“Thank you, Helen. The minute the chain came into the shop, I thought to wear it.” Mrs. Barrows beamed at her sister as she joined them. “Although I don’t think I can compare to you!”
Gareth turned his head to look at his fiancé. He hadn’t even noticed what she was wearing. A pale pink dress, very fashionable and very ordinary. His feet had never left the ground once while looking at her.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Mrs. Barrows dipped a curtsey. The little coins tinkled softly as she moved.
“Good evening.” His tongue had trouble forming the words.
“Mrs. Barrows.” Blair appeared at her elbow with a pleased smile. “Good evening. What an original gown.”
She smiled. “Very unoriginal, you mean! I fell in love with an illustration in one of my father’s books and longed to recreate it for myself. This design must be two thousand years old.”
“But surely even better now,” he replied. Blair was looking at her with far too much appreciation, thought Gareth testily. “Don’t you agree, Wessex?”
“Er— Yes,” he said. At least the question gave him an excuse for staring at her.
She looked directly at him then, her dark eyes sparkling. A little smile curved her mouth into a perfectly kissable shape. Gareth felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. He might need another brandy. “Thank you, Your Grace. You flatter me.”
The door opened, and Gareth’s mother returned, thank God—although with Sophronia and Henrietta Black in her wake. Sophronia looked as eccentric as ever tonight, in a gown thirty years out of date and her henna-colored hair tied up in a bewildering assortment of braids and knots, but her gaze was as keen and ruthless as ever. Unconsciously Gareth braced himself, sensing that she had decided to join them in order to stir up trouble in some way. “Isn’t it time to eat?” she asked loudly, confirming his suspicions. Her companion, Henrietta, tried to murmur something in her ear, but Sophronia waved her away. “I’m half-starved after the long walk down here.”
“Nearly,” said the duchess calmly, guiding her across the room. “Come meet our guests. Here are Sir William and Lady Grey. Wessex is to marry their daughter. Sir William, Lady Grey, may I present you to Lady Sophronia Cavendish?”
“A great honor, madam.” Sir William bowed.
“Oh yes, indeed!” trilled his wife, fluttering her hands as though she couldn’t contain herself. “A singular pleasure, my lady!”
Sophronia gave the woman a hard stare, then turned away. The duchess quickly intervened. “You must meet the bride!” She gave Gareth a look as Sophronia tottered toward him, and he made the introductions.
Sophronia baldly looked Miss Grey up and down, then did the same to Mrs. Barrows. “Are you the bride?”
Mrs. Barrows blinked. “No, my sister has that happy honor.”
The older woman grunted. “She doesn’t look honored.”
“Sophronia,” murmured the duchess in a warning way.
“Oh, but she is!” put in Lady Grey. “Who would not be honored to become the Duchess of Wessex, mistress of Kingstag Castle? I assure you, madam, my daughter feels her honor very, very well!”
“She doesn’t show it.” The elderly lady’s keen eye landed on Mrs. Barrows again. “Already married, are you?”
“No, my lady. I’m a widow.” Mrs. Barrows seemed amused by Sophronia. She shot her sister a glance full of impudent amusement. Her mouth twitched as if to keep from laughing. Gareth wondered what her laugh sounded like. What her lips felt like. What she wore underneath that slip of a gown.
God help him.
“You don’t dress like one,” remarked Sophronia. Once again she was coming perilously close to rudeness, and as usual, no one seemed to know quite how to deflect her. She peered closer at Mrs. Barrows’s gown. “Where did you get that chain? It’s quite unusual.”
“Oh my heavens!” burst out Lady Grey. Everyone looked at her and her face seemed to fill with panic for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I have just remembered something I must tell my daughter.”
“Yes, Mama,” murmured Miss Grey, stepping forward.
“No, Helen dear.” Her mother’s voice was high and strained. “Your sister.”
