by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d been able to keep the kiss innocent, but it had made him want more. The feel of her soft lips on his, even if only a corner of them, made him wonder what her mouth would feel like under his.
Nathan’s thoughts had occupied him all the way to the door leading to the garden, and now he paused with a hand on the knob. He had to tamp down his lust. Somehow he had to make her fall in love with him. What could he do or say to engage her affections?
Poetry?
He didn’t know any poetry.
Flowers?
The garden was full of them.
Money? Title? She didn’t want his money and already had a more prestigious title than he could ever give her.
The one thing she wanted was the one thing he could not give her, no one could give her. Her family back.
He stepped through the door and was immediately enveloped in the scent of flowers and soil. Bees buzzed and birds chirped and somewhere nearby one of his servants shouted.
“Dilly, where’s that water I asked for?”
Nathan headed toward the section of the garden where he’d last seen Vivienne and was surprised when she stepped out before him.
“I heard you coming,” she said. Her eyes were wide, and she looked a little pale.
“You thought I was someone else.” He looked pointedly at her hand, where she clutched pruning shears.
She dropped them with a pretty blush that brought the color back to her skin and made her radiant. “I suppose I am a bit jumpy.”
“Do you mind if I walk with you?”
“Of course not, but I don’t wish to keep you from your duties.”
“I have none at the moment.” That was a lie. He always had duties. At present, none of them seemed to matter.
She placed her hand in the crook of his arm, and they walked in silence for a few moments. “My sister would have loved this garden,” she said after some time.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Berangaria. She loved gardening.”
“I remember that. She was known for her prize roses.”
Vivienne nodded.
“Your sister Angelique was quite the musician.”
“Did she play when you visited?” She tilted her head up to look at him, her green eyes vivid in the morning light. He realized she had no bonnet, no gloves, but she did not seem concerned.
“She played several times and sang as well. She had the voice of…” He trailed off. “A songbird. What is a bird with a lovely song?”
“The lark?”
“Yes. I’m no poet.”
“I am glad. Besides, with that face, I imagine you’ve never needed to learn any poetry.”
He waved a hand. His good looks were his least favorite topic of conversation.
“And your brother was known for his horsemanship. He gave me a tour of the stables. Quite impressive.”
“Lucien never met a horse he didn’t like.” Her smile wobbled.
Nathan paused. “Forgive me. Does talking about them upset you?”
She shook her head. “No. I am glad to talk about them, remember them. My life has been a nightmare. Talking about them reminds me what it was like when my life was normal.”
He gestured to a stone bench, took a seat beside her. “It will never be like it was, I’m afraid.”
“No. It won’t. And I will never forget—”
He put his hand over hers. “Tell me.”
She swallowed. “You don’t want to hear it. I will give you nightmares.”
“Doubtful. I rarely dream of anything except account books and columns of numbers.”
When she remained silent, he brought her hand to his lips, kissed it.
She looked at him, her eyes wary. She still didn’t trust him, perhaps she never would. She might not be capable of trust.
“Talking about it might help,” he said.
She nodded, released his hand, and looked down at her skirts.
“What did you see?” he murmured. “What plagues you?”
“Death.” Her voice was quiet, little more than a whisper. “The stench of it, the sticky feel of it beneath my bare feet, the sight of it. Masson told me not to look, and I tried. I tried. But I saw some of them, and…and…”
He heard the catch in her throat and felt the way she tensed.
“Have you ever seen death?” she asked.
“Once,” he said. “I was the second at a duel. The men were supposed to shoot into the air. My friend did so, but the other man did not. The ball ripped a hole in his chest, and he died on the field. Bloody, awful way to die, and there was nothing I or the physician present could do to save him.”
He hadn’t thought about that night in a very long time. He’d not even been twenty, and he’d thought a duel a splendid diversion. He couldn’t even remember what Edmund had done to earn a glove flicked at his face. Nathan knew only that he had not hesitated when his friend asked him to stand second.
His mother had not chastised him when rumor spread that he was there. She’d reminded him dueling was illegal, but he’d expected her to be much harsher. When he asked her about it later, she told him he’d been punished enough, having to watch his friend die.
Whatever perceived crimes she might have committed, she hadn’t deserved to see her family die.
She sighed, her body seeming to relax and leaning into his. His words had the effect of calming her, and he could be grateful for that much.
“So much death. I could not avoid it. And then there was my mother…” She paused and swallowed.
Nathan put his arm around her. “You don’t have to say it.”
She nodded. “I saw her in the corridor outside the safe room. She’d been trying to escape to safety. She’d been so close.”
Her voice was thick with emotion, but she didn’t cry. He wondered if princesses were given lessons in retaining their dignity no matter the situation.
He pulled her closer, and she laid her head on his shoulder. Nathan hoped none of the servants was observing them. He did not want talk about Vivienne circulating. He trusted his staff to a point, but the more plentiful the gossip, the harder to keep it contained.
“That’s not the worst part,” she murmured, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. “That’s not all I see in my nightmares.”
