“Don’t let that gel put you off your cards, man. I believe what you are feeling is nine parts pique. As for understanding her, trust me, you never will. Women are a separate species, I’m convinced.”
“Thus speaks the most happily married man in London. You don’t fool me, Ruisdell.”
“I agree that Elise is the occasional exception to the rule. But even she has her moments.” He chuckled. “I remember once she threw a bottle of ink at me when she was particularly vexed. Ruined a perfectly good cravat and waistcoat. But it wasn’t humorous at the time.” He gathered up the cards. “We are falling one by one. Did you hear? Jack got himself leg-shackled to another gem—Lady Kate Derramore, that was.”
Ned straightened in surprise. “Northbrooke? The Jack you and I both know? What a corker! I never knew him to associate with a respectable woman in his life.”
“He took one look at Kate and it was all up with him. Told me it was a combination of her vitality and her winged eyebrows.” He chuckled. “One never knows what it is that will spark one’s interest. With Elise, I remember it was the delicacy and grace of her wrists I first noticed. While she was ladling soup, of all things.” He shuffled the cards absently. “Jack’s having a little house party at his estate in Wiltshire.”
“I don’t have the least desire to go to the country,” Ned said, setting his mouth in a line as he swirled his brandy in its snifter. If only everyone didn’t try to cheer him. “And even less desire to be sociable.”
“But this is bound to be entertaining. It’s time we did something about Somerset, you know. He’s been at a loose end ever since Elise and I married. Becoming a bit of a bother, always around when one wants to make love to one’s wife.”
“Man’s a pest. Positively gleeful when Sarah jilted me. Spread it about within the hour.”
“Yes. We must put him in the way of a change of interest. My wife has a friend we think would do for him. Violet Archer. You know her. She works at Elise’s soup kitchen.”
“Hmm. Coloratura soprano, ain’t she? Bit voluptuous?”
“Chubby. Like Somerset.”
“They’re both going to this house party? Do either of them know what’s in the wind?”
“No. Should be a bit of a lark, what?” The duke was grinning.
“You don’t have a hopeful miss lined up to be the next Duchess of Beverley, do you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear fellow. Just want to offer you some diversion. Jack’s mother is by way of being an Original. Good value. Bit of a gambler. Speaks her mind. Rumored to be the author of those dashed Gothics published by the Minerva Press. And then there’s Kate, with whom you have yet to be acquainted. Watching her handle our good Jack is a treat in itself.”
“They are the only ones to be there?”
“Aside from the new Marquis of Cleaverings and Jack’s childhood sweetheart who lives down the lane. . .”
Ned sighed a weary sigh. “Jack have a good cellar?”
“His papa was a reputable wine connoisseur. Nasty piece of work, the old marquis, but he had a fine palate.”
“Anyone bound to cut up rough if I become a trifle foxed?”
“I shouldn’t think so, old man. The dowager marchioness is a good sort. Put up with Jack all these years.”
“How about Jack’s bride?”
“She’ll have her hands full. She’s promoting a match between the dowager and Cleaverings.”
“Sounds very merry,” Ned said. “I wouldn’t like to put a damper on things. No. I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”
“What a pity. Elise already accepted for you.”
Ned knew an instant of almost boundless irritation. “The devil!”
The duke drew himself up. “If you don’t apologize instantly, I’ve a fair mind to call you out. You’re becoming a bore, Ned.”
“I won’t be managed!”
“Very well, I’ll just have to get you foxed, tie you up, and throw you in the boot of my carriage. We can’t leave Kate with odd numbers. It would be vulgar.”
“Don’t you have other friends you can pester?”
“Somerset. Jack. You.”
“Then it’s time you expanded your acquaintance. I warn you, I plan to get foxed upon arrival in Wiltshire and to stay foxed for the duration!”
“Good. You are very entertaining when you are foxed, Beverley.”
