by Erica Ridley
Chloe cleared her throat. “I seem to recall a certain boiled pudding…”
“Culinary mishaps don’t count!” He laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back against the carriage wall. “Where to now?”
“Vauxhall? Isn’t there a balloon launch today?” Elizabeth tapped her cane with its hidden blade against Chloe’s basket. “If there’s a blanket in here, we can make a picnic.”
Tommy shook her head. “No blankets, just Great-Aunt Wynchester.”
“Who should accompany me to the Faircliffe residence posthaste,” Chloe said pointedly. “Now that we have our own copy of the keys, we ought to put the originals back in the housekeeper’s chamber before she returns from holiday.”
“Lucky for you, I enjoy being Great-Aunt Wynchester.” Tommy stretched out. “Unluckily for you, the Ainsworth dinner was your last invitation. Until another arrives, you haven’t a pretext for visiting Faircliffe.”
That was indeed the tricky part.
Other than slipping sugar into his tea at Miss York’s reading circle a few days ago, Chloe hadn’t crossed Faircliffe’s path in a week. The reading circle would reconvene again before too long, but that wouldn’t help her to rescue Puck.
Graham leaned forward. “I’ll do it.”
Tommy arched a brow. “You’ll be Great-Aunt Wynchester?”
“I’ll be Icarus, the Flying Fool.” Graham’s brown eyes lit with excitement. “It’s been ages since I put my acrobatics to good use. I won’t need an excuse to knock on the door, because I’ll slip in through an upper window instead.”
“Icarus fell to the earth when his pride tempted him to go too high,” Elizabeth reminded him.
“He flew, didn’t he?” Graham gave an unrepentant shrug. “The Splendiferous Schmidts ran a circus, not an encyclopedia. It was a good name. And this is a good plan.”
“It’s a horrid plan. We can’t risk you getting caught.” Jacob returned his field vole to his lap. “Which is why we should use one of my trained pigeons.”
Chloe covered her face with one hand. “Jacob…”
“Birds are cunning creatures,” he assured her. “Watch this.”
He leaned across Graham to crack open the door’s window, cupped his hands to his mouth, let out a loud, strangling gurgle, then flopped back into his seat in satisfaction.
“What does that do?” Tommy asked. “Call the babies to the nest for a nap?”
All four siblings except Jacob jumped backward when a large hawk filled their view and cracked its beak angrily against the window.
“Pigeon.” Elizabeth fanned her throat. “You said pigeon.”
“This clever girl was closer.” Jacob’s brown hand nuzzled beneath the hawk’s sharp beak. “I fear Hippogriff thinks my vole is dinner.”
“No pigeons, no acrobats, and no feeding voles to hawks in my presence,” Chloe said firmly. “Tommy and I have this under control. Don’t we, Great-Aunt Wynchester?”
“We’ll be under control by the time we arrive.” Tommy pulled her wig out of the basket and started pinning it in place.
“The girls always have all the fun,” Jacob groused.
Elizabeth rapped him with her sword stick. “Women.”
“Women,” he agreed with a sigh.
Tommy grinned at him. “You have no idea.”
Chloe held out a looking glass so her sister could apply her wrinkles.
Jacob cocked his head at Chloe. “Ever since this Faircliffe operation began, all you do is gloom about.”
“Can you blame her?” Graham pulled a face. “She’s forced to feign interest in the most insufferable, arrogant, haughtier-than-thou duke in all of England, the poor thing. Chloe deserves a holiday once this is through.”
“Or a medal,” Elizabeth agreed. “You’ve had to put up with the Ice King of Parliament for an entire month. At least Tommy can escape when she combs through the town house. How will you distract him today?”
Tommy burst out laughing. “Easy. Faircliffe adores explaining everything to Chloe, no matter how obvious, and he takes five hours to do so.”
“He’s trying to help,” Chloe muttered. She averted her gaze to hide an unwelcome twinge of guilt. The duke was naïve but meant well. “He hasn’t any idea what regular people are like.”