“What do you see?” He could not imagine anything worse than seeing your own mother murdered.
“The eyes.” Her body shuddered. “When I try to sleep, I see all those sightless eyes staring at me. “So many pairs of eyes and so many colors—brown, blue, green, hazel. All dead. I might have been another pair of sightless eyes. I feel as though I should be.”
She straightened and looked at him. Nathan wished there was something, anything he could say to ease her pain.
“Why should I be alive when so many were murdered? What did the kitchen maid ever do? The laundress? If someone is to pay for the crimes the reavlutionnaire accuse us of, it should have been me.”
“Are you guilty of the crimes?”
“Of the excesses? Probably, to some extent. Of making secret treaties and imprisoning innocent people? No.”
“Your death would not have saved any of the innocents.” He rose and pulled her to her feet. “Your life will ensure they are remembered.”
She seemed to study the flowers surrounding them. “I hadn’t thought of that. There is more to you than a pretty face.”
He lifted her hand, kissed it. “Much more.”
Nathan spent the afternoon in his library, crafting the letter he hoped would sway the Prince Regent to offer British protection for the fugitive princess from Glynaven. When he’d finished, he sent one of his grooms to London, although the prince might very well have removed to Brighton or Bath now that the Season was over.
Nathan had other work to attend to throughout the afternoon, but his mind continued to wander to the princess. He’d known she was beautiful, known she was intelligent, but the fact she’d escaped
the slaughter—there was no other term for it, not in his mind—at the Glynaven palace and then made her way through the English countryside alone made her far more resourceful than he would have believed. She had inner strength as well. She couldn’t stop the nightmares that plagued her sleep, but she had not shed a tear or lost her composure once in the garden when recounting the horrors she’d seen.
He knew hundreds of women, and not one could hold a candle to her.
There was a small hitch, of course. He needed a duchess, and the difference between those hundreds of women and Princess Vivienne was that the other women were literally swooning to be his duchess. Vivienne had all but told him he was far too pretty for her taste.
Well, he couldn’t do a bloody thing about his looks, but he would show her he was much more than a handsome face.
“Chapple!” he bellowed, even though he had a bell pull within reach. There was something quite satisfying about bellowing for Chapple. Perhaps it was the way the butler burst into the room, eyes wide with concern.
“What is it, Your Grace?”
“Do you have it, Chapple?”
“Have what, Your Grace?” the butler panted.
“The item we discussed. The gift for the…Lady Vivienne.”
“It will be delivered tonight, Your Grace.”
“Good.” He’d present the surprise to her tomorrow. “Tell Fletcher I’ll dress for dinner now.” He started toward the entry hall, Chapple following at his heels. “Lady Vivienne is aware she is expected at dinner?”
“I think so, Your Grace. I do not think she will be able to dress for the occasion, however, as she has only one dress at present.”
Good point. “Then I won’t change either. We will have an informal dinner. Tell Cook.”
“One other matter, Your Grace.”
“What is it?”
“The Duke of Stoke Teversault sent a message inquiring as to whether Wyndover Park will field an oarsman in the Dukeries Cup this year.”
Damn it. Nathan had forgotten all about the annual scull race held on the serpentine lake at Teversault. At Sedgemere’s house party, the Duchess of Linton had mentioned her brother would be rowing for The Chimneys this year, and William Besett would row for Teversault. Nathan was a mediocre oarsman, and he had no brothers or cousins to enter. Wyndover Park was not one of the Dukeries, but Stoke Teversault always extended the courtesy of an invitation. Nathan might have asked a friend, as he had in the past, but he did not want to endanger Vivienne by inviting guests to his estate.
“Reply that Wyndover Park forfeits this year, and thank the Duke of Stoke Teversault for his courtesy.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The lines around Chapple’s mouth deepened with disapproval. Chapple, like all the servants, enjoyed watching the race, especially those years when the Wyndover family fielded an oarsman.
“You heard me, Chapple.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Chapple said with a labored sigh.
*
Vivienne was grateful for the distraction of dinner. She’d spent most of the day walking the grounds and learning her way around Wyndover Park. She might have liked to read a book, but the duke was in the library. She did not want to disturb him.
That wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t that she cared so much if she disturbed him, but she didn’t want to be alone with him. The way he’d held her in the garden, kissed her last night—both gestures had been sweet and innocent. The trouble was, she would have liked more of the same, only not quite so sweet and definitely not innocent.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her.
She had never been free with her favors, and she had never desired a man like the Duke of Wyndover. Ne rien! She didn’t even know his given name. It was assuredly something very pretty, like William or Charles. A pretty name to go with his pretty face.
“There you go, my lady,” said the maid. The middle-aged woman had been abruptly promoted to lady’s maid and tasked with styling Vivienne’s hair. “You look lovely, if I do say so myself.”
“It will do, O’Connell.”
She did look lovely—not as pretty as the duke, but then, that bar was much too high.
“Not much we can do with yer dress. It’s clean, and His Grace did say he would not dress for dinner.”
