by Diana Quincy
She added the mixed tea leaves to the pre-warmed pot and nodded for the footman to pour boiling water over them. The humid steam drifted upward, carrying the beginnings of the brew’s aromatic scent. Willa inhaled, both savoring and assessing the aroma. She closed the top of the teapot and wrapped a cloth around it to seal in the heat during the brewing process.
Satisfied the tea was steeping properly, she looked up to find Hartwell’s inky blue eyes studying her as if he could see right into her soul. Her skin tingled and her heart thudded. Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away.
“Willa.” Mother’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Have I told you Lady Barnes is desperate for your tea recipe with thyme in it?”
Hartwell blinked, breaking eye contact, and Willa started breathing again.
The duke cleared his throat. “Perhaps I will take tea after all.”
“Excellent choice,” Cam said. “Once you’ve tasted Willa’s tea, none other will satisfy you.”
“No doubt,” murmured Hartwell.
Willa’s ears burned. “One lump or two, Your Grace?”
“Three, if you please.” His piercing gaze held hers. “I have a tendency toward overindulgence.”
Suddenly remembering the tea, she gaped blindly at the pot, unable to recall how long she’d let it brew. She poured the steaming dark amber liquid into each cup, hoping she’d timed it properly. At least the brandied color appeared correct. The pungent smell of fresh tea, with a hint of citrus coupled with the sharpness of rosemary, filled the air, satisfying the senses. She counted out three lumps for the duke and then moved onto her family members, taking care to prepare each cup according to their individual tastes. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Hartwell took his first sip.
He sniffed it, very subtly, but Willa caught the almost undetectable action because she always did the same herself. Then he tasted it.
“Excellent,” he pronounced. “Full bodied and aromatic with a slightly tangy finish.”
Warmth spread through her, and it had nothing to do with the tea since she hadn’t sampled hers yet. Taking a sip, she could only agree with his assessment. Her special concoction tasted full and lively on the tongue, with just the right touch of astringency.
Cam reached for a sandwich. “Hartwell, I was telling the ladies that you were in India.”
Mother crossed both hands flat over her chest. “Yes, how exotic, Your Grace.” Willa fought to keep from rolling her eyes at the way her mother fawned all over the duke. No doubt he was accustomed to toadyish behavior from females, especially marriage-minded mommas like hers.
Cam leaned forward. “What business did you have there?”
“I traded mostly in sugar.”
“Will you continue that endeavor, now that you have returned permanently to England?” Cam asked.
“Indeed. My man of business is seeing about purchasing an adequate building to house my clerks and business concerns here in Town.”
“How did your trade affect the locals?” Willa knew from her reading that many Englishmen made their fortune in India at the expense of native workers. “Was it successful for them as well?”
“Willa!” Mother gasped, shooting her a daggered look. “Your Grace, my daughter means no offense to be sure.”
“Not to worry. I’m certain I comprehend your daughter’s true intentions perfectly,” he said easily. “To demonstrate that I hold no ill feelings, perhaps Lady Wilhelmina would favor me with a carriage ride through Hyde Park.” His smooth smile almost dared her to refuse. “If she is disposed, of course.”
Willa stiffened. She would decline all right. She wanted nothing further to do with men—especially one who seemed to enjoy mocking her. “That is most kind of you, Your Grace. But truly, we have had much family excitement here today and I am disposed to take an afternoon nap.” Mother would think her still emotional over Addie’s news and playing on her softhearted nature would give Willa a chance to bow out of an afternoon ride with Hartwell.
“Actually, I was hoping you could join me on the morrow, provided the marchioness approves.”
“Of course!” Her mother jumped in before Willa could respond. “I would be most pleased. We both would.”
“Willa adores riding in the park,” Addie piped in, wide-eyed.
Willa suppressed the urge to massage her temples. She lacked the energy to continue playing whatever game the duke had in mind. At least if she agreed to accompany him, he might depart posthaste. And an afternoon ride with His Grace promised to be passably more tolerable than another encounter with Augustus. Race would no doubt call upon his betrothed soon. And his brother might well accompany him.
