“Thank you, Your Grace,” Adelaide said. “My husband, ah, is very grateful to you.”
Alice coughed, and Eliza hid her grin behind her teacup. The last thing Mr. Eastwood would ever feel toward Wessex was gratitude.
Wessex smiled, unperturbed by the lie. “Indeed.”
He bent closer to the fern, so close that his mouth nearly brushed the glossy tendrils. His lips moved, whispering something indecipherable, though Eliza strained to catch the words. The fern seemed almost to perk up in response. Eliza gave the plant a disapproving frown. The duke could charm a widow from her weeds, but a plant ought to be immune to such things.
“I noticed an orchard as we approached the house,” Riya said. “Is it too much to hope that the apples are still good?”
“They are not yet rotted,” Wessex said, before once again whispering to the fern.
Eliza stared. Were her eyes deceiving her? Or did the fern appear happier from the duke’s attention? A fern couldn’t be happy, could it? She stood and sidled closer, listening.
“Splendid!” Lady Freesia said. “An afternoon in the orchard will be just the thing after a morning of travel.”
Eliza was close enough now to hear the low murmur of the duke’s voice, as sweetly dark as molasses.
“See, now. Am I not proved correct?” he whispered to the fern. “She cannot resist. She does not wish me to sit next to her, oh no, yet she cannot stay away.”
Eliza drew to a halt and glared. “You did this on purpose.”
He blinked his large eyes at her, looking as dumbly innocent as a cow. “What? What did I do?”
“You…” She hesitated, remembering they were not alone, and lowered her voice. “You made me come to you.”
“I merely stood in a corner and conversed with a plant.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Miss Benton. When will you realize that you find me utterly irresistible?”
“When pigs sprout wings and take to the sky, which, coincidentally, is when it will be true.”
He grinned. “And yet, here you are.”
So she was. How galling. “I was merely curious as to why you were making love to a fern instead of finding your future wife. Unless a fern is the best you can do?”
Before he could reply, she turned her back on him. “An afternoon in the orchard would be lovely. Shall we gather the other guests?”
She marched from the room, the duke’s low, seductive laugh following her out.
Chapter Seven
Lady Jane Tavistock, Lady Louisa Evans, Lady Abigail Ainsworth. The ladies had formed a small cluster under an apple tree and were filling their baskets with ripe fruit.
Eliza eyed them critically from her vantage point on the picnic blanket.
When Lady Freesia had suggested an afternoon of apple-picking would be welcome after a dull morning of travel, Eliza had proclaimed the idea brilliant. Not because she had any special interest in apples—although she loved them in a pie—but because it gave Wessex the perfect opportunity to know the ladies better, outside of dancing and dinner.
Eliza had spoken to each of the ladies over tea and found them every bit as amusing, pleasant, and pretty as she had during the Season. She liked them all, although a preference for one over the other had not yet shown itself. But her own preference mattered very little. The question was, which lady would the duke prefer?
Lady Jane was tall and slender with hair the color of butterscotch. She had a wonderful singing voice, and not only did she read the papers, but she had opinions about their content. Eliza was certain she would make an excellent duchess.
Lady Louisa had soft brown curls, an extraordinary bosom, and cheeks as round and rosy as the apples they plucked. She laughed and smiled a good deal, but there was a sharpness to her wit that would serve her well in a marriage with Wessex. He needed a lady with high spirits to keep him in line.
Lady Abigail had hair of deep red, which was not very fashionable, but hers was so gorgeous that one could not wish for any other color. She was gifted with both the pianoforte and bawdy jokes. Eliza thought Wessex would enjoy making that discovery.
All in all, she was satisfied with her selection. It would be interesting to see whom Wessex chose for his duchess.
Although if he continued to ignore the ladies in favor of conversing with Lord Abingdon and Mr. Eastwood, he would be left with no choice at all. Aggravating man.
As though he sensed her thoughts, he pivoted slightly from his companions and looked about the orchard. His gaze caught and held on her frowning countenance. He studied her for a moment—a moment during which she ought to have looked away or at the very least stopped frowning at him, but she did neither. His lips moved as he said something to his companions that she could not hear, and then he sauntered toward her.
She twisted a blade of glass around her finger as she watched him approach. If her heart beat faster with each step, it was only because each step brought him annoyingly closer.
“You summoned me, fair Sigrid?” he asked with a slight bow of his head.
“I most certainly did not.”
“Ah, but you did.” He threw himself down next to her on the blanket and reclined on his back, his long, elegant fingers linked together to cradle his head. “You frowned at me so fiercely, which you do only when you have something disagreeable to say. As you take great delight in being disagreeable, I came at once. Never let it be said that I refused a lady her pleasure.”
It was indecent how wicked the word sounded on his lips. Pleasure. As though they were not talking about a scolding, but something better left to the dark of night, when one was hidden under a thick blanket. Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Get up,” she hissed furiously. “Everyone suspects—and hopes—that you intend to find a wife at this house party. You cannot show me such attention, or they will think you are wooing me.”
“Absurd.” He squinted up at her. “I would never woo a woman from this angle. I can see right up your nose.”