“Because he hasn’t tried to meet any,” Tommy said dryly.
“Ask him how mittens work,” Jacob suggested. “There are five fingers and only two holes. It’s so confusing!”
“No, ask him how to tie a garter about your stocking.” Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe you can trick him into showing you his shapely legs.”
That was not a terrible idea. Perhaps she could then inquire how gentlemen removed their smallclothes and whether he possessed any knowledge of how to unlace a woman’s pesky stays.
Chloe lowered her gaze so her siblings wouldn’t guess her true feelings. She liked Faircliffe. He had stopped being arrogant and insufferable almost as soon as they came to know each other. And as for icy, she couldn’t imagine hotter kisses than his. The feel of her fingers in his hair and his mouth on hers haunted her dreams. What she wanted most was a chance to do it all again.
The carriage wheels crunched to a stop.
Tommy glanced out of the window. “We’re here.”
“If you need Hippogriff, just make the call.” Jacob leaned forward. “Do you want me to demonstrate again?”
Graham clutched his chest. “Do not demonstrate again. Ever.”
The door swung open and their tiger Isaiah handed Tommy—er, Great-Aunt Wynchester—out of the coach.
“Niece!” Tommy shrilled. “Are you certain this is the right terrace? It looks uglier than last time.”
Elizabeth grinned back at Chloe. “Go and distract a duke.”
Chloe fell into step beside Tommy as they headed up the path toward Faircliffe’s door.
“I wish Jacob hadn’t repossessed Tiglet,” she whispered. “I think the duke covets our kitten.”
The butler swung open the door with an unusually observant expression.
“Er…” said Chloe.
“Right over here,” replied Mr. Hastings.
She exchanged a startled glance with her sister as they were led not to the austere parlor adjoining the entrance but rather to a drawing room deeper inside the ducal residence that she’d seen only in Tommy’s maps.
Still no paintings on the walls. Or art of any kind. There wasn’t even a carpet on the floor.
“Wait here, please.” Mr. Hastings lifted his palm. “His Grace will be with you shortly.”
“How did His Grace know we were coming?” Tommy whispered in bafflement once the butler had left the room. “We didn’t know we were coming. Wynchesters are unpredictable.”
“Apparently, so is the Duke of Faircliffe.” The thought filled Chloe’s stomach with butterflies. He was one of the cleverest orators in Parliament. It would not do to underestimate him. She smoothed out her skirt with nervous hands.
Faircliffe stepped into the room. “You’re here.”
His eyes were on hers, as if theatrical Great-Aunt Wynchester were the wainscoting and Chloe bold and unmissable.
How was she supposed to gaze upon him without immediately longing to hurl herself into his embrace?
The angular lines of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his coat might have seemed harsh, but Chloe had been in those strong arms. She had kissed those warm lips. Her entire body quivered with yearning to have his mouth upon her again.
“You left us sitting for too long.” Tommy struggled to her feet. “Now I have to stretch this bad hip.”
Rather than express disbelief or irritation at this patently outlandish claim—less than a minute had passed between their arrival and Faircliffe’s—the duke appeared comically relieved to be rid of Great-Aunt Wynchester so quickly.
“Of course, of course.” He leapt out of her way. “Please do whatever you need for your hip. Take your time.”
Behind the duke’s ba
ck, Tommy darted a quizzical glance over her shoulder at Chloe, then disappeared down the corridor.
Faircliffe took the chair opposite Chloe. “How are you?”
“I’m well,” she drawled. “How are you?”
It did not seem that he was going to take advantage of a private moment for torrid kisses after all.
Pity.
He twisted his hands in his lap. “Can I make an indelicate observation without offending you?”
She crossed her arms. “Probably not.”
He cleared his throat but then said nothing, as if torn between his desires and his better judgment.
She flapped her fingers in resignation. “Go forth and offend.”
