Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  “Yes,” he said, as though very struck by her words. “How very wise you are.”

  “Oh! Not really.” She blushed at the look he gave her, direct and probing. “Headstrong. Willful.” Those had been two of the kinder words her father used.

  “What is headstrong and willful in a woman is often called decisive and bold in a man.” He took a deep breath. “I wish we had had this conversation several months ago. You have shown me a multitude of errors on my part.”

  They had passed the bowling green by now, the awnings still standing like lonely sentinels over the bare rinks. Cleo felt again the way her heart had turned over when Wessex grinned at her over the bowls, the breeze ruffling his hair. Why did it have to be her sister’s fiancé who made her heart leap? “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That wasn’t my desire.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “On the contrary. I’ve never shied away from my mistakes. I made a great many of them, inheriting a dukedom at so young an age. Humiliation is a powerful teacher. But I fear it also taught me some lessons too well, lessons I’ve only just realized were all wrong.”

  She fixed her gaze upon the ground, afraid of what he would say next and yet desperate to know. “How so?”

  “My parents were devoted to each other. My father’s death … it seemed to shatter my mother. To my horrified young eyes, all that love seemed to have turned into soul-rending anguish. I was sure I wanted no part of that in my own marriage, and I never met anyone who changed my mind—until you.”

  “Love in marriage is vital,” she whispered. Her heart thudded dangerously.

  “I am more and more persuaded of that.” He stopped walking. “You must understand…. I had the best of intentions when I courted your sister. I don’t love her, but I fully expected to be an honorable, faithful husband to her—”

  “Stop.” Cleo put her hand over his mouth to stop him. Tears prickled in her eyes. “Don’t say anything else. You can love her—you will. Helen is the most wonderful girl, it’s impossible not to love her—”

  Gently, tenderly, he covered her hand with his, moving her palm to his cheek. His eyes closed for a moment and he inhaled a long slow breath as he leaned into her touch. “But not in the right way.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, his face stark with yearning.

  Cleo wavered on her feet at the longing that stabbed through her. If he had been anyone else in the world, she would be in his arms right now. God help her, she still wanted to be. But Helen—Helen, her beloved sister—even if Helen didn’t love him and he didn’t love her, Cleo couldn’t betray her sister that way.

  “You have to try,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “I have.” He sounded helpless.

  She pulled away from him, recoiling a step even though he made no move to stop her. “Keep trying. You’ve not spent enough time with her—it’s just a bit of madness—we’ve only just met—”

  “I don’t think a lifetime will be enough to change my feelings so dramatically.”

  “Nor mine.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth as if to recall them, but it was too late; he had heard.

  If Gareth hadn’t understood his own feelings before then, there was no doubting them now. He had thought—suspected—that Cleo was as attracted as he was, but he hadn’t known if she felt more. But as her words lingered in the air, confirming what he yearned for, it seemed as though the earth finally went still beneath his feet again. After days of being off balance, caught between disbelief and alarm that he was falling in love when it was almost too late, he found he finally knew what he wanted.

  He had tried to love Helen, he really had. After the bowling match, he’d kept his distance from Cleo and paid more attention to his betrothed. It hadn’t helped—if anything, it had only convinced him he’d made a terrible error. Helen was as lovely and sweet-tempered as he had originally thought, but she was also far quieter. She was reserved and polite with the guests, and more than once he saw her glance longingly out the window, as if she couldn’t wait to escape the room. For the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d thought she would make a good duchess; of course one could learn it and grow into it, and his mother was ready and able to teach her, but he suspected it would take years for Helen to feel at ease as the Duchess of Wessex and mistress of Kingstag Castle.

