The Duke's Wicked Wife (Wicked Secrets)

by Elizabeth Bright

  But that question was not nearly so pressing as the clear dismay on Riya’s face. She frowned darkly at Mr. Vidyasagar, for naturally he was to blame for her friend’s distress. His own expression was carefully blank, a sure sign of his guilt.

  The guests reassembled in the drawing room, where several trays of sandwiches, tarts, and cakes had been laid out. Eliza selected an apple cake the size of her palm—made from yesterday’s bounty—and turned to her friend.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice a low murmur to avoid prying ears. It was a house party, after all. Nothing was so entertaining at a house party as lovers and their quarrels, and if neither lovers nor quarrels could be found, why, then both must be invented.

  “No.” Riya kept her gaze lowered, studiously examining the heap of pastries as though it was the only thing of interest. “It seems you were correct, and I was too optimistic in assessing Mr. Vidyasagar’s intentions.”

  “His intentions do not have to inform your own, do they?” Eliza asked hesitantly. “He will not carry you off unwillingly.”

  Riya gave a toss of her dark braid. “Of course not. It is only that I do not wish to cause him more pain. I have done nothing to encourage him in this nonsense, but he is my oldest friend, and he has traveled so far. He hoped to rescue me, I think, from my own poor decisions. But I am quite happy, and he must be made to understand that.”

  There was a steely determination to her tone that did not bode well for Mr. Vidyasagar, Eliza thought with a small smile.

  Parlor games were suggested to pass the time, and they settled on hide-and-seek. Naturally it was little more than a ruse for a discreet lovers’ tryst, but Eliza was fond of the game, as she was good at hiding when she did not wish to be found. An idea had occurred to her—a conversation, a smell, a feeling—and she itched to get the words on paper before they disappeared into the ether of forgotten thoughts. Fortunately, she kept a bit of foolscap and pencil in her dress for just such emergencies.

  Instead of the library—which was sure to be the chosen spot for Adelaide and Mr. Eastwood—she moved swiftly toward the conservatory. She glanced behind her to ensure she wasn’t followed. Satisfied that she was alone, she pushed through the door. Behind her there was laughter and hurried footsteps, but inside she was enveloped in warmth and quiet. She breathed deeply. The fragrance of citrus mingled with greenery and damp earth.

  She looked around with some curiosity, for she knew indoor gardens were a pet interest of Wessex. Indeed, the space seemed very much him, slightly messy and yet methodical beneath the facade of disarray. Potted palms and ferns clumped together between orange and lemon trees. Near the windows were orchids, their bright faces arcing from slender stems.

  A long table stretched beneath a large window. There was naught on the table but three small potted ferns, a sheaf of foolscap, and a potbellied water pitcher. The ferns were a lovely bright green, with airy leaves that seemed to dance on an invisible breeze. Eliza tugged off her right glove, finger by finger, and stroked one tendril. To her surprise, it immediately folded in on itself, the leaves snapping shut two by two like a rolling wave.

  “Goodness.” She peered closer.

  “Mimosa pudica.”

  She spun around. “Pardon?”

  “Mimosa pudica,” Wessex repeated. “That is the name of the plant. Pudica meaning modest or bashful.”

  “How fitting. Did I do it injury?”

  “No.” Wessex stepped closer. “Wait a moment and see.”

  They waited, watching. Moments passed into minutes, and then slowly the fern stretched shyly open again. Eliza laughed delightedly. “How funny! Wherever did it come from?”

  “The West Indies, originally, although this plant in particular hails from a fellow in Hampshire. It does not produce edible fruit or seed worth harvesting, but it amuses me. The Sensitive Plant, they call it, and it is indeed very sensitive. The flowers are fluffy purple spheres, I am told, but I have not yet managed to coax it into bloom.”

  He was standing close now, the sleeve of his jacket brushing the sleeve of her dress. So many layers of fabric between them, and yet she was aware of a quick movement of his arm, as though the muscle had tensed and bunched in, like the mimosa, at her touch.

