by Eva Leigh
“We’re nearly there.” He nodded toward the window. “That gristmill with the waterwheel means we’re but a mile away.”
Everyone, including Jess, Lady Haighe, and Mr. Walditch, craned their heads toward the landmark.
“It’s lovely,” Lady Haighe said irritably.
“That distresses you?” Jess asked.
“Lovely things make me aware of my mortality, and I already have reminders of that when I rise from bed every morning and my body aches for no reason at all.”
Noel shared an amused glance with Jess. Fortunately, she sat opposite him, beside Lady Haighe. There was a good chance that if he’d had to ride to Carriford with Jess’s thigh pressed against his, he’d arrive a slavering madman. Having Mr. Walditch next to him was far better.
The caravan toward his country estate consisted of his carriage and Lady Farris’s own vehicle, which transported her, Baron Mentmore, Lord Pickhill, and Mr. Parley. Their servants trundled behind in a more sturdy coach.
It was all Noel could do to keep from jouncing his leg in impatience. The late afternoon light would gild Carriford’s West Terrace, which he’d show Jess as soon as she had settled in her room. He’d made very specific instructions in his letter to the butler as to the placement of Jess’s bedchamber. Hopefully, she’d be pleased with his decision.
“Do you host many house parties at this estate?” Mr. Walditch asked.
“Not for some time.” He wouldn’t mention one weeklong bacchanalia a few years ago that had seen him playing nude billiards with an actress, and the garden fountain that had been filled with wine so that anyone might drink by scooping their hand into its contents. Even shy, scholarly Holloway had been his version of wild, fencing with McCameron in the long, vaulted gallery.
“I think I see some towers.” Jess pointed to the sloped gables that barely poked above the ash trees. “Is that it?”
“We’re passing through the gates just now.” He waited in anticipation as the carriage rolled up the long, curving drive that led to Carriford’s front entrance. Instead of looking out the window, however, his gaze held to Jess’s face, eager to see her response to his estate.
A shame that the soap makers weren’t located in Cambridgeshire, where his grandest home, and the seat of the duchy, was situated. Surely its fifteen bedchambers and thirty public rooms would impress her.
He discreetly rubbed his palms on his thighs in an attempt to dry them. He gave an inaudible, self-deprecating snort. When was the last time he’d wanted to amaze anyone? When did he ever feel the need to show off? Him—a duke.
Jess didn’t seem to care that he was a duke. She saw beneath the gilded trimmings to the man. And she liked him just the same. Hell if that didn’t fill him with humble gratitude—and the need to give her relentless pleasure.
“That’s Carriford?” His eyebrows climbing up his forehead, Mr. Walditch stared out the window.
Noel glanced quickly from Jess to the window. Sure enough, the house emerged from the trees, rising grandly and with the dignity of an elder statesman who kept a prized place beside a king. The warm brick walls still held a glow from the day’s light, and though the building itself wasn’t massive like some of his other estates, it possessed a solemn grandeur that always struck him whenever he viewed it. A row of servants stood on the gravel drive, awaiting the arrival of the house’s master and his guests.
He took all this in within half a second. Jess was his main concern.
She gazed out the window, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Was that shock? Did she find the place to be too old-fashioned? If only he’d had time—he could have scheduled more improvements. Tear down a wall or two. Replace the old timbers with modern plaster in the style of Adams.
“It’s . . .” She leaned closer to the window and stared out. “Oh, Noel. It’s marvelous.”
Gratification coursed through him, almost obscuring the fact that she’d called him by his Christian name in front of Lady Haighe and Mr. Walditch. He was faintly aware of the two other occupants of the carriage exchanging glances.
“My mother thinks it gloomy,” he said, striving for nonchalance.
“It’s not. At all.” Jess brought her gaze back to his. “It’s something out of a fairy tale.”
“The knight and the farmer’s daughter?”