CHAPTER THREE
IN WHICH THE HOUSE PARTY COMMENCES
By the time Caro arrived at Northbrooke Park after luncheon Friday, her enthusiasm for the house party had waned. In the midst of a fit of rabid self-loathing, she only hoped that her spirits would not constitute a drag on the proceedings. She knew she was being absurd. As Kate said, she had had plenty of beaux. Why had she settled on the only one who had defected from her court? Was it mere conceit? That did not paint a pretty picture.
No, she thought, examining her feelings again as she arranged the roses she had brought for Kate. She had fallen head over heels for Beverley the first time he had kissed her hand. Whenever he greeted her in that manner at a ball or rout, she felt as though she had drunk too much champagne—dizzy, with delicious sensations all over her body. When he was near, she was overly sensitive to every movement he made. Her heart pounded so she felt it must truly be visible whenever he asked her to dance.
For the past few days, she had found herself, at odd times, wondering how much of her ardor she had communicated with her eyes. Waltzing with him had been a dream . . .
“Caro, far be it from me to criticize, but I really do not think those ruby red roses belong in that particular bouquet,” Kate said, standing next to her in the stillroom.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering as usual. You are right. The yellow will look much better with the coral. For what room is this intended?”
“I think for the Ruisdells' suite. It is like a dungeon in there. How Jack, with his sunny nature, ever could have grown up in this dismal old house, I have no idea.”
“You have made some vast changes in the short time you have lived here,” Caro said. “The drawing room is so much more appealing hung with that sunny, light-golden color. How does the dowager like it?”
“Very well, when she bothers to notice. Serena is not a terribly visual person. Except when she is playing cards, she lives mostly inside her head, you know. Writers are like that, I think.”
At that moment, Cumming, the Northbrookes' butler, entered the stillroom. “Your ladyship, the first carriage has arrived. I have shown the Marquis of Cleaverings into the morning room with the dowager marchioness.”
“Oh, famous!” Kate said, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over the sky blue muslin that matched her eyes. “Come, Caro. The festivities begin!” She gave instructions to Cumming about the proper placing of their flower arrangements, took off her apron, and patted her luxuriant auburn chignon.
“You look splendid,” Caro said.
“I shall be cast into the shade by you, as usual. You look good enough to eat in that apricot color, with your honey skin and hair.”
“Goodness, all this dwelling on food! Can it be that you are increasing?”
Kate merely laughed. “No, not yet. Organizing always makes me hungry. I shall end by looking a mushroom like Aunt Clarice.”
* * *
When they reached the blush-pink morning room with its freshly painted white trim and east-facing windows, it was to find the dowager marchioness chuckling as she teased her former playmate about one of their childhood starts. Caro had never seen the intimidating woman so lighthearted. At the death of her husband, she had looked at least ten years older than her forty-nine years. Now, at fifty, she looked ten years younger. Her sandy hair was covered with a pink turban that matched her gown and brought out the roses in her very fair complexion. She towered over Caro, but Cleaverings was so tall himself that her height was not noticeable.
“Did you know that dear Cleaverings taught me to fish?” she asked. “But the bank descending d
own into the pond was so steep that we both fell in on a somewhat regular basis. And whoever fell first always dragged in the other. Our nurses were always very cross.” Bringing her laughter under control, she introduced Caro. “Stephen, this is our lovely neighbor, Miss Caroline Braithwaite. Caro, please meet Stephen Derramore, Kate’s distant cousin and the new Marquis of Cleaverings.”
The man beamed at Caro as she curtseyed. His regard gave her much-needed confidence. He was not, as she had anticipated, merely a kindly elderly man. He was straight and virile, his gray eyes deep and clear, his jaw still square and solid. And Caro saw absolutely no evidence of the paunch Kate had told her of.
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. Kate has spoken warmly of you.”
“Serena tells me that you have recently come down from Town. How was the Season this year?” he asked.
“I am certain it would have been far more lively had you been amongst the ton!”
He laughed, a rich baritone sound. “Disappointing, eh? Well, never mind. We shall have a good time together here.”