  “Why does it shrink like that?” she asked, meaning the plant.

  “There is a tedious scientific explanation about water and electric current. But I suppose the true answer is that the world is a hungry place and it does not wish to be eaten.”

  “I can sympathize. Dear, funny thing.” She leaned down for a closer inspection. When the leaves quivered in response, she straightened, moving away to give it peace. “It’s enough to make you wonder about it all, isn’t it? If a plant feels touch, what else does it feel? Do plants feel pain? Do they fall in love?”

  “Even as you speak, there is likely a scientist torturing a mimosa for answers to those very questions. I just want the blasted thing to bloom.”

  Eliza arched a brow. “Because it had the audacity to refuse your request, I presume? The very nerve of it.”

  He laughed. “A duke is not accustomed to being told no, even by a plant.”

  “Hmm. And yet you are so often at my heels, even though I take great delight in telling you no.” She started down the path between the orange trees, sending him a teasing look over her shoulder.

  “Oh, my dearest Sigrid.” He placed a hand to his heart and bowed with mock gallantry. “A no from you is worth a thousand yeses from any other lady.”

  She rolled her eyes, and he laughed again.

  “What of a yes from Lady Jane?” Her face suddenly felt hot and flushed. She buried her nose in fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply. “Or Lady Louisa, or Lady Abigail? In a fortnight’s time, you will ask one of them a question, and her yes will make you far happier than any of my nos.”

  “It will not be Lady Jane, I think,” he said, and she blinked in surprise.

  “No?” she asked. Then she bristled. “Why not? She is exceedingly talented and altogether lovely. What fault could you possibly find with her?”

  “None at all. She is perfection itself, but it does not follow that she is perfect for me. She has devoted herself to her music, and I fear she is here reluctantly. Such an all-consuming interest will allow her no time to be a duchess. She will need a husband as passionate about her voice as she is, who will follow her through the great music halls of France and Italy and Germany, but it cannot be me. We simply will not suit.”

  Eliza could not tell for certain whether the rush of emotion was disappointment or relief, and decided to call it merely a friendly curiosity.

  She cleared her throat. “I wonder that Colonel Kent has not found us yet,” she remarked. “We have not hidden ourselves very well, and yet we remain undiscovered.”

  “Ah, yes, Colonel Kent. I believe he is tracking a lady who is fiery of both hair and spirit. It may take him a while to get to us.”

  Eliza pursed her lips. “I see. So your scheme has to do with Colonel Kent as well as Lady Freesia?”

  “On the contrary. My scheme has no more to do with Colonel Kent than it does Lady Freesia. They are both means to an end.”

  “And what does that end entail?”

  “Oh, the usual things.” He gave a noncommittal wave of his hand. “Liberty and justice, and all that rot.”

  She stroked the glossy leaf of a lemon tree thoughtfully. “Liberty and justice? I wouldn’t have suspected such motives from you, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, the motives are not mine,” he assured her. “Like all noble yet asinine ideals, they belong to Abingdon. I merely borrow them from time to time, as the fancy strikes me. And now, Miss Benton, shall we duck behind that shrubbery just over there? I fear we have been discovered.”

  Before she could say a word, he had seized her by the elbows and propelled her behind a large potted orange tree.r />
  Chapter Eighteen

  Sebastian’s heart was beating very fast and completely out of proportion to the circumstances in which he had placed them.

  “We are playing hide-and-seek. Is not the point to be found eventually?” she argued on a whisper. “It has been long enough. By now we must be the last Kent seeks.”

  “But if he is to find us now, behind this sweet-smelling orange tree, clasped in a lover’s embrace”—for he still had her by the elbows—“he might draw all sorts of unsavory conclusions.”

  “Wessex,” she said severely.

  “You must admit, it does look damning.”