Lady Haighe and Mr. Walditch conversed with each other, and seemed to not have heard Noel’s carelessly made remark. Not that they’d understand its significance, but he should be more bloody circumspect.
“The very tale I was thinking of,” Jess murmured, smiling.
God, the things he wanted to do with her . . .
The carriage came to a stop in front of the house. A footman opened the door, and, summoning his ducal dignity, Noel stepped down. He helped Lady Haighe alight from the carriage, and then Jess.
As he greeted Gregory, the estate manager, and Vale, the butler, the second carriage arrived. The passengers emerged to gaze with admiration at the house and its staff.
Noel faced the assembled guests, careful not to let his gaze linger too long on Jess. “Gentlemen and ladies of the Bazaar, welcome to Carriford.”
Jess had actually stuck her hands beneath her thighs, pinning them to the carriage squabs, to keep from pointing out the selfsame landmarks that she’d observed not so long ago as she’d traveled to London from Lady Catherton’s home.
What if someone from her village had taken employment at Noel’s estate? One careless whisper could ruin everything in a matter of seconds.
She did not have to manufacture interest as they’d neared his estate—if for no other reason than he seemed to grow more and more animated the nearer they came to it. He was always sophisticated, ready with his dry wit. But she saw it in his shining eyes, in his ready smile, and the way he sat on the edge of the seat, his gaze constantly returning to her face.
He wanted her to like his home. She wanted to like it, too, wanted to like anything he gave to her, and surely that way was dangerous.
“Welcome to Carriford,” he said as she and the others assembled on the front drive.
Everyone, including Jess, made appreciative sounds. She couldn’t speak much beyond that because he lived in a sodding ancient manor that was as old as it was lovely.
He performed introductions. “This is Gregory, my estate manager. If you’ve any questions about the running of the place, he’s a font of knowledge.”
A Black man with silvering hair bowed. “My lords and ladies.”
Noel continued. “This is Vale, the butler.” A man dressed in severe dark clothing bowed. “And this estimable woman is Mrs. Diehl, the housekeeper.” A woman of surprising youthfulness curtsied, her freckles standing out against her fair skin.
“Should you require anything at all,” Mrs. Diehl said, “from baths to beer, Mr. Vale and I will do our utmost to see your every need fulfilled.”
Jess couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Noel. She did have one need she very much wanted fulfilled, and only he could accomplish it—but she had to keep distant from him, for both their sakes.
In that quick moment, his gaze met hers. His eyes were hot, and heat traveled the distance between them.
Somehow, she managed to haul her attention away from him and distracted herself by admiring Carriford’s facade. It had an air of enchantment, as though lords and ladies of an earlier time would emerge in just a moment to take the air.
“Rooms first?” Noel asked. “A tour of the house and grounds?”
“An old woman needs her rest,” Lady Haighe grumbled.
“When I see one,” he said with a smile, “I will suggest she do just that.”
Lady Haighe sniffed, but it seemed she couldn’t hold back her own reluctant smile.
Some of the others voiced an interest in going to their rooms so they might also rest from the journey.
“A tour sounds lovely,” Jess said. She’d accompanied Lady Catherton to a friend’s estate, and as soon as they had arrived, Jess had been
put to work, communicating with the staff about the countess’s preferences and dislikes. There had been no time for leisure.
Not today. Today, she was Noel’s honored guest.
While some were shown to their chambers, Jess, Lady Farris, Mr. Walditch, and Lord Pickhill followed Noel as he guided them into the house. In the interim, the baggage was taken down from the carriages as the valets and ladies’ maids arrived.
“The Great Hall,” Noel announced, stepping into an immense chamber with tall ceilings. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by heavy wooden chairs. “Lords of the manor held quarterly audiences with their tenants to hear any complaints or requests.”
“Doubtless with wolfhounds sleeping in front of the fire,” Jess said.
His look was appreciative. “Deerhounds. But you’re close. Very close.”