“Why ever not.” She feigned indifference. “Unless Camryn has an objection?” She cast a hopeful look in her cousin’s direction.
Cam grinned. “Not at all, dearest cousin.”
“Excellent,” said Hartwell. “I shall look forward to it.”
Chapter Four
“May I be frank?” Willa said the following day as she and the duke rode in his impressive phaeton, a high-perched, black lacquer conveyance.
“Do you have any other manner of speaking?” Hartwell kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Or do you save that particular privilege solely for me?”
“In all seriousness, why are you doing this?”
“Taking you for a carriage ride?”
“Seeking me out to amuse yourself.”
“Perhaps I mean to court you.” He fired off a slow confident smile that made her heart skid. Bold and forceful, it was devastating in its allure. There was something almost animalistic in those decisive rows of long teeth.
She forced herself to remember a duke would never court someone with her past—especially one as appealing as the man sitting next to her. Unless, of course, he’d yet to hear of the scandal. “Why, pray tell, would you engage with someone such as me?”
“Someone such as you?” His dark brows furrowed. “Granted, one risks frostbite from that icy tongue of yours, but I daresay I can withstand the cold.”
“And you do have all of that hot air to keep you warm,” she said sweetly.
He barked a laugh. “That, along with the certain knowledge that summer invariably follows winter. I look forward with great anticipation to the hot and sultry season.”
“I am obviously on the shelf,” she said firmly. “Meanwhile, there are ambitious mothers all over Town who would be thrilled to have the Duke of Hartwell court their daughters.”
“Your mother seems pleased enough.”
“She tends to be swayed by a grand title, with little regard as to the character of the man who carries it.”
“Brrrr.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “I do believe a frosty gale has just blown over me.”
Suppressing a smile, she inhaled, drawing his masculine scent into her lungs. He must have restrained from cheroots thus far today. He had that clean, strong—very pleasing—smell again. “As you can see, I am neither an impressionable young debutante nor a desperate ape leader to be toyed with.” Nor a strumpet who dallied with dukes because of a dented reputation. “So it seems you are wasting your time.”
“On the contrary, I enjoy myself immensely in your company.” His midnight blue gaze perused her with open appreciation. “I’m even coming to appreciate the nippy air.”
Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Botheration, the man’s flirtations made her nervous and her insides seemed to be vibrating. “Is that why you mock me?”
“Mock you? Not at all, though I must admit I enjoy sparring with you.”
“If it is a sparring partner you seek, perhaps you should repair to the nearest boxing club,” she retorted.
Hartwell laughed out loud, a full-bodied sound which rumbled from deep within his chest. He threw his head back, his profile emphasizing a strong nose and sharp-cut cheeks. Drawn to the sound of his laugh, she couldn’t resist a slight smile.
“I assure you boxing is the furthest activity from my mind when I am with you,�
�� he drawled.
Willa’s cheeks and ears burned. He had an annoying knack of doing that to her. “Honestly, Your Grace.”
“Please, you must call me Hartwell.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Surely, we are well acquainted enough to dispense with this ‘Your Grace’ business.”
“That would be improper as you well know.” She tried to ignore the way her heart danced around inside her chest. “I can endure your antics, but you are shamelessly toying with my mother.”
He sobered. “I beg your pardon?”
“Surely you have noticed she is quite taken with the notion that a duke might be interested in courting me at my advanced age. It is cruel of you to give her false hope.”
Hartwell drew back. “I would never be deliberately cruel to a lady such as your mother. Why do you presume there is anything false in my pursuit?” Pulling the phaeton to a stop in the park, he turned to give Willa his full attention.
The sincere interest shining in those dark blue depths prompted a glowing sensation in her chest, but she forced herself to remember Hartwell would soon learn the ton considered her to be damaged goods. The cool mask slipped back into place. “It appears, Your Grace, that your stay in India has left you quite behind the times.”