Miss Grey’s eyes flickered to Mrs. Barrows’s. Something passed between them, but Gareth wasn’t sure what. Suddenly he understood what Blair had meant about a tension in the Grey family. Even Mrs. Barrows’s supple mouth looked flat. “We’re about to go in to dinner, Mama,” she said, her voice quiet and reserved. There was none of the warmth and humor she had shown before.
Lady Grey’s face pinched. “It will only take a moment, Cleo. Come here.”
“Well, Alice, is it time to eat or isn’t it? I never had the patience to stand around waiting for my dinner.” Sophronia turned to the duchess, who began to look a little strained as well.
“Yes, dinner is ready.” The duchess nodded at one of the footmen, who swept open the doors.
“Thank goodness,” declared Bridget, bounding across the room. Alexandra and Serena followed more sedately. “I’m so hungry!”
“That’s my girl,” said Sophronia with approval as the duchess closed her eyes in despair. “Who’s going to escort me? I see you haven’t got nearly enough gentlemen tonight, Wessex.”
“The guests will begin arriving tomorrow,” he replied. “Blair will give you his arm tonight.” He nodded at his cousin.
Sophronia grunted. “I suppose he’ll do.” She put out her hand, and Blair obediently gave her his arm.
The duchess smiled at the rest of them. “Since we are just family tonight, I thought we could all go in together. I hope you will forgive the informality.”
There was a murmur of assent. Gareth turned to Lady Grey, still hovering behind him. What the devil had she wanted to tell Mrs. Barrows so urgently? And why had it banished the light from the lady’s eyes? Even now, she was staring fixedly at the carpet, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He felt again the oddest sensation of falling. He wanted to shake her mother—her own mother—for dampening her spirits. He must be going mad. “May I escort you, madam?”
Lady Grey hesitated, but after exchanging a glance with her husband, she took Gareth’s arm. “Why yes, how kind, Your Grace! I have heard such reports of your chef at Kingstag, I expect dinner shall be utterly incomparable ...” She went on, but he barely heard her. His sisters fell in step with Miss Grey behind them, and they followed his mother into the dining room.
But when he reached the dining room and seated Lady Grey, he discovered that Mrs. Barrows and Sir William had not followed them.
Chapter Four
“Stay a moment,” growled Sir William at his older daughter as the others left the room. Cleo waited, burning with humiliation. The momentary relief she’d felt when the Duke of Wessex intercepted her mother had quickly been replaced by dread when her father gave her a black look behind the duke’s back. For a moment there, she’d been blessing the duke with all her might but of course the coming confrontation couldn’t be avoided.
Her father waited until everyone else had left, then stared fiercely at the footman until the servant closed the door, leaving them in complete privacy. Even then, he spoke in a harsh whisper. “You think very highly of yourself, don’t you? When will you cease trying to humiliate us at every turn by bringing up your wretched little trade?”
“It is not wretched,” she said quietly.
He snorted. “It is indeed! My own daughter, laboring in a shop like some baseborn chit. It is intolerable, I tell you, intolerable. The very least you could do is remember your place here and kindly keep your idle thoughts and opinions to yourself.”
“What is my place?” she asked before she could stop herself. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to tell her. Perhaps he had some trace of affection left for her.
“A tradesman’s widow,” he said with a snort. “Utterly beneath your ancestors! Your sister will be a duchess, and you stand in her drawing room and loudly proclaim yourself little better than a com
mon servant!” Cleo’s mouth opened in shock, and he went on. “Sometimes I wonder precisely who you think you are, miss!”
“You named me for a queen,” she said. “Who do you think I am?”
He harrumphed. “What a laughable mistake. Cleopatra was born to royalty and she knew her place. Don’t think so highly of yourself, miss.”
“But she led her country,” Cleo reminded him. “I daresay someone thought that wasn’t her place.”
Her father glowered at her. “She did not go against her parents’ wishes and lower herself to go into trade.”
“She lowered herself to marrying her brother,” Cleo murmured. “Although I suppose that was at her parents’ wish.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled, then shot her another sharp glance. “You’ve done as you wished, and I have not disowned you. But don’t think I’m proud of your actions. You’re only welcome here because your sister wished it. It is her wedding—she, at least, will take her proper place in society, while you have done precious little for our family.”