“Perhaps you have been here before,” Lady Farris said. “In another life. You might have been a lady, seated just so to protect the panniers.”
Jess bit back the comment that if she had been alive back then, she surely would have been one of the laborers, her rough hands clutching her apron as she came to petition her lord for a new barn after a fire, and certainly not a lady protecting whatever the hell a pannier was.
Noel took them from the Great Hall into the corridor, where he showed them several parlors with wooden paneled walls covered in tapestries. The air smelled of beeswax polish and lemon, clean, but rich with history.
“This Venetian goblet has a tragic past,” he said, pointing to a stunning glass cup in a cabinet. “The unfortunate Charles I drank from it on a brief stay at Carriford. And this,” he continued, nodding toward a leather glove that looked tiny enough for a doll, “was left behind by one of Charles II’s mistresses when she had used Carriford as an assignation spot with the monarch. Fortunately, there was just the one mistress and not the entire platoon of them. There aren’t enough bedrooms at Carriford for that kind of debauchery.”
“You sound sad about that,” Jess teased.
“I come from a long line of reprobates and rogues,” he said with a bow. “It would be such a shame for their descendant to disappoint them. Let us move on and let their ghosts cavort in peace.”
The Long Gallery boasted curved ceilings and a floor made of wood so old it seemed to undulate in polished waves.
“Surely on rainy days you played ninepins in here,” she said. “I would have.”
“Our nurse forbade it,” Noel said, then added with a wink, “But that didn’t stop us. Oh, and I enjoyed sliding around in my drawers and stockinged feet whenever my parents and tutors were away, singing bawdy songs at the top of my lungs.”
She pressed her lips together, trying without success to keep from grinning at the image of a young Noel, full of mischief, impossible to be denied anything.
The house itself was lovely, but when he brought them outside to the gardens and grounds, she knew with certainty that there was no place in England that held such enchantment. There were hedge mazes and arbors and, beyond the gardens, rolling expanses of grass that invited bare feet and reckless running at top speed.
As Lady Farris, Mr. Walditch, and Lord Pickhill talked with Mr. Fields, the aptly named head gardener, Jess admired the charming arrangement of wrought-iron furniture beneath the spreading branches of an ash tree, as though anticipating a small group of lords and ladies to take tea and cakes in the afternoon heat.
She felt Noel drawing closer, a palpable sense of him that strummed through her body.
“You’re pleased?” He ran one long finger over the curlicue of a flower set in the table.
“Anyone who lived here would be lucky indeed to call it home.”
He exhaled. “I am. I’d call myself a lucky bastard, but my lineage is verified in state documents.”
“Did you spend much time here?” While she had been helping her family bring in their crop, tending their bees, spending winter days cutting and wrapping soap, he had been at this place, waited on by servants and sliding through the Long Gallery and leading his charmed life.
They were so different in a multitude of ways. He was a duke, raised in privilege, with nothing forbidden to him. He could dream any dream with the belief that it could truly become reality—but his whole life already was a fantasy come true.
Could he ever understand the desperation that had driven her to carry on such a lengthy deception? And if he did understand that, could he forgive her for the fabrications she’d told him? She’d done her best to stick as close to the truth as she could, but there had been times when a lie had been unavoidable. Seeing this beautiful home and his joy in it only affirmed what she believed: she and Noel had no future beyond the next few days.
“Not much,” he said. “To my dismay. We spent more time in Cambridgeshire, at Roston Abbey, where the seat of the duchy is located. That estate is far grander in scale.”
“Surely not as grand in magic.” She trailed her own ungloved hand along the clever ironwork. Then held her breath as his hand came closer to hers, and closer still, until the very tips of their fingers touched.
He might as well have kissed her.
God above, if she ever brought him to her bed, she’d surely lose her wits from sheer pleasure.
“You think Carriford magical?” he asked, though his voice was low and rough.
She turned to him. “Years from now, I’ll dream of this place.”