  But when he looked at Cleo, more and more he saw someone who would be a splendid duchess from the beginning. She knew all the guests within days. His mother remarked on her effortless conversation. His sisters, who had been so eager to meet Helen, had quickly switched their adoration to Cleo, with her bold and unusual clothes and friendly manner. Even Sophronia liked her, and Sophronia was the harshest critic Gareth had ever met. What’s more, she was used to running a large business, overseeing more than a dozen men, and managing her own finances—much the same skills that would be required to run Kingstag. He doubted anything would daunt her, including him in his worst temper.

  And then there was the way she made him feel. When she smiled at him, Gareth would swear he could still feel the electric tingle in the air, as if lightning had struck him anew. When she laughed, he wanted to kiss her. When she took his arm, he wanted to carry her off into the shrubbery. And when she put her fingers on his lips, he wanted to fall to his knees and make love to her on the spot.

  But deciding what he wanted was only part of the difficulty. He knew what he would have to do, somehow. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he didn’t quite know how to go about it, but this was a risk that was definitely worth the reward.

  “Cleo.” He took a step toward her. She turned her face away, biting her lip, but otherwise she didn’t move. He took another step and reached for her hand. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

  “It does to me.” He edged a step closer. She smelled of roses, soft and beautiful. “I didn’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight. I am torn in two, caught between what I want and what I’ve promised. Tell me what you want, darling, and I will move heaven and earth to do it.”

  “I want my sister to be happy.”

  “Only your sister?”

  A shudder went through her. “No,” she whispered despondently. “But how can this end well for everyone?”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “I promise it will.”

  “How can you promise that?” She shook her head. She pulled her hand loose and finally turned to face him. There was no sparkle in her dark eyes now, no teasing curve to her lips. It was all he could do to keep from touching her. He wanted to hold her close and swear that everything would fall in place. Her unhappiness gutted him. “My parents—my sister—what will they think if you cry off? How could I cause such humiliation for my own wicked desires? Do you know what people will say about me, if you desert Helen for me? I can’t, Your Grace.”

  “And what will your sister think of me if I marry her strictly out of duty?”

  For a long moment she said nothing. “I hope you won’t—I hope you’ll be happy with her, and she with you. But I won’t interfere in my sister’s marriage.” She turned and hurried away, her footsteps muffled in the fog.

  Gareth watched until she disappeared around the trees before cursing under his breath. He had to think; he had to find a solution to please everyone. He had learned to be a duke at age sixteen, responsible for solving his problems and everyone else’s. This was no different … merely his entire future happiness was at stake.

  He was startled out of his thoughts by Blair, who came trudging across the lawn with a pistol case in hand. His cousin stopped short when he saw Gareth. “Wessex.”

  “Blair.” Gareth stared at the case. “You look like a man on his way to a duel.”

  “The duel was at dawn.” Blair looked troubled. “Bruton and Newnham.”

  “They’re cousins,” said Gareth in shock. “And the best of friends—or so I thought. What did they duel over?”
r />   “Rosanne Lacy. Newnham was courting her, but judging from what I just witnessed, Bruton will be marrying her.”

  “What you just witnessed,” he repeated.

  “Miss Lacy flying across the field, barely dressed and sobbing as if her heart would break.” Blair’s face twisted. “She flung herself into Bruton’s arms and I could see it in Newnham’s face. He loved her and yet knew he’d lost her. It takes a strong man to watch the woman you love marry another man.”

  He heard again Cleo’s anguished voice, asking what her sister would think if he jilted Helen for her. Cleo loved him, but she couldn’t betray her sister.

  On the other hand, the notoriously aloof Earl of Bruton had somehow fallen in love with the girl his cousin was courting, and he’d found a way to marry her. Gareth ignored the matter of the duel and focused on the result, which was that Bruton was marrying the right woman for him.

  Somehow Gareth had to do the same.

  “I trust no one was hurt,” he said. When Blair shook his head, Gareth added, “Excellent. Then it seems everything has worked out for the best.”

  His cousin jerked up his head and gave him a strange look. “You really think so?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. I must remember to wish Bruton happy. He certainly deserves it.”