  A leaf grazed her cheek and she batted it away impatiently. “If you had not spirited us away, there would have been nothing for Colonel Kent to discover. We would have been easily found, and there is nothing untoward about a gentleman and a lady not touching. Why on earth did you do it?”

  The question set him back on his heels. Why, indeed? He had no answer. He had sought her out for the same reason he always did, namely, that there was something important he wished to say to her, and if everyone would leave them alone for a blasted minute, he might actually remember what it was he wished to say.

  “Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips.

  Her eyes narrowed to dangerous blue slits. That kiss-shaped mouth yielded, her bottom lip falling open to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of pink tongue. He stopped breathing. His brain turned foggy, and he stared at her, fascinated, waiting to see what she would do.

  A sudden, sharp pain in his fingertip brought him swiftly to his senses.

  “You bit me,” he said incredulously.

  “It was no less than you deserved.”

  “An excellent point, Sigrid.”

  “Quite so,” she said, somewhat mollified.

  She pressed her palms lightly to his chest in a gentle command. The petulant boy within him protested mightily. Why must he put distance between them when he wanted only to draw her closer? Not because he had any special feelings for her in particular, but because she was warm and female. But as ever, he did as she wished. He released her elbow and stepped back.

  She replaced the glove on her right hand, the glove she had removed in order to fully experience the feel of his plants, wiggling her fingers until the fit was correct. Then she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress.

  When she was once again restored to order, she said, “Should we surrender to Colonel Kent? He must have found everyone else by now, and they will be wondering where we got to.”

  He ignored this, as it was entirely at odds with what he wanted.

  “Would you like to see the greenhouse? It is not attached to the house, but it is only a little way down the path. We will be out-of-doors for only a moment or two, so you won’t miss your coat. There are some very interesting plants there, as well. I think you will like it.”

  She hesitated.

  “I just had the roof replaced with solid glass,” he coaxed.

  “Very well.” She peered around the orange tree. “But only for a moment.”

  “Yes, of course. No more than a quarter hour,” he promised, leading the way.

  The greenhouse was a large, rectangular building of white stone and Corinthian columns. Rows of arched windows stretched from the ground to nearly the roof. And there was the glass roof, a monumental feat of genius that he was really quite proud of, despite the fact that his only contribution was money.

  “See, now.” He gestured as he spoke. “The slats of glass are perfectly angled to catch as much sunlight as possible during the autumn and winter months.”

  She tilted her head back and brought a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes, for she was not wearing a bonnet. Her slender neck arched gracefully, and he allowed himself a moment of admiration before refocusing his attention on the matter at hand.

  He held the door open and gestured for her to enter. “You will find it slightly warmer than the orangery. Citrus grows best in springlike temperatures, but in here we grow vegetables and such that require a few more degrees of warmth. There is a stove, but it is not necessary on bright days like today, now that the roof is glass.”

  “It is warm and humid, almost like a day in late May.” She sounded almost surprised.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her take it all in, looking around with obvious curiosity and delight.

  “I hope to build an additional hothouse next summer, in the modern way of things. Hot water heating is the very latest development, and Sinton cannot bear for Perivale Hall to fall behind the times. He has his pride, you understand.”

  “So does his master, I suspect.” She leaned toward a pit lined with bark, wherein were several shrubs with blade-shaped leaves. In the center of each shrub was a green, spiky fruit. She turned to him with an amazed look. “Are these pineapple plants?”

  “Ah, yes. Shrubby and short, aren’t they? When I first heard about them as a child, I had thought they would be tall and slim like coconut trees, but alas.” He peered into the pit. “They aren’t ripe yet. A bit temperamental, pineapples are.”

  “But delicious. I am always delighted that you serve it so frequently, but I hadn’t realized you grew it here at Perivale. I love pineapple.”

  Yes, he knew that.

  He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t much care for it myself. I grow it only because it drives Lord Derring mad, for try as he might, his trees refuse to bear fruit.”