Caro smiled at him as Jack entered the room with his bold stride, his sherry-colored eyes alight and chestnut curls awry, as always. He was a very handsome man with undeniable presence, now grinning at his guest as he offered a hand of welcome. “Ah, my mama’s childhood beau! I am her scapegrace son, Jack. I understand we are related through my marriage to the lovely Kate.”
“Very, very distantly,” the marquis replied. “It took the solicitors some little time to find an heir to the marquisate. I was never more surprised. I only regret that my dear wife did not live long enough to enjoy being a marchioness.” He offered his hand, which Jack shook heartily. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Northbrooke."
“Call me Jack. We are family, after all.”
“Stephen,” Kate’s cousin said.
So he is a widower. He seems to be perfect for the dowager on all suits. Friendly, not overly impressed with himself. Handsome, certainly. In need of a marchioness. I hope she can land him.
Once again, Cumming entered the room. “Two carriages have arrived with the rest of the party, I believe.”
“How jolly,” Jack said. “Darling Kate, how glad I am that you dreamed up this house party. Just the thing to take away the summer doldrums.”
“I had to do something to keep you at home.”
“Dear one, your charms would have been sufficient. However, it is always good to see friends.”
Leaving the room in Cumming’s wake, he clattered down the stairs to greet the newcomers. For some reason, Caro’s stomach knotted. Where is that ease with which I used to meet all and sundry? I am being ridiculous.
It was not long before she was greeting her friend Elise, however. With her startling midnight blue eyes crinkling into a smile, the duchess said, “Caro! I did not know you were to make one of the party. What fun. I should like you to meet my dearest friend, Violet Archer. Violet, this is Caroline Braithwaite, Sukey’s niece. She and Kate were brought out together from Blossom House.” Pausing, the duchess turned to Kate. “And here is your hostess, the new Marchioness of Northbrooke. Kate, you must meet my friend Violet!”
“It was kind of you to invite me, Lady Northbrooke,” Violet said. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Braithwaite. I know your aunt, of course.”
“Please call me Caro. Of course, everyone knows Aunt Sukey,” Caro said with a laugh. “I believe she is notorious with her tortoise and her beetle collection.”
Violet was a short voluptuous woman with a lovely complexion and a very sweet face. Kate had told Caro she had grown up with the Duchess of Ruisdell in Shropshire. They had made their come out together the year that Elise had married the Duke. Financial constraints had kept Violet from enjoying another season.
Just as she was about to enquire about Violet’s journey, Caro heard a voice that caused her hands to tremble and her heart to make a sickening dive into her middle. She clenched her fists. No. It could not be.
The Duke of Beverley! Merciful heavens. What is he doing here? Her glance flew to his handsome but forbidding face with its stark planes and uncompromisingly square chin. His blue-black hair was short and straight, brushed so that wisps just rested on the ridges of his high cheekbones, emphasizing those large, deep blue eyes. Tearing her gaze from his severe countenance, she looked in vain for Lady Sarah Randolph, his betrothed. He had no female companion.
A loud ringing in her ears rendered her nearly deaf. She could scarcely hear the Duke’s introduction.
Beverley was nodding, those eyes that so mesmerized her flashing with impatience and something she could not read. Annoyance? “Miss Braithwaite and I are already acquainted.” His voice was arctic, and one of his black brows was raised.
He is displeased to see me. Why does he dislike me so?
Blinking rapidly, she took a deep breath and noted the changes in him. Those remarkably expressive eyes now looked both weary and wary. The lines between his brows and from his nose to his mouth seem to have deepened, though it was not that long since she had seen him last. The finely modeled lips that she had longed to kiss were now set in a grim line.
Finally, she shook herself. Why is he looking at me so severely? I have nothing of which to be ashamed. If he thinks he was asked here to partner me, he is mistaken.
Elevating her chin, she looked him in the eye. “How did you leave your fiancée, your grace?”
His eyes flashed. “You are behind in your gossip, Miss Braithwaite. I have no fiancée.”
Her heart went still. “No fiancée?”