…
That evening, with his thoughts still full of the ice queen, Hartwell ventured out to Brooks, the London gentlemen’s club on St. James Street. So much about Wilhelmina Stanhope perplexed him.
Your stay in India has left you quite behind the times. He’d seen Willa retreat back behind that impenetrable façade. What had she meant? Why did she assume his intentions were less than honorable? Clearly, she didn’t comprehend the depth of her physical appeal. Just a glance from those endless velvet eyes would bring any red-blooded man to a point. He had a mind to warm her right up, kindling a fire in those immense eyes. Anything to burn away the controlled, shuttered look she hid behind.
Your stay in India has left you quite behind the times.
A lady of her undeniable beauty shouldn’t still be unmarried at her age. Unless, of course, she’d waited for Bellingham. The thought of it roiled his gut.
Arriving at Brooks, he strode across the club’s plush carpets into the gaming room where a fire roared in the immense marble hearth. The low murmur of voices, punctuated by occasional bursts of muted laughter, wafted through the smoke-hazed room, the air redolent with the smell of burning tobacco and men’s shaving soap.
“Hartwell, you old nabob, I see you’ve found your way back from India,” said David Selwyn, an old friend from Cambridge. “Have you finally tired of building your empire?”
“Not at all.” He wasn’t one to stay idle for long. As a second son, necessity had driven him to make his fortune in India. Now, as duke, desire fueled his continued interest in enterprise. Few things got his blood pumping more than negotiating a lucrative transaction. “However, my ducal responsibilities require that I move the headquarters of said empire to London.” Hartwell joined the table, settling into a plush brown leather chair, and nodding a greeting to the others at the table, all of whom he had some acquaintance with from their university days.
“I say, was that you escorting Lady Wilhelmina Stanhope in the park today?” garbled Lord Edmund Garrick, whose tongue was known to get a little loose when he drank too much.
“It was. Although I don’t see why that would be of any interest to you.” He spoke in a curt tone, unwilling to discuss a lady in these surroundings.
“Brave of you,” Garrick mumbled under his breath.
He lifted his chin. “Why is that?”
Sir Heenan, a thin gentleman with premature gray at his temples, leaned forward. “You’ve been away, Hartwell.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there is a quiet understanding among gentlemen of a certain standing that Lady Wilhelmina is spoken for.”
“By whom?” To his surprise, Hart’s gut twisted. “I was not aware the lady is betrothed.”
“They say Bellingham has put his mark on her.” Garrick’s words tumbled out in one continuous slur.
Hart’s fingers tightened around his glass. “What the devil are you implying?”
“Shut up, Garrick,” Selwyn said tightly. “You really can be an arse sometimes.”
“There’s long been talk of her belonging to Augustus Manning. He’s finally come into the title. He’s Bellingham now,” Heenan said. “Surely you remember him from Cambridge.”
“Vaguely.”
Remembrance clicked in Heenan’s eyes. “Ah, yes, there was bad blood between the two of you.”
“I’ll say.” Garrick bottomed out his glass. “Hartwell gave Bellingham the thrashing of his life. They’d have sent him up if he hadn’t been the son of a duke.”
“You never did say what Bellingham did to deserve such harsh treatment,” Heenan said.
Hart concentrated on the swirling brandy in his glass. “No, I did not.”
Heenan added, “Brave of you to lick the heir to an earldom.”
Garrick motioned for more brandy. A club worker stepped forward with a full decanter. “Especially considering you were only a second son with no hope of a title.” He raised his refilled drink in salute. “Congratulations, by the way, on your reversal of fortune.”
Hart’s chest constricted at the indirect reference to his late brother. Michael’s kind and steady visage flashed in his mind. A good man’s untimely death was no cause for celebration. Looking to Heenan, he said, “I scarcely see how Lady Wilhelmina can belong to Bellingham if there is no betrothal.”
“There is certain talk no gentleman would ever repeat.” Heenan reached for his mother-of-pearl snuffbox. “Some say it is why the lady has kept herself away from Town for so long.”