  The door opened behind them, and Sebastian cursed inwardly before making the happy discovery that the intruder was not Colonel Kent, but a kitchen maid.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace, I hadn’t realized you were here.” She shifted the empty basket she was carrying from one hand to the other and shuffled her feet. “It’s the first Thursday of the month, Your Grace.”

  “All right, Davis. Carry on.”

  They watched Davis gather carrots, fennel, and asparagus, plopping each bunch into neat piles in her basket.

  “Are these for dinner tonight?” Miss Benton asked the girl.

  “Oh, no, my lady. That is, on the first Thursday I bring a basket to the tenants, those that is sick or hurt, and Mrs. O’Hare, as her man is drunk—oh, by-the-by, the baby is better, she says, thanks to the doctor Your Grace sent last fortnight. We bring whatever is growing in here, and some oranges and lemons if they aren’t still green, and bread and cheese and eggs, you see.” She skirted around Miss Benton to the pots of ruby fruit.

  “Strawberries!” Miss Benton exclaimed. “How lovely.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.” Davis beamed. “His Grace is not overly fond of strawberries on account of the time a strawberry nearly choked His Grace to death, and so he said he would toss them all out. But I told him as my brother Tom loves strawberries, and His Grace agreed that since Tom lost his foot to the French he should have strawberries, and His Grace hoped he wouldn’t choke on them.” With this pronouncement she fell silent.

  Miss Benton looked at him.

  He looked at the ceiling.

  “Davis,” he said mildly. “What did I tell you about that story?”

  “That if I ever told it again you would dismiss me without reference,” she answered promptly. She blinked. “Oh. Oh, no.”

  Sebastian sighed. “Go make your deliveries, Davis. And take care that I don’t see you for three days, or I’ll remember I sacked you again. Go on, now.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Davis hastily departed with a relieved look upon her face.

  Miss Benton was still watching him.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I know what you are thinking, Miss Benton. You are wondering if I turned very purple and whether I will still want strawberry tart on my birthday.”

  “No,” she said. “I am thinking about baskets on first Thursdays and a boy who lost his foot in the war and a baby who lived.”
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  It was unbearable, the way she looked at him.

  “I have a theory about you, Your Grace,” she said. “Do you wish to hear it?”

  There was nothing he desired more. He wanted to know all her thoughts, particularly the ones about him.

  “Not especially,” he said with studied nonchalance.

  She smiled. “It is something of a pattern, I think, for you to do the opposite of what you say. You claim to abhor deep thinking, and yet you read great books. You claim not to love, but you won’t forgive harm to your friends. You claim not to care, but you champion Colonel Kent and Abingdon in their quest for justice. Is anything you say true?”

  “Every damn word, which is why I can’t be trusted.”

  She regarded him silently for a long moment, during which he began to fidget in a most unduke-like manner.

  “Oh, think what you will, Miss Benton. I care not.” He crossed his arms, putting an abrupt end to the fidgeting.

  “I believe you care a great deal,” she said quietly.

  “You are laboring under a misapprehension. You think that I showed a kindness to Kent, or Davis, or a tenant, and such kindness must belie tender feelings. I assure you, there is no such feeling. The world is a yawning pit of agony, a wailing shriek of despair. Do you understand that, Miss Benton? How does one choose what one cares about, and once one begins, how does one stop? How does one remain sane and happy in the face of all that misery? The world is an unbearable place for people who truly care.”

  She cocked her head, listening, and said nothing. Which suited him perfectly well, because he wasn’t quite finished explaining how wrong she was.

  “My steward is given broad authority to ensure the tenants have enough to eat and medicine when they are sick. I do this because they are my responsibility, and because healthy tenants are more productive, and because it is what my father taught me to do. I send monthly baskets to those who need extra help because it is what my mother had done—except she delivered the baskets in person. You see, she cared. She cared very much about the sick and unfortunate. She wept at beggars in the street and would give them her own coat.”