by Erica Ridley
If Chloe was the dance floor, Philippa and her ilk were sparkling chandeliers. Chloe had spent the same amount of time trying to get to know her as one might spend conversing with a candle.
But the next few weeks would be different. For this ploy to work, she must attend the Blankets for Babes charity tea not as Jane Brown, but as Chloe Wynchester. Every inch of her body was on edge.
It had nothing to do with the Duke of Faircliffe’s probable presence, she reminded herself. Nor his interest in wooing Miss York. This unusual attack of nerves was solely due to not having a pseudonym to hide behind. What if they recognized her? What if they didn’t?
When it was Chloe’s turn to alight from her carriage, she took a deep breath before striding up the path to the open door.
As on previous visits, Mrs. York bounced beside the butler, excitably welcoming guests through the door and into her home.
Beside her stood Philippa, draped from head to toe in frills and lace, her peaches-and-cream face a perfect mask of ennui. She looked like a bored but beautiful doily.
“Did you bring a blanket…er…Miss?” Mrs. York asked Chloe, despite being obviously unable to place her name. As hostess, she would not want to admit her failure.
“I brought two.” Chloe pulled them from the basket and surreptitiously flicked off a few stray Tiglet hairs before handing the blankets over.
All six Wynchester siblings had gamely spent the night quilting. Chloe had brought the two most middling attempts—hers and Graham’s—and would donate the other four separately during her weekly visit to the orphanage where she’d once lived.
“Thank you, thank you,” Mrs. York gushed, handing Chloe off to her daughter to greet the next guest. “Oh, Gracie, how marvelous to see you! Never say you made this ravishing blanket yourself.”
Just like that: forgotten.
Excellent. Chloe straightened her spine. That made things easier.
“Miss York,” she said to Philippa in hushed tones, leading her off to one side. “This is distressingly awkward, but I do hope you can help me. At the last reading circle, a guest called me by the wrong name. I didn’t correct her because I didn’t want her to feel poorly, but I thought you might remind the others privately in case anyone else is confused?”
“Of…course.” Miss York’s halting tone suggested she could not place the name, either. “What did they call you?”
“‘Jane Brown,’ if you can believe it.” Chloe gave a light, trilling laugh as if the mix-up was just so amusing. “‘Brown’ couldn’t be further from ‘Wynchester,’ of course, but ‘Jane’ is a fair guess, being such a common name. I’d likely try the same thing, were I ever in those shoes.”
“Wynchester?” It was the quietest screech Chloe had ever heard, and it came from the shocked face of Mrs. York, who had apparently tiptoed behind them to eavesdrop. “Philippa, darling, you cannot possibly have invited a Wynchester into our home. If tomorrow’s papers contain a caricature of my parlor—”
“Mind the door, Mother,” Miss York interrupted without changing expression. She looked as bored now as she had when Chloe had first entered the room. “Here comes Lady Eunice with a blanket.”
Mrs. York let out an indignant squeak but rushed back to her post next to the butler.
Chloe took a longer look at Philippa. She’d handled her panicking mother with practiced skill, as if some random Wynchester elbowing into her charity tea uninvited was the least interesting thing to happen all day.
“Don’t mind her,” Philippa said. “Her cousin is a caricaturist, and he’s never found anything Mother does to be interesting enough to sketch. Or me, for that matter. My reading circle isn’t the least bit respectable, and we get on fine.”
Chloe hid a smile. Perhaps it had been a mistake for the floor not to speak to the chandelier. Philippa seemed someone Chloe might like.
Before they could speak further, Mrs. York’s pale hand flashed out to grab her daughter by the arm and tug her ignominiously to one side.
“He’s here,” Mrs. York hissed, in a whisper that surely carried to every witness in the entranceway. “Pinch your cheeks for color.”
Philippa ignored this advice and successfully dodged her mother’s attempts to do it for her.
However, Chloe glimpsed several other unwed young ladies furtively pinching their cheeks and adjusting their bodices before pushing forward.