  “I expect he and Miss Lacy will be very happy,” said Blair slowly.

  “Yes.” Gareth grinned. “I expect so, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  CLEO TOOK THE LONG WAY back to the house before shutting herself in her room for the rest of the day. The conversation with Wessex whirled round and round her brain until her head ached. Every accusation her father had hurled at her seemed to be proven: she was wicked and reckless and dangerous to her family. Not only had she fallen in love with her sister’s fiancé, she had only by the very thinnest of threads held herself back from kissing him. She never should have walked out into the mist with him. She never should have bowled with him. She never should have come to Kingstag at all. She ate dinner in her room and sent for her trunk to begin packing, so she could leave as soon as the wedding was over.

  She only ventured out of her room late at night, when the house was quiet at last. She couldn’t sleep and thought a turn in the garden might soothe her spirits. It must be beautiful in the moonlight. But a muffled sound caught her ear as she passed her sister’s room, and before she could reconsider, she tapped gently on the door. “Helen!” she whispered into the jamb. “Let me in!”

  The door jerked open and Helen stared at her with wide, wet eyes. She turned her face away, swiping her handkerchief over her face. “Cleo. You’re still awake.”

  She felt a chill of guilt. The duke had hinted that he didn’t want to go through with the wedding, and now Helen was crying. She stepped into the room and closed the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Her sister folded the handkerchief into her pocket and went to sit on the sofa. She looked up, a wobbly smile on her face. “Nothing at all.”

  “I can see very well that something is wrong.” She sat next to her sister. “Why are you crying?” A sudden fear gripped her. “His Grace didn’t make you cry, did he?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day,” said Helen, wringing her handkerchief and missing Cleo’s breath of relief. “How could I, when Mama kept me in this room all day with the dressmaker fussing over my gown, and had Rivers put up my hair three different ways to see which was most flattering, and wouldn’t even let me go down to dinner because she thought I looked pale? She told me I must keep up my strength because I’m to be mistress of a castle.” Her face began to crumple.

  “Oh my dear.” Cleo bit her lip. “What brought all this on?”

  Helen gripped her hands together in her lap. “The wedding, of course. She’s determined that everything must be perfect, because otherwise His Grace will be disappointed or ashamed of me. I don’t think I can be perfect anymore. I don’t know if I can do … this.” She waved one hand around the beautiful room, but obviously including everything about Kingstag.

  In spite of herself, a poisonous weed of hope sprouted in Cleo’s heart. “What do you mean, you don’t know if you can do … this?” She waved one hand around as Helen had done.

  Her sister sighed. “Being a duchess sounded so delightful: beautiful clothes and jewels, the highest society, never worrying about money or being received or given the cut direct. And it made Mama and Papa so happy—I cannot tell you how it eased their minds about everything when I accepted Wessex. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them happier.”

  Cleo pressed her lips together. She was growing thoroughly tired of her parents’ feelings. What sort of people grew happier at the cost of their children’s joy? Because it was clear to see that Helen, whatever her original feelings about her marriage, was decidedly not happy now. And if Helen wasn’t happy, perhaps she oughtn’t to marry Wessex. She couldn’t bring herself to say such a thing, afraid of persuading her sister to do something she’d regret just because it suited Cleo’s own wishes. But neither could she advise her sister to forge ahead regardless of her feelings. “But you are not happy.”

  Helen jumped up and paced away. “I know I should be. Most of the time, I’ve wanted to run into the woods and hide, even as everyone tells me how fortunate I am.”

  “Many brides have nerves,” murmured Cleo.

  Her sister nodded, nibbling her bottom lip. “Were you nervous, when you married? Are all brides?”

  “All brides should be happy,” said Cleo diplomatically. She hadn’t been nervous, she’d been eager. Why, if she were in Helen’s shoes, about to marry Wessex….

  But she wasn’t.

  “Do you think I will be?”

  She blinked at the question. “What?”

