by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
“George.” He gave a long, loud sigh. “You know that’s nonsense.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s me. It has to be.”
“No, it was me.”
“I’m enthusiastic about kissing a pretty woman but—Not you.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“Don’t be. Don’t be at all.”
“I’m not your usual sort.”
“No.” He gazed at her. “I like a woman with some substance there.” He fluttered a hand in the vicinity of her bosom. “And you—Much to admire there, George.”
“Thank you. There’s much to admire in you as well.”
“Yes, I know. It’s, it’s…” He scrunched up his face and then burst out with, “It’s as if you were my sister, and a man can’t kiss his sister. Not anything like properly.”
“You mustn’t think it’s your fault. It’s mine too. I think there may be no one else for me but Edward.” That wasn’t true. One other man affected her the way Edward had, and that man was a hawk not a lion. With him, there were no roars meant to impress, only a swift strike that left one breathless and weak at the knees.
He touched her cheek, but she saw a flash of relief in his eyes. “You and Lark were meant for each other. I never saw any two people fall in love so fast in all my life.” He let his hand fall away. “I want that for myself. To meet the person who completes me. You should want the same.”
“We tried.” She patted his chest, more than a little relieved to have come to this point. “You and I. We tried, and now there can be no question we are destined to remain friends.”
“Yes.” He grinned, and the awkwardness melted away. “That’s so.”
“We’d best go inside and explain to the others that someone has absconded with my treasure.”
“Yes. Let’s do that.”
They returned to the house and found a box, paper, and ribbon for the new prize. William dripped blood red wax on the box and pressed his personal seal into it. In her opinion, the result was quite effective.
The participants in the hunt were in the music room as agreed upon for the post-treasure-hunt celebration. Whilst they were waiting, no laggers had appeared with her apple, and the housekeeper had give them the disappointing news that no apple, gold or otherwise, had been turned in to the household staff. There followed a great deal of discussion and the proffering of ingenious and ridiculous theories about the disappearance of her apple, but there was general satisfaction with the decision to select an alternate means of winning and the awarding of a new prize.
With great pomp and circumstance, and a rousing speech about valor and honor, Lord William produced the Dukeries Commemorative Shilling. George awarded the prize to Miss Paltree, for careful questioning had elicited the information that she had arrived at the orangery in time to see Lord William departing with the bloodhound.
After this, Kitty sat at the piano and played a march suitable for the bestowment of a distinguished, coveted prize. She gave up the bench to another young lady who played and sang very well indeed, and after that, Miss Paltree played the harp with Lord William accompanying her on the piano and really, could a day be more perfect than this one thus far? Aside from the mystery of her missing treasure.
Revers said, “Will you sing for us, Miss Hunter?”
Lord William thumped the piano bench. “Come, Kitty. I’ll find something here for you to entertain us with.”
Kitty returned to sit beside Lord William. Her fingers rippled over the keys as if born to them. She’d always practiced more than George. “Do you have ‘A Trifling Song’ or ‘I’ll Love Thee Night and Day, Love’?”
“What about ‘O, Life is Like’?”
Kitty played the opening melody. “A pretty tune.”
“Yes, yes. That’s here.” He settled the music before her.
Kitty acquitted herself beautifully. When she’d done, Lord William said something to her, and she smiled and played a Bach cantata from memory. Her sister was talented, and Lord Revers and the others came to attention. At one point, Lord William ceased watching the others to concentrate on Kitty. George wondered if he’d already forgotten he’d proposed marriage to her not an hour past.
The song ended, and Kitty said, “Your turn now, Georgina.”
“George, you must,” Lord William said. “There’s no such thing as a musical recital if we don’t hear you.” He riffled through sheet music until he found something he liked. “‘No One Shall Govern Me.’ One of your brother’s favorites.”
“Do you have ‘Is There a Heart’?” Kitty leaned over Lord William’s shoulder. “Yes, there it is. Georgina, you know the words?”
“I do.”
Kitty played the opening chorus, and George stood beside the piano and hummed along with her sister’s introductory notes. The Hunters were a musical family, and George did love to sing. Adored it. She had a good voice, possibly better than good. She glanced at Kitty and her sister nodded, and really, all they were missing was Hugh as she launched into the song. She didn’t hold back. She never could. The tune was beautiful and lovely and she never could do anything but her absolute best. If the words reminded her of Stoke Teversault no one need know.
Is there a heart that never loved
Or felt soft woman’s sigh?
Is there a man can mark unmov’d
Dear woman’s tearful eye?
The moment she finished, Kitty began another favorite of theirs, again from memory, so Lord William had no pages to turn. He stayed beside her on the bench, though. George sang that one, too, and Kitty added a counterpoint and Lord William joined in because he’d been at Uplyft Hall many times for a musical evening and knew the song well.
When they were done, amid much applause and requests for more, Kitty laid her hands on the keyboard. Underneath the applause, she said, low enough that only George and Lord William heard, “I miss Hugh. I wish he were here.”
Lord William put an arm around Kitty’s shoulders and hugged her. “I as well, Kitty. I as well. We’ll have a week’s celebration when he’s home from Paris.”