She was outraged on Philippa’s behalf—weren’t these “ladies” angling for Philippa’s duke supposed to be her friends?—but also intrigued by the idea nothing was final until the marriage contract made it so.
Banns had not been read; Faircliffe had not yet asked official permission from Philippa’s father. Until then, Chloe supposed every young lady was well within her rights to do as best she could for her future. Of course, she had no wayward temptation to pinch her own cheeks for color.
She gripped the handle of her basket in both hands as the duke approached.
The sunlight cast his eyes in shadow, but she knew their blueness by heart. As endless as the sky, and as sharp as fine crystal. Cold enough to send shivers of gooseflesh along her skin and sometimes hot enough to do the same.
She could see nothing of him but his eyes and still feel dwarfed in his presence. The sensation should discomfort her, anger her. She was not used to feeling trapped by nothing stronger than a heated gaze. Instead, it was strangely thrilling. Her muscles thrummed with anticipation for the moment the shadows would fall away and his eyes would be visible to hers.
He cut a fine figure beneath the brilliant sun. A perfectly tailored frock coat hugged his wide shoulders. A hint of emerald-green waistcoat shimmered beneath the elegant cutaway. Fawn breeches molded to the muscles of his legs. His coal-black boots reflected the light, no doubt champagne-shined for impact.
If he intended to make an impression, he had achieved his aim. The entranceway fairly vibrated from the effort to contain so many racing pulses at once.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. York cooed. “How splendid for you to join us. And with a blanket for the children! What did you have embroidered on yours?”
“Embroidered?” he echoed blankly.
Oh dear, had Chloe failed to mention the finer details? Perhaps he shouldn’t have swept her out of the house like so much rubbish. She hid a smile behind her fist and feigned a dainty cough.
“When we donate to Blankets for Babes, we embroider the softest cotton with our favorite Bible verses or inspiring axioms, to create cheer and hope in the lives of orphans,” Mrs. York continued earnestly. “The little dears have nothing else to look forward to, you know.”
Without a word, Faircliffe handed Mrs. York a folded square of beautiful material that would be welcome anywhere, lack of embroidered platitudes notwithstanding.
He sent his flat gaze over Mrs. York’s shoulder, past her daughter and her friends, right to Chloe. There were his eyes, cerulean and sharp.
Her amusement faltered. She knew the duke had sent her a meaningful look because he hadn’t known to embroider his blanket, but others would think he had singled her out because she was a foundling who had grown up in an orphanage, just like the pitiable “babes” they’d embroidered Bible verses for.
Chloe lifted her nose high. She was not ashamed of who and what she was or where she had come from.
Mrs. York poked at Faircliffe’s offering. “Heavens, this won’t match the others at all. We’ve spent the past week embroidering—”
“Mother, it’s a blanket,” Philippa pointed out dryly. “And babies can’t read.”
Faircliffe’s eyes met Chloe’s again. From their fire it was clear he was not thinking about charity. He did not seem to be thinking about blankets at all. He was staring at Chloe as if he wished to peel her plainness away like petals on a dahlia to expose whatever secrets hid inside.
She shivered and forced herself to look away.
Realizing her daughter did not command the duke’s full attention, Mrs. York turned to see who had presume
d to distract him.
She paled when her gaze landed on Chloe.
Chloe fought the urge to wiggle her fingers.
Mrs. York waded through the river of pink-cheeked ladies leaping to greet the duke and grabbed Chloe by the arm.
“You must go at once,” she hissed, “and never return.”
“I don’t want him,” Chloe assured her just as quietly, “if that’s your concern.”
Mrs. York was unswayed. “My concern is the presence of a Wynchester in what, until this day, has been a respectable household.”
Chloe refrained from mentioning that she’d been present before.
When she’d initially infiltrated the reading circle using her Jane Brown identity, she expected to amuse her siblings with tales of idle gossip. Instead, she was fascinated by the selection of books and the insightful commentary. The weekly meetings became a favored part of her routine.
