The duchess made a sound of dismay. “How regrettable.”
Viola brought the tray over to the bed. The dowager was propped up on a number of pillows, looking older than usual. Her face was pale except for the flush of fever in her cheeks, and her eyes looked sunken and glassy. She’d fallen ill several days earlier and seemed to be in the worst of it. “Ma’am, perhaps we should send for the doctor—”
The duchess gave her a wan smile. “So says Ellen,” she murmured, referring to her maid. “I’ve seen what doctors do, you know. I prefer to take my chances with the fever.”
Viola frowned in worry. “Yes, ma’am, but…”
The duchess pushed herself a little more upright and pulled the tray toward her. “I have no plans to succumb to it, mind you. If I go into a decline and hope begins to wane, you and Ellen may send for the doctor, but as long as I have my appetite and can sleep, I intend to brave it out.” She inspected the tray and sighed. “More blancmange. Tell Cook I would like something with flavor next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Viola hesitated. “What ought I to do with Lords Winterton and Newton?”
The duchess blinked. “Oh yes. I suppose they must stay the night.”
She wet her lips. “It’s snowing, Your Grace, and it shows no signs of stopping. The roads may not be fit for travel tomorrow.”
“Then they must stay until the roads are fit.” The duchess gave her a reproving glance. “You didn’t think otherwise, surely?”
Viola blushed. She’d already told the gentlemen they were welcome to stay. “No, no. I only worried about the inconvenience to Lady Serena and her friends.”
Something of the older woman’s usual perception returned. “Are these gentlemen by any chance handsome, rakish fellows?”
“Rakish! Oh my, I’ve no idea,” Viola babbled. “But… Lord Newton is rather young—near Lady Alexandra’s age, I would suppose—and he is a handsome gentleman.”
“Oh dear.” Another fit of coughing seized the duchess, and Viola hurried to fetch a clean handkerchief. “And Winterton?” rasped the duchess a moment later, reaching for her tea. “Tell me he’s a somber older gentleman capable of keeping his nephew in check.”
“Er.” Viola shifted her weight, picturing the man in question. “I wouldn’t call him much older…”
The duchess closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows. “Is there a Lady Winterton? Send Ellen to fetch Debrett’s, Viola.”
Viola rang for the maid, who returned a short time later with the tome listing all the aristocracy of Britain. She paged through it to the Earl of Winterton’s entry and read it aloud to the duchess. “Wesley Edward Fitzallen Morane, Earl of Winterton, Viscount Desmond, Baron Lyle; born August 31, 1784; succeeded his father, Allen, the late earl, on March 12, 1810.”
“No countess,” said the duchess on a sigh. “And he’s handsome.” Viola opened her mouth to protest that she’d never said that, realized it was true, and said nothing. The earl was a man who drew the eye—at least her eye—with coal-black hair and vivid blue eyes in a lean, tanned face. He looked like a man of bold action and passionate interests.
“I shall have to recover.” The dowager ruined this determined statement with another bout of coughing, and Viola refilled her teacup without waiting for permission. “There is no way Serena can maintain order. Even if these two gentlemen arrived as the very souls of dignity and propriety, Sophronia would corrupt them into the biggest scoundrels in England within a week. I shall be out of this bed by morning if I must be carried on a litter to do it.”
Viola took one look at the dowager duchess, pale and weak and still feverish, and knew there was no way she would be recovered by the morning. “You mustn’t risk your health, ma’am.” She took a deep breath and girded herself. “I shall do everything I can to assist Lady Serena, and I’m sure we can manage between the two of us.”
“Are you?” The dowager held up one hand to forestall a protest Viola wasn’t making. “I know my daughters. Bridget, in particular, can be… willful.”
Viola knew that all too well. This play of Bridget’s was beginning to worry her; despite asking twice, she had yet to see a single page of it, and Bridget’s odd requests were growing alarming. A ghost? Feathers? She said a silent prayer that she wasn’t about to make a promise she couldn’t keep, which might well lead to the duchess dismissing her from her post, and gave a decisive nod. “Of course. I’m very fond of Lady Bridget, and I’m confident I can guide her.”