They relinquished their place at the piano to give others a turn to play. While they’d been singing, other guests had come in, so places to sit were scarce. George hung back, pleased that Kitty was so much at ease now. Lord Revers joined Kitty and Lord William. George, watching from a distance, rather fancied the viscount’s regard for Kitty had undergone a marked change. Not mere admiration, but genuine respect for more than her looks.
A prickle of awareness went through her, and she turned toward the door.
There in the doorway, dressed in dark, dark clothes and with his stern and disapproving look, stood the Duke of Stoke Teversault. He was staring at her, but that wasn’t what had her staring back. He’d added a second fob to his watch, a golden apple that dangled from a golden chain.
Chapter Seven
‡
During the several minutes it took her to traverse the twenty yards between her and the duke, he seemed carved in place, for he did not move even once. She felt they were the only two in the room, even though they weren’t.
With the music done and aspirants to additional performances dispersed, the level of conversational noise had increased considerably. With every glimpse of him, desire pooled in her, shocking, yet not to be denied. Whatever interior fire had driven him to the state of his body—lean, strong—his was a form honed to serve the intellect behind his stark eyes.
When they met, not even half the way, she curtseyed and steeled herself against that assessing gaze that since she’d come here had never failed to carve out a pit of nerves in her stomach. No handsome man had ever made her feel so helpless. His waistcoat was dark bronze silk shot through with gold thread. A hawk’s head was engraved on his buttons. Short hair because he had no vanity. Plain clothes for the same reason. Here is the man I am. Take me or leave me as you will.
“Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Lark.” His eyes challenged her
.
“You have my apple.”
He tapped his ear and shook his head.
She leaned in and raised her voice. “Your Grace, you have my apple.”
Again, he shook his head, impatience in the curt motion. “Come, Mrs. Lark.” He touched her elbow and guided her toward the door. She expected he would veer left, but he did not. His hand remained on the back of her elbow, guiding her out of the parlor. It was already quieter out here, so she could not disagree with his remedy.
When they were several feet down the corridor she said, “You have my apple, Your Grace.”
“I do not know what you mean.” He walked fast enough that she had to take long steps to keep pace.
She frowned at his retreating back, baffled by a response that was an outright lie. She hurried after him. “There, on your watch. That is my apple.”
He turned his upper body toward her. “Is it yours? I think not.”
“I think so.”
“We’ll settle the matter presently.” He gave her a meaningful look and fell silent when several young ladies passed them. He walked away from her again. “I should like a word in private with you.”
“Oh. Well.” She was so astonished she stopped walking. He did not. She caught up. She wasn’t foolish enough to think her attraction to him was returned in any way. “May I ask on what subject?”
“A matter that requires the privacy lacking anywhere in this house that I could take you with hope of decency.”
There was nothing in his voice or expression to suggest he meant anything other than his plain meaning. Yet, the suggestion that there could be impropriety floated between them. “Very well.” She increased her stride and banished such ridiculous ideas. “If it’s necessary.”
“It is.”
“Where are we going?” she asked when he opened a door to the outside.
“Where we will not be overheard.” They veered away from the gardens where there were at least thirty people admiring the colors and greenery. He took a path away from the house and toward a grove of mammoth oaks she had been intending to explore.
“How far are we going?” She was wearing silk, a gauzy white lace shawl, and a hat that offered no protection from the sun or the breeze. “Will we be long?”
“If I were to escort you to my private quarters we would be seen and remarked upon in a manner that does us no credit. Half the people here today are friends of Sedgemere’s or others whom I do not count as allies.”
“I accept your premise that gossip is to be avoided at all cost.” She picked a windblown leaf from her hair. “I haven’t a cloak or a shawl, Your Grace.”
He gave her another of his save me from this woman looks and then, God in heaven above, he stopped walking and stripped off his coat.
A thousand, no, a hundred thousand butterflies soared in her belly. The man moved with bewitching economy and assurance. “It does not make me warmer, sir, if you also do not have proper attire.”
In chilling silence, he draped his coat around her shoulders and tugged the upper collar close. When she reached to hold the fabric herself, he jumped back as if he were afraid of pestilence. Gallant of him, and a kindness snatched away by that retreat. Well. There was not even a moment to misunderstand him. He could not bear to touch her.
He resumed walking. His coat was warm, and it smelled like him, and she was glad to have it, for he was walking toward the shade. Something heavy in one of the pockets tapped against her leg as she followed.
“What if I no longer wish to accompany you?” The man who had been so newly charming to her while they walked the lime-tree avenue was nowhere in evidence. What had she done to turn him so cold?
He faced her. “That is your right, Mrs. Lark. If you wish, I will escort you back to the house.”
What choice had she, really? None, if she wanted to know what he intended to say to her. At least he’d chosen a scenic direction, though, in fairness, there were few places at Teversault that were not scenic. No would-be lovers the two of them. On this promenade, he was a general and she a lowly foot solider about to be upbraided for some heinous breach of decorum.