Mrs. York’s face flushed and she lowered her voice to a hiss. “I will not allow the stain of your presence to jeopardize Philippa receiving the marriage offer she very much deserves. If you’re not gone within the next—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Wynchester.” Faircliffe’s deep voice resonated throughout the hall. “Shall I presume Tiglet is in that basket?”
Chloe dipped a princess-perfect curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. And indeed he is.”
She lifted the lid. Up popped soft pointed ears and long white whiskers as the kitten peeked out.
“Keep the little rascal inside this time.” A ghost of a smile curved Faircliffe’s lips before he turned to greet the next guest.
Mrs. York’s jaw fell open. “You… He…”
Chloe’s spinning head felt much the same way.
The Duke of Faircliffe had acknowledged her publicly. He had not cut her, ignored her, or failed to notice her altogether. He’d remembered her and greeted her with a familiarity that cast no doubt they shared a friendly acquaintance.
Her. Chloe Wynchester!
She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d doubted he would go through with it. That today would be one more embarrassing disappointment in a lifetime of going unnoticed.
“Philippa.” Mrs. York tapped her daughter’s lace-encircled wrist. “His Grace is on speaking terms with Miss Wynchester. You must invite her to your next event. Until you’re wed, you cannot be rude to anyone he’s friendly with, no matter how distasteful. At least, not in front of him.”
There was the douse of water Chloe needed. She was useful to a point, but once the betrothal was announced, she was to be cut forevermore.
Oh, she could return if she wished to. She could be Anne Smith one day and Mary Jones the next, and Mrs. York would be too busy preening at Faircliffe to know the difference.
This time, however, the thought of doing so felt less like revenge and more…dreary.
“Lady Quarrington is hosting a soirée on Friday,” Philippa said to Chloe. “You must attend.”
Mrs. York swatted at her daughter, aghast. “You cannot invite a Wynchester to other people’s soirées! Besides, I thought you refused to attend your cousin’s fêtes.”
Philippa’s porcelain face was hard as marble. “I’ll go if Miss Wynchester goes.”
Mrs. York flashed Chloe a furious smile. “Then we’ll make certain she receives an invitation.”
Somehow Chloe kept her mouth from falling open. Easy as that? Oh, well, I suppose we shall grant her entrée because two people failed to cut her as expected. A word from Faircliffe and another from Philippa, and suddenly Chloe Wynchester had worth?
Fingers of doubt crept up her spine. Perhaps she’d underestimated how much influence a man like Faircliffe wielded. After all, she hadn’t selected him because he was likely to be an easy mark. She hadn’t selected him at all.
“Come along, everyone.” Mrs. York urged her guests down a corridor. “Off we go to the dining room, where we’ll have room to display our blankets…and enjoy tea!”
Chloe let the river of excited, chattering guests pass her by. Maybe Philippa wasn’t as narrow-minded as her peers. Chloe hadn’t been able to send an apology for the Tiglet catastrophe because she’d been operating under an assumed name. Now that that tiny detail had been cleared up, maybe she and Philippa could even be…friends.
“Are you coming?” asked a familiar velvet voice.
Startled, she glanced up to see Faircliffe’s handsome face lined with concern.
Why was he doing this? The magic of his attention had already borne fruit. He needn’t keep talking to her. It wasn’t part of their agreement.
He stepped far too close beside her. “I’ll walk with you.”
The other unmarried ladies were almost as vexed by this turn of events as Chloe was. The only thing she wanted from Faircliffe was the location of her family’s painting.
She tried to make meaningful eyes at Philippa to come and enchant her soon-to-be betrothed.
Philippa stared back at her blankly, then disappeared down the hall as if the most pressing matter was sampling the tea cakes.
How could she be so sanguine? Did Philippa not care who Faircliffe escorted because she had already won? Or after five years on the marriage mart, was she tired of playing the game? Why, oh, why couldn’t she be a possessive, screeching harpy?
Faircliffe showed no signs of abandoning Chloe’s side.