“And this is commonly discussed in society?”
“It is not the kind of thing one hears in Mayfair’s drawing rooms,” Selwyn answered in halting tones.
“But most gentlemen about Town eventually hear the talk,” Garrick added with a lascivious smirk.
Heenan leaned over and inhaled snuff into his nose. “Not that anyone dares to cut her in public.” Leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, he used a handkerchief to wipe remnants of the powdery substance from his upper lip. “Impeccable family lines and all. The family carries on as though nothing has happened. She is under the protection of her cousin, the Marquess of Camryn, who is quite influential in the Lords. No one dares risk his wrath.”
“I don’t follow.”
Garrick leaned forward. “They say the chit is compromised. Utterly and completely, if you get my meaning.” He winked at Hart. “But she still acts the frigid princess, all high and mighty. Otherwise, who wouldn’t want to toss up those skirts and give her a good hard—”
Something in his head snapped loose, blinding him to anything but the desire to crush the drunken whoreson beneath his boot heel. He bolted to his feet and shoved the table back with a loud clatter. Towering over Garrick, he grabbed the man’s cravat with one hand and drew back his fist with the other. Garrick shrank back in his chair, wide-eyed, his face pinched with fear. Action at the other gaming tables screeched to a halt. Silence descended; all eyes were riveted on Hartwell.
Selwyn jumped up and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Now Hartwell,” he said, partially positioning himself between the two men. “This is just a friendly misunderstanding among gentlemen.”
His neck burned. It was a lie. It had to be. “It is hardly the act of a gentleman to insult a lady’s honor in the most grievous way possible.”
“My sincere apologies, H-Hartwell. I d-did not know the l-lady was of a-any import to you,” Garrick stuttered, still cowering in his seat.
“It seems I’ve arrived just in time for the real games to begin.”
The familiar jocular voice pierced the red fog enveloping Hartwell. He glanced over his shoulder to see Cam approaching their table.
“What is this?” The marquess handed his greatcoat to one of the c
lub workers. “Causing trouble already, Hartwell?”
His head screamed with anger, consuming him with an overwhelming desire to break the lying bastard’s short neck with his bare hands. But he struggled to get a hold of his temper. Cam had appeared. Too many eyes were upon him. To allow this scene to play out would no doubt spark gossip about what had been said. He felt strangely protective and unwilling to subject Willa’s reputation to such potential ruin.
“Camryn, jolly good to see you,” said Selwyn, appearing hopeful that Cam’s appearance would put an end to the confrontation.
Hart reluctantly released Garrick with a small shove. Lowering his fist, he dragged his eyes from Garrick’s ashen face and turned to Cam, struggling to mask his fury. “No trouble. Just a misunderstanding among gentlemen.” He forced a cool tone despite the fire raging inside him. “Garrick here was just about to leave us. Won’t you take his seat?”
The little bastard sprang to his feet, eager to take his cue. “Absolutely. I must make haste and depart. Your servant, Camryn,” he uttered, gathering his things before scrambling out of the room.
Cam shook his head as he watched Garrick leave. “Lord, I see you still know how to clear a room, Hartwell.” He settled in to the departed man’s seat. “I haven’t seen Garrick move that quickly since Eton and perhaps not even then.”
“He’s a fool. Hardly worth my time.” A slow burn still oozed through his veins. “Enough talk.” He reached for the deck of cards. “Let’s get back to the real action, shall we?”
…
“I do believe this is the best tea I have ever tasted,” Octavia Gordon declared as she put her teacup down.
“Would you care for more?” Willa smiled when Octavia held out her teacup. Her first attempt at hosting a meeting of the Ladies’ Reading Society had turned out to be a success so far. She enjoyed the women in this group. Their thoughts might be shocking to some but Willa relished the discussions.
“Willa is the tea goddess.” Flor held out her cup for more as well. “People actually try to buy her special blends, but it would never do for a young lady to be involved in trade,” she said with mock horror.