A burst of shocked laughter escaped her, and she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. He mustn’t be encouraged. He would intensify his charm tenfold if he thought he could make her laugh, and she would never survive it.
The duke’s eyes widened. “You laughed. I made you laugh.”
“No,” she denied, somewhat desperately.
“I did, I did!” He was as gleeful as a child with a new toy. “Tell me, what turned the tide in my favor? Was it the inflection of my tone? Or are noses inherently amusing?”
“Oh, you! You are impossible!” she cried.
He drove her mad, stole her reason. It was the only explanation for the unladylike shove she gave his shoulder. He yielded easily at her touch—too easily. She wasn’t prepared. His hands grasped her wrist as she lost her balance and toppled against him.
The world contracted in the oddest way. The presence of her friends faded as though they had drifted far away. She was suddenly very aware of his knee pressing against the soft flesh of her inner thigh, the coolness of his fingers that encircled her wrist, the sound of her own rapid breaths. He made no similar sound, as he had turned unnaturally still and stopped breathing altogether. She blinked up at him in stunned stupor.
Had his mouth always been so…kissable?
But then he gently righted her and returned to his former position—with an extra foot of space between them, she noticed. The world expanded again, her sanity returned, and she remembered that they were not alone. She glanced quickly about, but no one seemed to be paying them notice.
“Careful, Miss Benton,” Wessex murmured. “Someone might think you have a tendresse for me.”
Eliza gasped in outrage. “I? How dare you! It was you who—”
He grinned. Of course he had been only teasing. Despite herself, her anger slipped away. She rolled her eyes and huffed a sigh. “You are trying my
patience, Duke. We have things to discuss, and you are wasting my time with your nonsense.”
He looked at her with interest. “How would you spend your time, if not with my nonsense?”
“I would—” The words were right there on the tip of her tongue before she remembered herself. That was the danger of Wessex. He could charm her into revealing far too much. “I would enjoy the company of my friends and the sunshine, of course.”
“But that is exactly what you are doing now. The sun has not stopped shining since I joined you here on your blanket, and I am a friend, am I not? Enjoy me.”
Eliza watched him stretch his legs, catlike, and resisted the urge to stroke him as she would a beloved pet and listen to him purr. She enjoyed him more than she ought, truthfully—but then, so did everyone else. It was abominable how likeable the man was. How tempting it was to bask in the mellow sunshine and spar with him!
They would not have many more such moments together. Once Wessex married, he wouldn’t have the time to provoke her into lecturing him. Nor would that be her responsibility any longer. The future Duchess of Wessex would no doubt take umbrage at another woman correcting her husband—especially since he enjoyed it so much.
Alas.
“I should very much enjoy hearing your opinions on the ladies you invited here, but I fear you have not bothered to speak to them enough to draw any conclusions,” Eliza said severely. “Why are you wasting a perfect opportunity to get to know them better? Never tell me that Lord Abingdon and Mr. Eastwood are more enticing than your future wife.”
“At the moment, I must admit their conversation is, although they are lacking certain other attributes I would prefer my wife to have.” He did not enumerate what those attributes were, although Eliza had her suspicions. “But today is only Wednesday. I have a fortnight to make my choice. If I haven’t made up my mind by then, I will simply draw a name from a hat.”
“You wouldn’t!” Eliza exclaimed, horrified.
He laughed, the perverse man. “No, I wouldn’t. Marriage is a permanent condition, and I take that very seriously. But it would make an excellent story to tell our grandchildren, don’t you think?”
She could very easily imagine it, Wessex gleefully recounting the fateful moment to a delighted passel of children, while his wife looked on with resigned amusement. He would be gray-haired by then, his body softer, but he would still be handsome.
Unless he’d had the pox, which was not an impossibility.
“If those grandchildren are ever to exist, you must first find their grandmother. Be a good duke and wander over to Lady Jane and offer to assist her apple-picking. Let her enjoy you for a while.”
He turned his face to look at her. “Are you sending me away, Sigrid?”
“Yes. Shoo.”
He obliged, leaping gracefully to his feet. “Very well. Lady Jane, you said?”
She nodded.
He bowed and set off in the direction of the ladies. But instead of Lady Jane, he offered his arm to Lady Abigail—just to be contrary, Eliza was sure. Not that it mattered, truly. Any of the three ladies would make Wessex an excellent duchess. She wouldn’t have chosen them if she had thought there was the slightest chance Wessex would be unhappy with them, or they with him. Her efforts were rewarded, for Lady Abigail seemed very pleased with the duke’s attention.
Everything was going precisely to plan. How lovely.
Odd, then, that she felt as though something precious was slipping from her grasp.
Chapter Eight
It was at moments like this, when she was surrounded by women, that Riya Mukherjee felt both the most homesick and the most at home. Incongruent, to be sure, but then, when did one’s heart ever beat in perfect harmony with the world? Hearts were such inconsistent things.