“Well,” said the dowager, her voice heavy with doubt, “perhaps…”
“There’s little choice, I fear,” Viola added. “The roads will soon be impassable.” She’d checked on the snowfall right before bringing the dowager’s tray. The snow was four inches deep and still falling heavily. John the footman reported that Hugh, the head gardener, was predicting a great deal of snow, based on his observations of the squirrels at Kingstag Castle. Hugh claimed he could predict the weather by the animals’ behavior. Viola wasn’t convinced of that, but given the way her luck had run the last few years, this storm would be an epic blizzard that brought all of Dorset to a standstill.
The house was full of young ladies and gentlemen, with more expected, who would grow bored and restive if trapped inside for days on end.
Not one but two additional handsome gentlemen had arrived on the scene, soon to be trapped in that same house.
The duke, who could deal with the visiting gentlemen, was away and not expected to return soon.
The duchess, who could organize activities to keep the young ladies occupied, was also away.
The dowager duchess, who could maintain order and decorum by sheer force of will, was confined to bed for several more days at least.
Lady Serena, nominally the hostess in her mother’s stead, could hardly be expected to supervise the friends who had been invited to cheer her after her recent heartbreak.
And that meant Lady Sophronia, who loved chaos and scandal more than she loved breath, would be in charge.
Viola recognized that she was the only person at Kingstag with any hope of preventing both chaos and scandal. She had expected that the duchess’s absence would offer her a bit of a reprieve from work, when she might have some time for herself. With no small amount of regret, she realized that instead of enjoying some cozy afternoons by the fire with a good book or writing letters, she would be keeping a keen eye on Lady Bridget’s play rehearsals, as well as on all the guests, especially the young ladies. Her heart sank at the futility of that endeavor. Perhaps she ought to keep her eyes on the gentlemen…
Then she blushed, thinking of keeping an eye on Lord Winterton. That wouldn’t be a hardship. Keeping her eyes off him would be harder. But he didn’t look like the sort to cause trouble with young ladies barely half his age—if anything, Viola thought the young ladies would be causing trouble over him.
Lord Newton, though, had gazed at Bridget with such interest, and Viola sighed.
“With luck the snow will be gone in a few days, and the gentlemen can be on their way—presuming His Grace hasn’t returned by then, that is. In the meantime, I’m sure there will be no trouble. I shall keep a keen eye on the whole party.”
The dowager still looked doubtful, but also relieved. “If you are confident you can maintain order, then I see no cause for alarm.”
“I can,” she promised the duchess with more confidence than she felt. “I give my word.”
A servant directed Wes to a large formal drawing room before dinner. He hadn’t seen Justin since shortly after they arrived, but he heard his nephew’s laugh as he approached the drawing room doors. Since he hadn’t heard Justin sound that happy in months, Wes’s step quickened in a mixture of interest and alarm.What could have pleased him so much?
The sight that met his eyes was both wonderful and confounding. Justin wore a blindfold and was seated on a chair in the midst of several young ladies. He wore a wide grin. A handful of other people stood about the room, some watching the
spectacle with amusement, some with disapproval. Wes’s main concern was his nephew; what on earth—?
“Good evening, Lord Winterton,” said a woman beside him, and he instantly forgot all about Justin.
He bowed. “Good evening to you, Mrs. Cavendish.”
She smiled. Tonight she wore a stylish green dress that matched her eyes and displayed her figure beautifully, and he felt a stir of dangerous interest as he looked down at her. “Some of the ladies begged Lord Newton to play a game with them.”
“He appears to be enjoying it.” Justin said something, too quietly for Wes to hear, but a burst of laughter from the group indicated his nephew was in excellent humor tonight. “Very much,” he added wryly.
“The aim of every hostess.” She said it lightly, but Wes caught a note of something else in her voice. Tension? Alarm? Good God, what had Justin done? They’d only been here an hour. “May I present you to the other guests?”
