with the force of his momentum.
“Careful!” she sang out.
He didn’t answer. The narrow Gothic windows beckoned, outlined with moonlight, guiding his footsteps across the great hall to the passageway to the west wing. The library lay beyond, a great two-story cavern of a room, lined with ancient leather-bound volumes in a fine state of mildewed neglect. A warm room, despite its high ceilings; it caught all the afternoon sun through its windows (not a favorable location for a library, in fact, but perhaps the builder had not been a lover of books) and trapped it like an oven. Wallingford had spent many a well-intentioned hour there with a book sitting promisingly in his lap, only to fall promptly asleep.