Two liveried footmen stood guard at the U-shaped entrance to the grove of trees, a demarcation of a part of the grounds not open to the public. Both servants were as tall or taller than the duke. He meant business in posting these men here. If she’d come here by herself she’d have thought twice about getting past them.
She imagined herself on a secret campaign, marching through enemy territory, facing certain death. They were well into the trees, their mission involving the fate of England… From the occasional stump amid the gigantic oaks, she deduced there had been deliberate culling and shaping of the grove over the years. There were other signs that this area had been tended to appear wild without actually being so. There was very little of the usual bramble, and closer to the path, the leaves had been swept away. The path itself was covered with freshly laid crushed gravel.
Another imaginary scene came to her. Far more apt, she decided, than a general and a loyal soldier. “I am put in mind of the story of Sleeping Beauty.”
He was not amused. “You are no princess, ma’am.”
“I wasn’t implying I was, sir.”
“Nor am I a huntsman with secret orders to return with your heart and eyes in a box.”
After several more steps, she muttered, “If you were, you would not tell me, would you?”
He stopped and turned sideways, his far arm extended along the path ahead. “Behold. The scene of your gruesome death.”
She only just avoided walking into him. They had emerged into a glade where the sun glinted off a pond, though not a natural one. It was a large rectangle, with a low curb overgrown with moss all around. In places the ledge was covered by the reeds growing at the edge. The path widened to accommodate a series of iron benches painted glossy black and facing the pond. On the opposite side of the water, an expanse of well-tended meadow extended into the surrounding trees.
She moved past him, holding on to his coat, enchanted by the view. “It’s not fair of you to bring me to such a beautiful place when you intend to make me unhappy.”
Ducks and swans floated on the water, and she saw the flash of a pheasant tail at the far side of the glade. She headed toward the water. “I wish I’d known this was here, I’d have brought bread for the birds.”
He stopped at the edge of the pool and stared at the green surface, his face in three-quarter profile to her. It was unsettling to see him without his coat. Not just unsettling. Dangerous. She was drawn into the intimacy of his undress. She thrummed with sexual tension. Now that she’d experience of life and men, she was able to identify her reaction. Animal attraction. Unwarranted, yes, since he did not share her feelings. Think what would happen if he did. Have mercy on them both, for they would be reduced to ashes. She would, at least.
Desperate to break her mood and his silence, she asked, “Do you swim here?
He picked up a pebble and skipped it along the surface of the water. “I did as a boy. William too, when he was old enough.”
His shoulders were broad, and she could not help but see the flex of muscles when he released another pebble. When the silence bore down too hard, she coughed to remind him she was here. He sorted through the pebbles in his hand, tossing unsuitable ones just as he judged, and rejected, unsuitable people. “Is the water cold?”
“That is dependent upon the weather.” He let out a breath and faced her. “We will be private here, I assure you.” Fearful anticipation took over as her predominant state of mind. His eyes were so cool she had no idea what he might say. Anything at all, though she suspected what he intended to say would not be pleasant for her. “Mrs. Lark.”
“Has something happened to Hugh?” She spoke too fast, and fear pushed her voice into a higher register than she liked. She could but brace for the worst possible news.
His eyebrows shot up. “No, ma’am.”
She rested a hand on her upp
er chest, half on his coat, partially on her throat. Eyes closed, she gave thanks for that. “I could not think what else might require such solitude as this.”
“From your murder to this.” He shook his head. “Your imagination is too easily stirred.”
“You are not standing here with no idea what horrible news must soon be imparted.”
“Point taken.” His dark lashes lowered so that she could not see his eyes. The tiniest quirk flashed at the corner of his mouth, a rare smile or a mark of his displeasure? She was not certain which. A smile from him could, would, lead her to her doom. “Allow me to relieve the worst of your fears then. I am not going to murder you.”
“Thank you.”
“Nor have I news of your brother.”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
“I thought you would find this place beautiful.”
She adjusted his coat, baffled by this encounter. The garment was too big on her shoulders, and it was heavy too. “I would enjoy the prospect more if I were not in a state of utter terror.”
He bent for another pebble or two and weighed them in his palm. “What are your intentions toward my brother?”
She gazed at him, nonplussed, and then she wasn’t. She mentally counted to five so that she would not say words she would regret. “Friendship, Your Grace.”
In all her life, she had never been in such a peculiar position as this. She owed him a great deal. It was due to his influence that Hugh had his position and a bright future. Stoke Teversault had come to her assistance during the very darkest time of her life. Yet, he had never, but once during that time shown her anything but icy disdain. Once, in his arms, once with her soul stripped bare, and he’d sunk into the marrow of her bones.
“Nothing else?” he asked dryly.
“No, Your Grace.” An awful explanation for his questions and dire manner occurred to her. He’d seen Lord William kissing her and believed she had designs on his brother. “I love your brother. I do.”
Those were the wrong words. Or, rather, she said the correct words in an incorrect order. He went still in that way she’d come to recognize. That stillness meant he was especially alert. It meant his emotions would be impossible to divine. That stillness meant that when he struck, the blow would be deadly. He could decimate her with a look, a word. With silence.