So, she picked apples with the twins, Adelaide and Alice, enjoying their company while she missed her aunts, who were home in Bengal, and her brother, who was searching for mummies’ treasure in Egypt. Autumn had always been her favorite time of year. Her family would be celebrating Durga Puja. There would be merriment and laughter.
Alice’s own laughter pierced her thoughts, easing her heartache somewhat, although not entirely.
She looked up. “What amuses you so?”
“Oh, everything. Lord Sutton and Lord Devand are enthralled with Lady Freesia, judging from the way they are chasing her about the orchard. She is making them do the most foolish things! They are now arguing over who will climb the tree to fetch an apple for her.”
Riya pivoted to watch the argument. It was growing rather heated. “Why must they climb the tree? There is plenty of low-hanging fruit they could easily reach with both feet planted on the ground.”
“Because those are not the apples Lady Freesia requests. She wants that one.” Alice pointed to a ruby-colored fruit near the top branches.
“Does she?” It looked exactly the same as the others.
Alice grinned. “So she claims.”
“Ah.” It was only a game, then, but one the two lords were eager to play. They were now removing their jackets and tossing them to the ground in preparation for their climb. Apparently it would be a race. “Colonel Kent does not seem inclined to join them. Is he not also a suitor of Lady Freesia? He follows her a good deal.”
Adelaide laughed. “He does not follow Lady Freesia, he follows Lord Sutton and Lord Devand. The colonel has political aspirations, and the lords have a good deal of influence, despite their absurdity. Besides, he is still nursing a heart broken by Alice.”
Alice’s smile slipped from her face. “I hope not. It has been months since my marriage, during which time he has been provided ample evidence that we would not suit. But I think his pain is not so deep as my sister says, for he seeks out my husband more than myself.”
They all looked to where her husband now stood with his twin brother. Both men were keenly watching the antics of their younger sister and her suitors. Riya glanced back to Lady Freesia’s happy, satisfied countenance and felt a pang of pity. Perhaps Lady Freesia enjoyed these games because they made her feel powerful, for she was all too aware of how little power she truly wielded. The courtship rituals of England were different from those of Riya’s homeland, but the heart of the matter remained the same, in that a woman’s heart had very little to do with marriage at all.
“Poor Lady Freesia,” Riya murmured.
“My thoughts exactly.” Alice squinted at the two lords in the apple tree. “I can scarcely tell them apart. However will Lady Freesia?”
“I imagine it’s easier to tell the difference when one has a strong attachment to one man or the other,” Adelaide said drily.
Alice wrinkled her nose. “You can’t mean that she would truly choose either for her husband? Whoever her husband will be, he will frequently join our dinners and parties. I don’t like either Lord Sutton or Lord Devand that much.”
Riya smothered a smile. When it came to someone else’s marriage, everyone had Thoughts and Opinions. That was true the whole world over. She felt another bittersweet pang, the mingling of homesickness and happiness.
“What think you of Colonel Kent?” Alice asked Riya.
Thinking she meant as a suitor for Lady Claire, Riya turned to Adelaide to see what her friend’s response would be. But instead, she found both ladies looking at her expectantly, awaiting her answer.
Oh, dear.
“No, thank you,” she said politely. “I would rather not.”
Adelaide tilted her head, considering. “Because of his attachment to Alice? Well, no matter. There are others.”
“I would prefer not to marry at all,” Riya said firmly. “I have seen many lands, many people. The customs change. The clothing is different. The languages are foreign. And yet they are all the same in this regard. None of them are kind to women. We are told that the sole purpose of our lives is to marry, and yet
that is the very thing that destroys us. No, thank you.”
“It is different here,” Adelaide said gently.
“It is not different here,” Riya said, just as gently. “A man owns his wife and can do as he pleases with his property. You have been fortunate in your choice of spouse, as has Alice. There are happy marriages in every land, I am not arguing otherwise. But I fear they are outnumbered by those who are unhappily joined, and, in such circumstances, it is the woman who suffers most.”
The sisters exchanged troubled glances.
Alice dropped an apple into her basket. “Far be it from me to defend a man, as they are on a whole indefensible, but as you said yourself, they are not all terrible. One day you will find one you can trust.”
Riya gave a rueful laugh and shook her head. “I thought I had, once. I sincerely hope I will never be so foolish again. No, I am happy as I am.”
Mostly.
Over by the trees, the duke’s valet approached him rapidly, looking unaccustomedly harried. They all turned to look, curious. Sinton was never harried.
“Your Grace.” The valet bowed. “A visitor has arrived. He insists on seeing you at once. I bid him wait until I determined whether you were at home for him.” Sinton’s gaze shifted to Riya before returning to Wessex. A strange feeling of foreboding gripped her. “I believe—”
He got no further.
There was a sudden commotion, loud shouts, and the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. And above it all, a voice she recognized.
“Riya!”
Her heartbeat skittered like a rabbit being chased by a hawk. How was it possible? How could he be here? There was an entire ocean between them!
Apparently not, for he appeared before her, panting.
“Riya.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. A footman leaped forward to grab him, but he shook himself free and tossed the footman aside. He reached for her but dropped his hand when Alice and Adelaide stepped forward, flanking her on either side.
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