Cleo shifted her weight back and forth, setting her skirt to swirling about her ankles. The tiny coins clinked softly. “I paid for Helen’s wardrobe.”
“Shh!” hissed her father, glancing around anxiously, as though the duke might hear her words all the way in the dining room. “Don’t tell everyone!” He gave a snort. “Bad enough that my daughter has to operate a shop like a common merchant. You’d tell the world I must accept your charity, too.”
“It’s not charity,” she protested. “I wanted to help! Helen is my sister.”
“Then mind your tongue,” he snapped. “Do you want to embarrass her in front of her future husband? Do you want him to think us a pack of penniless, hysterical fools?”
Cleo watched the coins settle into silence again. “No, Papa. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” With that, he brushed past her, only waiting at the door to offer his arm. As angry as he was with everything she did, he would never break protocol and leave her to walk into the dining room alone. We must keep up appearances, after all, Cleo thought, pasting a wooden smile on her face, feeling oddly detached from her father even as her hand rested on his arm.
She knew her parents hadn’t understood when she and Matthew eloped; she hadn’t expected them to. The years of her marriage had been rather cool ones between her and her parents, but still civil. Cleo knew why; her mother had once outright admitted that if she had to be the wife of a shopkeeper, at least she was the wife of a very prosperous shopkeeper. At the time, she’d wondered who her parents thought she would marry. The Greys had had no money for as long as she could remember, and no connections of consequence. Suitors had been rare in their house.
But whatever their initial hopes for her, it was clear that all the burden of making a great match had descended upon Helen. Cleo felt sorry for that. She had been so happy with Matthew and wished the same for her sister, whether it was with a duke or a lowly tailor. She got some glimpse of what her sister must have endured after Matthew died. Her father had tried to insist that she sell her shop and return home. Unspoken was the presumption that she would make a better match the second time, now that she was a widow of some modest fortune. After that conversation, Cleo had made only the briefest visits home. She had no desire to settle into a ladylike uselessness in her widowhood. Working in the shop reminded her of Matthew, and Cleo liked being responsible for herself. She could support herself, it turned out, so why shouldn’t she? Without the shop, she would have precious little of her own: no children, no husband, no income ... nothing to keep her mind occupied. What else was she to do with herself?
The unfairness of her father’s feelings made her want to scream. Never mind that her shop, which he hated, supplied her money, which he somehow managed to accept. At times she had been almost determined to stop offering it, since the source of the income was so hateful to both her parents. Perhaps they would be more appreciative if they felt the lack of her “common merchant” funds. But cutting them off would mean cutting off Helen as well. Helen was the dearest person in the world to her; Helen had wished her joy when she married Matthew. And now she had made a splendid match to the illustrious Duke of Wessex—even if he did seem awfully reticent and reserved—and Cleo would never regret helping her sister find happiness.
That was the thought she must keep in the forefront of her mind for the next few weeks. Stirring up an argument with either one of her parents would only cause Helen anxiety, and she had absolutely no wish to embarrass her sister in front of the Cavendish family.
Chapter Five
The guests began to arrive the next day. The house came alive with trills of female voices, and the jangle of harnesses was almost constant. Cleo had marveled at the size of the castle when they arrived, but after a while she began to wonder where all these guests would stay. Surely even Kingstag Castle couldn’t hold them all.
Helen, of course, had to greet everyone, welcoming them at the duchess’s side. Cleo joined her, losing herself in the excitement of meeting new people, none of whom seemed to recoil at the sight of her, common merchant though she was. Perhaps that was because she said nothing at all about herself, speaking only of her sister and the wedding and how lovely the castle was.
“I’m starting to sound like Mama,” she whispered to her sister after a while. “All I can speak of is Kingstag!”
Helen sighed. “There is a great deal to say about it.”