“No fiancée. Now, shall we change the subject?”
The other denizens of the room had moved away. Caro tried to master herself. She managed what she hoped was a haughty countenance by raising her brows and biting the insides of her cheeks. When her body stopped quaking, she said, “I did not know you were to be here. I hope you will enjoy yourself. Now, if you will excuse me, I have not greeted the Marquis of Somerset as yet.” She even forced a laugh. “Two dukes and three marquises. My, what an elevated company we have.”
Before he could comment, she turned her back on him and went to utter an automatic greeting to the roly-poly marquis. Her mind was running on its own wild course.
Whatever did I do to him to make him so angry?
She noted only vaguely that Somerset’s eyes were glinting with interest as he bowed over her hand. “Ah, Miss Braithwaite. Did not know you were to be here. Left your beaux bereft in London.”
“I was needed at home.”
“Devoted daughter?”
The light in his eyes was one of mischief. Could he have guessed her secret? She would not be surprised.
“Have you met the new Marquis of Cleaverings? Allow me to introduce you.”
Somehow Caro survived all the introductions, and soon everyone was taken to their respective rooms by Cumming. She was alone with Kate and Jack, who were adjourning to the terrace where pitchers of Pimm’s cold punch awaited everyone.
“Kate!” she whispered. “I feel quite queer. Perhaps it is the heat. I am convinced I must have John Coachman drive me home at once.”
Her friend was all concern. “Dear Caro, your cheeks are rather flushed. Sit down and have some Pimm’s. It will cool you off.”
“I am positively mortified as well, Kate. That odiously conceited Duke of Beverley seems to think I was invited to partner him. And he is not one whit happy about it.”
Kate’s brow furrowed. “Buck up, Caro. You’re not one to let even a duke throw you off your stride. Ignore him and attach yourself to some other gentleman.”
“Somerset or Cleaverings? Not likely. Besides, you intend them for Violet and the dowager.”
“Do not be so chicken-hearted, Caro. It is not like you. Remember. You are the Incomparable!”
“What is this about?” Jack inquired.
“Nothing, my dear,” his wife said. “You are meant to be organizing the wickets for croquet.”
&nbs
p; “Do not try to manage me, my dear. Caro is like a sister. What is amiss?”
“Beverley is being difficult. He was an unfortunate choice for a guest,” his wife said.
“And why is that? Caro?” Jack asked.
“He has taken me in dislike. He thinks that he was invited to partner me, and is not at all pleased by the notion.”
“Must have something loose in his brain box! I never knew anyone to take you in dislike. Depend upon it, you are misreading him. He is all to pieces. Somerset wrote from Town that his fiancée has jilted him. Taking it deuced hard. Needed to get away.”
“I think it would be best if I left,” Caro insisted. She did not care to risk herself in the way of the duke’s deadly charms again. Especially with her closest friends watching.
They stood on the terrace with a vista of Kate’s infant flower garden, and beyond that, the vast lawn disappearing into the forest of Jack’s estate. A footman joined them, carrying two pitchers of sliced citrus floating in Pimm’s punch and placed them on a glass-and-wrought-iron table.
“And have the man think he chased you away? Caro, I’ve never known you to be at a loss where a gentleman was concerned,” Jack said. “Beverley has never been crossed before. Being jilted is probably good for him, if you want my opinion. But it is making him a dashed bore.”
“To whom was he engaged, Caro?” Kate asked.
“Lady Sarah Randolph. She only came to Town midway through the Season, when she put off her mourning for her father.”
“I do not believe I am acquainted with her. What is she like?” Kate asked.
“A little thing. Fragile, delicate, clinging. Shy. I never would have expected him to marry such a person,” Caro said.
“Maybe he is ready for some liveliness?” Kate suggested.
“I cannot imagine what would have caused her to jilt the duke. Unless she was afraid of him. It vexed me to see her look like a scared rabbit,” Caro said.
Jack let out a bark of laughter. “Someone else probably came along and turned her head.”
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