“That would be very kind of you.” He offered her his arm, partly out of manners, but mostly out of eagerness to draw her a little closer. She blinked as if startled—and then laid her hand on his sleeve. Even that slight pressure sent a shock wave through him. Wes inhaled deeply, and almost went light-headed on the scent of her: rosemary and lemon. It made him think of Italy, and the hot Tuscan sun above the villa where he’d spent a glorious four months several years ago. He let her lead him across the room.
By the time he made the acquaintance of Lady Serena, the ostensible hostess; Viscount Gosling and Mr. Jones, two visiting gentlemen; Lady Jane Rutledge, a neighbor; and a brother and sister called Penworth who were apparently Cavendish cousins, Wes felt distinctly old. Mrs. Cavendish might be near his age, and Lady Sophronia, an elderly relation, was far older, but everyone else was much more Justin’s peer.
That could be taken in two ways. First, advantageously, as it seemed they had stumbled into the exact sort of party that might bring out Justin’s more polished side and encourage him to behave in a more appropriate manner.
But second, it also meant far more temptation for his rash and headstrong nephew, and therefore greater risk that Justin would forget himself and do something stupid. Wes felt every one of the eleven years he had on Justin.
“I apologize again for intruding on the party,” he told his companion, watching as the young people continued their game.
Her cheeks were the most entrancing shade of pink. “Please don’t think of it as an intrusion! I feel certain that if the duke were here, he would have urged you to stay. And I must say, your arrival was very welcome to the young ladies, especially Lady Bridget.”
“Yes, she seems very cheerful.”
To prove his point, the girl in question let out a shout of laughter, clutching her belly as she did so. “Bravo,” called Lady Sophronia, sitting on a sofa nearby.
Wes ducked his head closer to Mrs. Cavendish. “What game are they playing?” he murmured. The bright scent of lemon was driving him to distraction. He wanted to breathe her in forever.
“One of Bridget’s inventions, I believe.” She wore a slightly apologetic expression. “I’m not certain I can explain all the rules very well—or at all—but the main point is that the blind man”—she nodded at Justin, who still wore the blindfold and a beaming grin—“is presented several clues, and must guess the mystery subject.”
“How does one win?”
“By guessing correctly on the fewest clues.”
“Ah.” He glanced at his nephew. It was clear to see that Justin was enjoying being the center of so much attention. He sat with his hands on his knees, his elbows out, making his shoulders as wide as possible. As Wes watched, Lady Alexandra came up to him and placed her palm against his cheek. Justin flinched, but his smile grew wider than ever.
“Sleigh riding,” he said, and the young ladies erupted in applause and giggles.
“Well done,” declared Bridget. “Although we should deduct points after Alexandra cheated.”
“It’s not cheating,” protested her sister. “My hands were cold! The clue was cold!”
Justin peeled off the blindfold. “It was the best clue of all,” he assured her in his strangely deeper voice. Alexandra smiled, and Bridget rolled her eyes.
“Who shall be next?” She scanned the room. They had clearly been playing a while. “Cousin Viola!”
“No,” said the woman next to Wes. “Absolutely not.”
“Spoken like a chaperone,” he murmured.
“As I am,” was her low reply. “Perhaps you should play.”
She hadn’t said it loudly, but Lady Bridget heard. “Oh yes! Please do, Lord Winterton. We’ve all had a turn and it’s still a quarter hour until dinner.”
“Do, Uncle,” added Justin with a fiendish gleam in his eye.
Wes glanced at Mrs. Cavendish. Her eyes had widened in surprise, but she recovered quickly. “It won’t hurt,” she whispered with a rueful little smile. “If you feel adventurous.”
God. The blood roared in his ears. That smile did him in, captivating and intimate. Wes heard himself agree before he could think twice. “If it will amuse you.” He couldn’t resist leaning closer and adding a quiet plea. “But you must give me some hint of what to do.”
Bridget hurried over to thrust the blindfold into Mrs. Cavendish’s hands. “We’ll be sure to choose something clever this time,” she said. “Sleigh riding! We can do better…” She darted back across the room to huddle with the other young people.
Wes caught the gleeful look Justin sent his way. He turned to Mrs. Cavendish. “Help me,” he whispered.