She tried not to find his solicitousness charming. It was an act, just like everything else the beau monde did or said in front of each other. He wasn’t kind to her by choice.
Philippa could have him. The last thing Chloe needed was the insincere attentions of some titled nob. She’d rather go back to being invisible.
“Take any seat you wish.” Mrs. York clapped her hands. “There are more cakes coming.”
Faircliffe touched his hand to the back of a gracefully curved bergère facing a decorative looking glass and two candelabra. “How about this one?”
“No.” Chloe’s revulsion was too visceral to hide.
His surprise was obvious. “Does it look uncomfortable?”
“It looks…” She was too rattled by his continued solicitousness to invent a lie. “I know artfully placed mirrors are customary to increase a room’s light, but I cannot spend the next hour and a half dodging my reflection in the looking glass.”
She hated her reflection. Not always; sometimes she was almost pretty. But only in the privacy of her bedchamber. If she sat across from a mirror in this house, she would be forced to acknowledge how ill-matched she was to the others. How much plainer, how dull and irrelevant.
She would rather be tossed into the Serpentine.
“I spy a better location,” Faircliffe said, without asking further questions. “Come and see if this vantage point is superior.”
It was the chair nearest the door—half in shadow, because it made little sense to reflect light toward the hallway. Farthest from Philippa and her mother, with the view obscured by the towering tea trays.
It was perfect.
“Thank you,” Chloe said, and meant it.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. York simpered, “I saved you the best seat, over here next to my Philippa.”
“Thank you,” the duke replied, but did not sound pleased.
Chloe grinned up at him and bounced her fingers good-bye.
“In case I haven’t a chance to speak to you after the tea…” Faircliffe cleared his throat. A hint of color touched his cheeks. “This lilac color brings out your eyes much better than the ecru did.”
With that, he was gone. He must have taken Chloe’s breath with him, because she found herself without air. She sat down hard on her chair and tried to weather her vertigo. Her pulse fluttered so rapidly at her throat, it felt like it was trying to break free. She touched her fingers to the spot to quell it and could not. She stared after him.
Faircliffe wasn’t just pretending to see her today. He saw her. He’d seen her last time, too. He remembered what she wore, and he liked…this…so
ul-sucking lavender-gray color better than the watered-down porridge of the other muslin. It brought out her eyes. Eyes no one but relatives had ever noticed.
Thank God she wasn’t seated before a looking glass. She doubted she’d recognize the expression reflected back at her.
10
I always say there’s a right and a wrong way for a kitchen to prepare a cucumber sandwich. Mine are the finest of all!”
Lawrence tried to concentrate on Mrs. York’s animated chatter. She would soon be his mother-in-law, and she deserved his attention and respect. His thoughts were much too fractured to be coherent, but fortunately his reputation for icy ducal hauteur meant he was not expected to smile and prattle in return.
He was supposed to be thinking about Miss York. Instead, he was preoccupied with Miss Wynchester.
She had looked oddly defenseless when he told her the lilac brought out her eyes. Startled, perhaps, as if unused to hearing compliments. Or perhaps unused to society in general. That was why she had come to him, was it not? She didn’t know what to do or what to expect.
She certainly didn’t need to know what else he thought when he looked at her.
Her scent tickled his skin like feathers, sending a frisson of awareness along his flesh from the knowledge she was near. He could feel her, like the air just before a thunderstorm.
The lilac did bring out her eyes, but he would have noticed them regardless. They were her best and worst feature—too arresting and perceptive for comfort. His blood quickened. Her clear gaze made his clothes feel too warm, the fabric rough when before it had been smooth. He wondered if she felt the same.
He wanted to touch her skin to see if it felt as soft as it looked. To slide his fingers into the hair at her nape and draw her close, enveloping her in his embrace the way her scent enveloped him. Magnetic and inescapable, washing over him like rain. A summer storm, hot and wet.
These were dangerous thoughts that he would never admit. Acknowledging her was risk enough. Acting on animal impulse would be ruinous. A wise man would keep his distance.