“Well, it truly is magnificent.” Cleo craned her neck to admire the vaulted ceiling of the hall, which put her in mind of a cathedral. The house was full of modern improvements—there was indeed piping for water inside the house—but it retained much of its ancient air as well. “To think, you’ll be mistress of this in a few days! Do you remember when we used to dream of living in a castle?”
Her sister smiled. “Yes. But even then I never dreamt of one this enormous.”
“All the more to explore!” Cleo grinned, but finally realized how pale her sister had become. “Helen, are you well?” she asked in concern. “You should sit down.”
There was a distant rattle of wheels on gravel. Helen turned toward the open door. “I can’t. Someone else is arriving.”
“Let Her Grace greet them. Come,” she urged. “I’m sure the duke wouldn’t want his guests to first see you passed out on the floor.”
“No, indeed,” said a male voice behind them.
Cleo jerked around. The Duke of Wessex stood there, watching in his intent way. His wasn’t a merry, fond countenance, but she had the feeling that he paid closer attention than most people. Even in this trifling circumstance, she felt the force of his regard in every fiber of her being. No wonder he was such a powerful man. She could barely drag her eyes away from his.
“Your Grace.” Helen dipped a graceful curtsey. “We did not expect you.”
“I had some pressing business to attend to this morning; my apologies.” He barely glanced at her. “What makes you think your sister is about to faint, Mrs. Barrows?”
Cleo wet her lips and darted a wary glance at her sister. Helen might have been a statue, from all the emotion or energy she conveyed. “She looks pale to me, Your Grace, but perhaps I’m imagining things.”
“I would never discount the keen eye of a loving sister.” He turned the blast of his regard upon Helen, who seemed to waver on her feet under it. “I agree with Mrs. Barrows, my dear. You must sit down.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Cleo rolled her eyes. Now that the mighty Wessex had given his approval, Helen would sit. Still, she wasn’t one to cast aside help, so she merely took her sister’s arm and helped her into the nearby morning parlor, where a pair of elegant settees stood in front of the windows. Helen sank onto one, and Cleo perched on the edge of the facing settee. In the bright sunlight, her sister’s face looked drawn and lined, as if she had aged since they arrived. It was distinctly odd, and Cleo frowned in worry. Her sister should be glowing with happiness, or
at least contentment. Instead she looked like she had come down with some wasting disease.
Wessex followed. He rang the servants’ bell, then closed the door. He came and seated himself next to Cleo, opposite his bride. “Why are you unwell, my dear?”
“I’m only a little tired, Your Grace,” said Helen. “A few moments’ rest, and I shall return to greeting guests with Her Grace, your mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Cleo. “You need to eat something; you hardly ate a bite of breakfast. There is no color in your cheeks at all.”
Wessex glanced at her. “Is this true, Miss Grey? Was breakfast not to your liking?”
Helen’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, it was delicious, Your Grace—I simply couldn’t choose ...”
“Perhaps a tot of brandy will restore you,” he suggested.
Without thinking, Cleo snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! She’s hardly eaten. Brandy will make her faint dead away.”
Slowly he turned to her. “What?”
“Tea would be better. Tea and some muffins. Ladies don’t normally drink brandy, sir.”
“I see,” he murmured, still watching her. “A pity, that.”
Yes, it was a pity, in Cleo’s opinion. She liked a little nip of brandy now and then—never enough to make her head spin, just a small amount after dinner in the winter or perhaps a drop in her tea on especially trying days. Still, her mother would have an apoplexy if she admitted that to the duke, so she merely smiled. “I think the muffins are particularly important. There were some delicious ones at breakfast this morning. May I send for some for my sister?”
“Of course.” As if on cue, a servant slipped into the room. Wessex arched one brow at Cleo. “What shall we send for?”
“Tea, please, with milk and muffins. And if there is any of that superb gooseberry jam, that would be lovely.” Cleo smiled at the servant, who bowed and hurried off. “Are the guests to arrive all day, Your Grace?”
“I’ve no idea,” he said without a trace of concern. “My mother will know, but she’s also quite capable of greeting them herself. I believe the first arrivals were to be family, in any event.”
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