She laughed as they crossed the room to the chair. “It’s not difficult.” Wes took a seat and she lifted the blindfold, settling it gently over his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as she moved behind him, her fingers stirring his hair as she knotted the cloth. “They will give you clues to the word or saying they’ve thought of,” she said, her voice soft and very near his ear. Wes’s imagination began to wander dangerously, conjuring up other ways she could be behind him, her lips near his ear and her hands in his hair. He wondered if the scent of lemons came from her hair or from her skin.
“After each clue you make a guess,” Mrs. Cavendish went on. “Lord Newton required nine clues to reach the correct answer, which is the best so far tonight.”
“So to win, I need to guess after eight or fewer clues.”
“Yes.” Now blind, he could still tell she was smiling. “The wittier or more ridiculous the guess, the better.”
“Ridiculous?” He turned his head toward her voice. “What do you mean?”
“Lady Bridget thrives on the ridiculous,” she murmured.
He would have asked more, but a querulous voice snapped, “Viola! Cease flirting with Lord Winterton and come sit by me. I cannot hear what everyone is saying and you must tell me.”
“Of course, Lady Sophronia,” replied Mrs. Cavendish. “Good luck,” she whispered to him. Wes heard the swish of her skirts as she moved away.
Flirting. He should be ashamed at himself for thinking so, but he wouldn’t mind at all if Mrs. Cavendish did flirt with him—blindfolded and otherwise.
“We have decided,” announced Bridget then. “Are you ready, sir?”
Wes thought of Justin’s little smirk, and Mrs. Cavendish’s rueful smile, and of how fiercely he’d played cricket at school. He flexed his hands and said firmly, “I am.”
The first clue was maps. Still thinking of Viola Cavendish’s lemon and rosemary scent, he said, “Italy,” which elicited snickers and a hearty “Wrong!” from Bridget.
The second clue was fire. Wes puzzled over it until he remembered the admonition to be witty, so he replied, “Christopher Wren.” Wren had remade the map of London after the great fire. But his inquisitors only giggled and told him he was wrong again.
The next clue was a dreadful screech, emitted right near his ear, rather like a seagull whose tail was being plucked out. Wes almost bolted out of the chair, but Justin’s muf
fled laughter stayed him just in time. He thought for a moment, decided to be ridiculous, and said, “A history professor who’s fallen asleep over his pipe, and set his robes afire.”
Lady Bridget hooted with laughter, and the others joined in a moment later. “Better, but still wrong,” Justin told him. Wes would have blinked, if his eyes weren’t bound shut. Had that been approval in his nephew’s voice?
Fourth clue: a gust of air in his face. He thought hard, and said, “A phoenix.” There was a moment of silence, which made him hopeful, but then someone said, “Incorrect.”
The fifth clue was Odysseus, which pricked his interest. Now he began to concentrate in earnest. “Cyclops,” he guessed, only to be told he was once more wrong.
The sixth clue took a moment. Wes’s mind worked the whole while. Maps, fire, Odysseus, wind, and shrieks. He suspected Justin had put forth this mystery item, to stymie him, and now he was absolutely determined to win. It didn’t hurt that he’d caught Mrs. Cavendish’s voice saying something quietly, no doubt to Lady Sophronia. It was idiotic and foolish, but he wanted to tear off the blindfold—after he won—and see her smiling at him, surprised and impressed. She was the duchess’s secretary, only a few steps up from a servant, but she had the most marvelous green eyes, like the sea in the West Indies after a storm…
He was so lost in contemplation of her eyes, it was a total shock to receive a splash of water right on his cheek. Quite a lot of water, actually; it ran down his face and wet his cravat, and there was a dismayed gasp as he reached up to wipe his face. “Bridget,” moaned a female voice.
So much for impressing anyone. But the water made him think of the sea in the West Indies after a storm—hang it, also of maps of the ocean, especially medieval ones with illustrations on every corner, and when he said, “Sea serpent,” a startled hush fell over the room.
“Am I wrong again?” he asked after a moment.
“Er—no,” said Justin, sounding a little nonplussed. “You’re correct.”
At the Christmas Wedding Page 3