“It’s just that I’ve been watching you,” he blurted out. He ran a restless hand through his dark hair. “You may think nobody is, but I am, and I’ve come to think that you think no one sees you. You dress so they can’t see you without expending a modicum of effort, hoping that someone will do so and thus be worthy of you in all your true glory. Except that no one does. Instead of showing your full colors, you favor plain dress so that the reason they’re not seeing you isn’t because you’re not worthy but because you’ve chosen to be invisible.”
Chloe’s pulse trembled erratically, her lungs robbed of breath.
She wasn’t offended.
She was stripped bare.
“That’s all fine,” the duke said swiftly. “You should dress however you like and for whatever reasons you please. But whilst you’re here in my house…whenever it’s just the two of us, together…I want you to know that you’re free to be you, whatever that might look like.”
Chloe couldn’t respond. Her words tangled in her throat.
“I don’t know if this will make it worse or better, but I thought… Wait here. I’ll go and get them.”
Faircliffe darted up from his chair and dashed to the corner of the room, where a large trunk stood next to a blank wall. He lifted the trunk by its leather handles and brought it to the bare floor between his chair and Chloe’s.
And then he flipped open the lid.
She gaped in astonishment. A dozen ladies’ bonnets, ranging from stylish to garish, piled one atop the other. Some boasted a profusion of ribbons or ostrich feathers or wax grapes or the occasional stuffed parrot. One of the bonnets bore no decoration at all.
She pointed at it. “What’s that one?”
“A choice.” He gave a self-conscious little laugh. “If you like plain, then by all means wear it. The only thing I’m trying to give you is the power to choose.”
She touched her chest, her throat suddenly dry and her eyes stinging.
Wasn’t this what she had longed for: the ability to decide whether others noticed her? To control what others saw when they looked at her?
The bonnets were all so different. Plain, fancy, tasteful, gaudy, symmetrical, unconventional. Faircliffe didn’t see just one thing when he looked at her. He understood she was all of these things and none of these things, conflicted and complex, a whole person with changing humors and multiple needs and desires.
He didn’t see a pseudonym or a mask or a blank slate. He saw Chloe. And he wanted her to see herself, to be herself. To have this room as a safe place. To have him as both her protector and partner in crime. Or rather, partner in silliness.
No one outside of family had ever seen her so clearly. She should feel naked and discomfited.
Instead, she felt inexplicably, completely at home.
“If you hate these options…” He transferred bonnets onto every surface until he exposed a cornucopia of motley accoutrements at the bottom of the trunk. “Most items are held on with pins,” he explained earnestly. “If you want all of the birds on one bonnet, you can do so. Feel free to be as creative as you please.”
He gazed uncertainly at her, visibly holding his breath. His shoulder twitched as if every muscle coiled with nervous energy.
How did he not realize just how perfect his gift was?
She reached for an oddly fascinating bonnet with the greatest number of adornments pinned at all angles and placed it on her head. The weight of a white-necked pheasant caused it to list precariously to one side. A hunk of blue ribbon uncoiled from the clump of flowers on the brim to dangle before her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” His cheeks flushed pink. “I may have decorated that one.”
“I adore it.” She wanted to hug it to her chest. She wanted to hug him and squeeze him tight. “It’s my favorite of them all. Is there a looking glass?”
“Yes. Yes, there is.” He leapt from his seat and hurried out of the door.
It was then that Chloe realized that this drawing room no longer bore the light-reflecting mirrors indicated on Tommy’s maps. Was that why she’d been brought here today: because Faircliffe had removed them in deference to her? To ensure that every seat in the chamber would be one she’d feel comfortable in? She touched a hand to her throat.
The duke rushed back into the parlor bearing a hand mirror. One that could easily be turned facedown on any surface if she decided she was no longer interested in glimpsing her reflection.
She lifted the handle high and angled the glass to face her. A startled laugh burbled out of her chest, delighted and joyful. She looked absolutely, positively ridiculous. A peacock would be ashamed to make such a display.
Chloe had never loved a hat more in all her life.
