Forbidden to Love the Duke(42)

Even if she was becoming hopelessly entangled in the strings that were attached to his generosity.

“Thank you.” She curtsied low. When she rose up, his eyes met hers in a questioning look that threatened to buckle her knees again. Scoundrel of scoundrels, she thought. He didn’t even have to try. He undid a woman with a glance.

“Be back on time,” he said, and his smile told her he knew she would obey.

“I will,” she said even though she had not a clue what awaited her at the house. “I promise.”

“I might discipline you this time if you’re late. Come, Mary.” He took the girl by the hand. “Why don’t you run out into the garden and pick some flowers for Lady Ivy’s sister?”





Chapter 14


Ivy walked toward her family’s residence, unable to believe her eyes. A pair of masons teetered on ladders, filling in the turret’s stone trim. The huge crack above the front door had been repaired. And the garden—it had been denuded of its protective thorns and laid naked to expose row upon row of young rosebushes that only experienced gardeners could have planted.

She swallowed. The duke must have done this. He had rendered Fenwick elegant again, romantic—and vulnerable to all who passed. He had begun the work of restoration.

Was this why he’d insisted she take the afternoon off? Perhaps he felt guilty that she had injured herself. Had he planned a birthday surprise for Lilac and tricked Ivy into coming home? Her throat tightened. Persuasive, calculating, he seemed unwilling to waste time between mistresses. Elora had indicated that she was no longer game. Ivy was the logical next choice. She wouldn’t be surprised to find that he plotted her seduction down to the last move.

The front door stood open.

She stepped into the house, hiding her flower bouquet behind her back, and made her way to the great hall in trepidation. She expected the duke to be hiding in a corner somewhere. The guests seated at the table gave her guarded smiles. In attendance sat three gentlemen, and two ladies whom she had never met. She looked uncertainly first at Lilac, whose smile could mean anything, and then at Rue, whose averted gaze said this was not her doing. She glanced at Rosemary, who shrugged as if to detach herself from the entire scene.

She stared at the covered silver dishes on the table, at the glittering candelabrum, the bowls of imported fruit and wheels of white, crumbly, blue-veined cheese. A place had been set at the end of the table, the empty chair where her father had presided over the festivities. It was the seat of honor, reserved for the master of the house, and Ivy’s heart missed a beat.

She’d held out hope until the last moment that it was her arrogant duke who had arranged this surprise. She waited for him to put in an appearance until another man entered through the screen’s passage, looking only at her.

She was so disappointed she could have thrown the flowers in his face.

Sir Oliver might be an attractive buck, with scads of admirers in London. To judge by the cheers that greeted him, he had already taken over the house. But as Ivy gave him a restrained smile, she decided that she preferred her scoundrels dark and masterful. The type who unmasked their passions in private.

“Welcome home, Ivy,” he said warmly. “I’m glad that your gaoler released you for the day.”


* * *

James paced his study. He climbed the stairs to Ivy’s room a half-dozen times and turned back before reaching her door. Dusk stole over the park. At last he heard the porter opening the gates, carriage wheels churning the gravel drive.

He walked back into his study. He was determined not to show how his anxiety had mastered him. Indeed it was later than he expected. But it wasn’t yet dark. He wouldn’t chastise her when he had given her permission to go in the first place. He stared at the letters on his desk, listening for her footsteps. He hadn’t heard from his brother. He had written Curtis to tell him only that Mary and Walker were staying at Ellsworth, not the reason why.

Where was their governess?

Sharing the company of her sisters, telling secrets, laughing, perhaps even confessing that she and James had grown close? God, what was he thinking? Committing to Ivy would mean he’d be responsible for marrying off a brood of beautiful and independent women. He would never know a moment of peace again in his life. Or of loneliness. What a compelling if untidy fate.

He waited another half hour before he rang for Carstairs. “Is she here?” he demanded the instant the steward walked through the door.

Carstairs hung his head. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The carriage has returned, without Lady Ivy, Your Grace.”

The muscles in his shoulders tightened. His arm ached. “Why?”