  “Do you think I will be happy?” repeated her sister. “Married to the duke. Mama sees no other possibility—who could be unhappy, married to one of the richest dukes in England?—but you’ve always been honest with me. What do you think of him, Cleo?”

  She sat like a woman turned to stone. How could she possibly answer that, after the traitorous longing that still stained her soul? Wessex was everything she thought a man ought to be, and more. He was the friend she longed for, the companion she had been without for so long, the lover she dreamt of at night. But he would never be hers. “He’s very kind,” she managed to say. “Handsome. Charming, in a wry sort of way. I think he’ll be a good husband.”

  “But do you think I can be happy with him?” Helen seized her arm, her fingernails digging into Cleo’s flesh. “Do you?”

  Her heart broke at her sister’s expression, anxious and yet hopeful. She swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she said quietly. “Only you can know what your heart compels you to do. Your happiness is in your hands.”

  Helen’s gaze bored into her. “Yes,” she murmured. Her grip loosened on Cleo’s arm as she turned away, her eyes growing distant. “Yes, it is. If I tell him—if I make him understand how I feel—he will have to listen. He did ask me to marry him, and a man doesn’t do that lightly, does he? If I persuade him that all this is too much. Yes, I think he will understand. It’s not too late, is it?”

  “You mean … the wedding?” Cleo frowned a little. “Has it simply overwhelmed you?”

  “Has it!” Helen gave a disbelieving laugh. “To no end! I have no idea who half these guests are, and if I have to listen much longer to Mama talk about how perfect Kingstag is and what an honor it is to be mistress of it, I may scream. You were so clever to elope, you know. You spared yourself immense aggravation.” She stopped, looking startled, then flashed a cautious grin. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Well, I think I’m done with doing what I ought to do.”

  “Oh,” said Cleo, disconcerted. “Good.”

  Her sister laughed again. “It is good—or rather, it will be, thanks to you.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” Cleo repeated. And she would do whatever it took, including going away and never v
isiting her sister and her too-tempting husband again. Wessex was not hers to lose; he was Helen’s. And Helen certainly wouldn’t lose him to Cleo.

  Helen smiled. Tears still glittered in the corners of her eyes, but they no longer ran down her cheeks. “You do, don’t you? Oh, Cleo, I think I would have gone mad without you. Sometimes I feel as if you are the only one who truly understands me.” She flung her arms around Cleo, and Cleo hugged her back, heartsick. If Helen really hadn’t wanted to marry Wessex, there might have been a chance … but it was foolish to have let the thought cross her mind. Firmly she smothered it, renewing her silent vow to leave as soon as the wedding took place.

  “There,” she said, patting Helen’s back. “Dry your eyes. You only have one more day before your wedding.” The words were like a blow to her heart. “It’s finally upon us,” she said, her voice only breaking a little at the end.

  Helen laughed, swiping at her eyes. “Yes. So it is—and I am ready for it at last,” she said. Her doubts seemed to have been allayed, which meant they couldn’t have been very serious doubts. Cleo told herself that was a good sign. “Thank you for coming. You’ve done me a world of good.”

  Helen mustn’t know that her conscience was only just holding back the longing she felt. Helen didn’t know her sister was thinking impure thoughts about her future husband. Cleo gave a shaky smile. “I’m delighted to be of help, any help I can be.”

  “Believe me,” said Helen earnestly, “you’ve been more help than you know.”

  GARETH REALIZED TWO TRUTHS THAT DAY.

  First, he couldn’t marry Helen Grey. Not only did he not love her—and suspect she did not love him—but the mere mention of Cleo made him forget the very existence of his betrothed bride. Just a glimpse of her snared his attention, and the very sound of her voice made him deaf to anything and anyone else around him. Everything she did persuaded him she would be perfect as his duchess—not a biddable ornament but a true partner. Gareth had little choice but to admit he was utterly lost.