His eyes were dark and immeasurably deep. The way he looked at her—as though he’d scaled a mountain and found her at the summit—was a look she’d remember until her last breath.
“I’m glad.” His words rumbled. “There’s a house full of people—but I don’t give a damn about their opinions. It’s what you think that matters.”
“I’m no more qualified to appreciate a fine home than anyone else,” she said gently. “Lady Farris has likely seen more country estates than I have, and Mr. Walditch surely owns a magnificent home.”
“But when I look at Lady Farris,” he said, his voice intent, “I don’t feel the world disappear around me so I am aware only of her. And I assuredly do not want to give Mr. Walditch the moon and the stars and all the things in the sky. I feel those things only for you.”
Her throat tightened. “Noel.”
“This place is special. And so are you.” His gaze held hers and she understood what he’d meant a moment ago, because her awareness was only of him.
God help her—she wanted him to look at her that way forever. They didn’t have forever, though. “What do you know of Honiton?”
If he minded her abrupt change of topic, he didn’t say. “Nothing. Didn’t even know the place existed until you brought the soap wrapper.”
Good. He had no expectations of the place, or where she fit in within it. She’d paid extra to the rider delivering her letter, ensuring that he stopped only to change horses, so that her brother and sister had time to inform the village what to expect. Hopefully, Fred and Cynthia had spoken to everyone, or at least made certain that word would circulate so that no one mistakenly called her “Jess” or “Miss McGale,” or remarked on her fine dresses and the genteel company she kept.
“You must be curious to see the McGale & McGale operation,” she said.
“As I said at the docks— Hell, was it only a few days ago? As I said, there’s always something to learn. Discovering and learning are life’s greatest pleasures. Well,” he amended, his gaze heating, “some of life’s greatest pleasures. There are others.”
“To be sure,” she said huskily. “Many others.”
They could not seem to look away from each other. She faintly heard the voices of the other guests and the head gardener, and beneath all that, birdsong and the drone of insects. Though it was late afternoon, the day was still golden with warmth and languid, and it would be so easy to slip her hand into his and lead him down one of Carriford’s garden paths, where, in the privacy of a green bower, she could show him how much pleasure he gave her.
It would be so easy, so right . . .
Someone coughed, a discreet servant cough.
Noel moved his hand at the same time Jess stepped away, putting needed distance between them.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Vale, the butler, said from several yards away. “I was reluctant to disturb you, but the gentlemen were most insistent.”
“Gentlemen?” Noel raised an eyebrow. “One of the guests.”
“Indeed, no, Your Grace. These gentlemen just arrived. They demanded that I pass on a message.” Vale coughed into his hand. “They said, ‘Tell the toff bastard that we’re desperate for his company. Desperate, but not serious.’ Those were the words I was instructed to say verbatim.”
Horrified by the insulting message and the impertinence of the men who demanded Vale deliver it to Noel, Jess looked at him. She expected to see seething anger or even cold disdain on his face.
Instead, he wore the widest smile she’d ever seen from him.
“Convey to them the following message.” He planted his hands on his hips. “‘Don’t expect a place in the country when you sodding buffoons come calling without warning. I’ll be there in ten minutes, so don’t go burning down the house.’”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Vale bowed before withdrawing.
When they were alone again, Jess said, “Those men sound awful. Rude. You can’t mean to let them in your house.”
“I can and I will. There’s always room in my home for the Union of the Rakes.”
“The what?”
Looking boyish and eager, a far cry from the urbane duke, he grinned. “The Union of the Rakes. A terrible name we coined for ourselves at Eton, and unfortunately the moniker stuck.”
She followed as he strode toward the house.
“There were five of us that day in the library.” He paused by Lady Farris, Lord Pickhill, and Mr. Walditch. “I have additional guests to see to. When you’re finished in the gardens, just head into the house and Mrs. Diehl will see you settled in your rooms. Dinner is at seven.”