She turned to Faircliffe. “You know the laws, do you not? What are the rules regarding a woman marrying her favorite bonnet?”
Faircliffe’s entire body relaxed in obvious relief. He affected a serious expression. “As long as no one objects during the reading of the banns, and the bonnet agrees to a ceremony in the Church of England…”
She couldn’t contain her grin as she nudged the trunk in his direction. “Your turn, good sir. Which frippery is yours?”
“Which frippery, Your Grace,” he corrected sternly before selecting an oversized bonnet sprouting flowers and feathers. He waved his fingers in the direction of his white neckcloth. “Does this match my cravat?”
“It does not,” she informed him gravely.
He placed the bonnet on his head anyway. “Pity.”
She supposed he should look preposterous, but she couldn’t possibly be more charmed by his boyish smile and cheerful silliness.
This was who he really was, when he wasn’t trying so hard to be a perfect duke: delightful, approachable, irresistible. She wanted to grab the ribbons of his outlandish bonnet and kiss him for days. She wanted to wear the one he’d made for her for the rest of her life.
She touched the brim of her hat with trembling fingers. “Did you really decorate this one yourself?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He gave a sheepish smile. “They’re all yours. You can keep them here if you prefer, or you can stuff them into your basket with Tiglet. His claws cannot possibly make my designs any worse.”
“Tiglet is a paragon of fashion,” she admitted. “Let’s leave them here so he doesn’t outshine us.”
“Tiglet outshines everyone, with or without bonnets,” Faircliffe pointed out.
Chloe wasn’t so certain.
The Duke of Faircliffe, with his wide shoulders and chiseled jaw and floppy flowered bonnet covered in wax cherries and a rainbow of silk rosebuds, outshone any other member of the beau monde Chloe had ever met.
He saw her. He didn’t want anything from her. He wished to do things for her. He wanted her to be herself.
Could a woman ask for anything more?
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ve been flippant because I am speechless.”
The tips of his ears reddened. “Don’t thank me. I had plenty of help. My staff and I spent the evening pinning these contraptions together and giggling like schoolchildren.”
The picture he painted caused Chloe to giggle as well. And to rethink more of her assumptions about Faircliffe. He was a duke, yes, but he was also a man who would sit around a table piled
with millinery, playing at handicrafts with his servants. Servants like…
“Mr. Hastings made one of these hats?” That explained the secret smile on the butler’s face.
“He fashioned the bonnet on my head,” Faircliffe confirmed. “There was a clump of wooden apples, but they kept falling off. Dinah and Peggy used them on a different headpiece.”
Chloe’s chest lightened. She was visible not just to Faircliffe but to his entire staff. Even those whom she had not met yet had worked together to surprise her with a gift they weren’t certain she would want.
All so that here, with him, there would be no need to hide.
“One cannot be anyone but oneself,” Faircliffe said with a crooked smile. “There’s no point in fighting it.”
Could that be true?
This week, she had gone to Philippa’s reading circle not for any nefarious reason but because Chloe liked books. And Philippa. And highly, highly valued being invited as Chloe Wynchester rather than forced to infiltrate as Jane Brown. That alone had once seemed impossible. The idea that she could take that further and be as peculiar and quirky as she pleased with Faircliffe was heady indeed.
“I was wrong about you,” she admitted.
His face fell. “I’m not the most dashing duke in the entire history of England?”
Definitely the most kissable.
“You’re more than what you seem,” she said. “Just like me.”
He was as complex and as surprising as his bonnet. There was so much to admire. He was honorable, indefatigable in Parliament, loyal, caring, imaginative. His empathy was not reserved for speeches about the nameless, faceless masses but for every person individually. Her, specifically.
He liked her and was unashamed to have her know it.
Chloe held out her hand as if meeting a stranger for the first time. She had crossed paths with Faircliffe a dozen times in the past. Her fingers shook as she realized that he would never forget her again.
He didn’t just remember her when he saw her. He thought about her even when she wasn’t there. Maybe even as often as she thought about him.