“Very accommodating of him,” Vivienne answered, watching in the mirror as the maid fussed with the hair-styling accoutrement. “Does he host many dinner parties?”
“Oh yes, my lady.” O’Connell, who was tall with strawberry blond hair tucked in a cap, nodded. “Here and in London. I travel back and forth with the family. Not all of the staff do, you see.”
Vivienne nodded, understanding the maid saw this as a mark of honor.
“He hosts dozens and dozens of dinner parties, balls, and the like. He’s the Duke of Wyndover.”
Obviously, the maid thought that last statement explained all.
“Who plays hostess? He has no duchess.” Oh God. He wasn’t married, was he? She hadn’t considered that he might be married. Perhaps that was the reason he’d been so chaste in his dealings with her.
“No, my lady. Not yet. His mother plays hostess. The duchess is in Bath at present. Of course, if she hears you are here, she’ll be back in an instant.” O’Connell’s brown eyes widened. “Not that she’ll hear. We’re all to remain mum on the subject.”
She ought to give Wyndover more credit. “Why would she return so quickly?”
“Because she wants the duke to marry, of course. He’s an only child. The duchess thought she’d never conceive, and then fifteen years after she and the late duke wed—God rest his soul—here comes the current duke. I wasn’t with the family then, but to hear Chapple tell it, there was much rejoicing that day.”
“So the duke needs an heir.”
“If he doesn’t produce one, the title passes to”—she lowered her voice—“an American.”
“Heavens.” Vivienne barely suppressed a smile. Glynaven was on good terms with the United States of America, but she understood England’s ambiguity toward its former colony.
“Why hasn’t he married yet?” Vivienne asked, more to herself than O’Connell, as she didn’t expect a servant to possess that information. “Surely he must meet dozens of eligible ladies at all of these family gatherings.”
She’d never met the Duchess of Wyndover, but if the woman was anything like her own mother, the duke’s house had been full of eligible, acceptable ladies.
“Oh yes, but none of the ladies is like you.”
Vivienne turned on the stool to face the maid directly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean no disrespect, my lady!” O’Connell held her hands up. “It’s a compliment. You don’t swoon when you’re with him. We all thought maybe he planned to make you his duchess.”
Vivienne blinked. “I don’t understand. Women swoon when they’re with the duke?”
“All the time, my lady.” O’Connell pushed a loose strand of hair back under her cap. “I can hardly blame them. I mean, look at the man. I nearly swooned when I first saw him. But that was from a distance, and Mrs. Patton—she’s the housekeeper—pinched me and told me if I dared faint I’d lose my position. Now I keep my eyes down when he’s near.” She pushed at her hair again. “If I don’t look at him directly, I don’t feel quite so dizzy.”
Oh, this was too much. It was a wonder the man did not have the arrogance of a king. With women falling at his feet, he should have thought himself God’s gift to the fairer sex. She liked him more because he never acted as such when he was near her. In fact, he seemed to prefer to avoid discussing his good looks.
“This has all been very interesting, O’Connell.” She rose, hating the plain dress she wore and knowing she should be grateful for it.
“It wasn’t gossip,” O’Connell said hastily. “Mrs. Patton doesn’t tolerate gossip.”
“Definitely not gossip to state facts.” She winked, and the maid’s shoulders relaxed. Vivienne liked O
’Connell. Her lady’s maid at Glynaven palace had been tight-lipped and always frowning. Vivienne’s hair was never tidy, her dresses too wrinkled, and the maid hadn’t had a tender hand with a brush.
Poor Hortense was probably dead now, and Vivienne did not want to think ill of the dead, but if she ever had another lady’s maid, she’d want someone like O’Connell.
She wondered if she should meet the duke in the drawing room, then decided since the dinner was informal, he would probably be waiting for her in the dining room. Thanks to her explorations earlier that day, she knew precisely where to go.
When she entered, he stood at the far side of the table, hands in his pockets, gaze on a painting on the wall across from him. For a moment, she understood why women swooned. He was arrestingly handsome. All the golden hair shining in the firelight, those stunning eyes, that square jaw, and chiseled cheeks.
She didn’t know what he looked like underneath his clothing, but he looked very, very good in it. He was all long, lean lines and firm muscles.
She moved inside the dining room, and his gaze shifted and collided with hers. She felt a jolt when he looked at her, when all of that male beauty focused on her and her alone.
He smiled, a genuine smile that somehow made him even more attractive, although less imposing.
“You found it.” He crossed to her, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles. Lips still pressed to her knuckles, he glanced up at her, his eyes darkening. “You look beautiful.”
She almost laughed. She looked beautiful? Hardly.
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for dinner. You didn’t have to go to the trouble, but I confess I am glad you did. This room is stunning.”
And it was. The long mahogany table gleamed with china and silver. Above it, a chandelier glowed softly, the unusual crystal drops hanging from each sconce making a sort of rainbow on the white-paneled walls. Red roses in short arrangements sat on either end of the sideboard and in the middle of the table. One end had been set for him and one for her.
“Tell Cook to send the first course,” Wyndover said to the footman.
