Forbidden to Love the Duke(73)
“If you don’t stop touching me, James, everyone in the house will guess what we’ve been doing,” she whispered as one of the footmen placed a tea tray on the table.
He led her to a chair, speaking in her ear. “I’m only doing my duty.”
“Seducing the governess?”
“Begetting an heir,” he said rather loudly.
She glanced around. She was certain she saw one footman grin at another. “Not before the wedding.”
“A fortnight or so won’t matter. Nor will anything else in the past. It’s not as if we’re going to stand at the altar after we’ve said our vows, waiting for the vicar to shout, “On your marks, get set—”
“I hope not.”
“Whether we marry here or in London, we’ll have to celebrate with our tenants. Do you ride a horse?”
“It’s been years,” she confessed.
“Can you hold several glasses of apple cider?”
She gave him a strange look. “Do you mean in my hands while I’m astride?”
He grinned. “I’m not asking whether you can perform in a circus. Our tenants will want to toast our well-being, and Ellsworth produces a potent cider.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. In that case, however, I think several sips will probably be my limit.”
“We’ll decide on your limits later, shall we?”
“Do you have to speak in such a loud voice about these things?” she whispered.
He blinked. “What does it matter? We have nothing to hide.”
He didn’t. Ivy did, and she felt horrible. To start things off by keeping a secret from him felt like a betrayal. And she hadn’t done a thing to encourage Oliver. He’d brought nothing but trouble into her life.
James straightened, leaving her to blush and meet Wendover’s knowing smile. How was she supposed to conduct herself now? Like a servant or a newly engaged lady? Despite James’s insatiable appetite for passion and his return to good health, she had to consider what sort of impression she made. As duke he could get away with murder.
He could even make a covert gesture to his best friend, ignore the second footman who brought him the post on a salver, and mumble some excuse about asking Ivy’s opinion on whether she preferred that their wedding be held in London or here in the country, and would she mind walking upstairs to inspect the late duchess’s suite that she would soon take personal possession of . . . in which the duke, she assumed as he trailed on, was to take immediate possession of her.
Chapter 26
Oliver brushed down and watered his horse. He knew Rosemary had awakened and watched him from her window, so he gave her a jaunty wave on his way to the gatehouse. A gatehouse, for God’s sake. Had he remained with his feckless circle of friends in London, no one would even ask him why he’d been dressed as a maid. He wouldn’t be sleeping alone. He wouldn’t have been rejected by one temperamental woman and had his writing mocked by her sultry sister.
He mounted the gatehouse stairs, took a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and drank its contents so quickly he couldn’t make up his mind whether it was Peony or Primrose he fancied most. He stretched out on the uncomfortable trundle bed with his pistol on his chest. He doubted Ivy would tell the duke he’d broken into his house, but the woman did have a mind of her own. Then he fell asleep wondering how he would find a treasure that had eluded discovery for centuries. How did he even know it actually existed? It was certain that he wouldn’t find it lying half-drunk in the gatehouse. Was it worth the price of facing the duke in a duel? Oliver had heard rumors that Ellsworth had lost his abilities as a marksman. Except he didn’t appear at all incapacitated. Anyway, if Oliver killed him, he’d be forced to flee England, without benefit of an heiress or her fortune. One didn’t kill a peer of the realm and resume his activities the next day.
His plan was unraveling. He had to recover something from the time and money he had invested.
He was too perplexed to have come to any decisions when hours later he heard Quigley in the garden catching snails. There was a vehicle traversing the bridge, to judge by the muffled clop of hooves and grinding wheels. Or was that Lilac bringing up his tea? Poor lady. For all her loveliness, she could never make a graceful entrance. Her gait unfairly ruined her worth. The girl needed a prince.
He grunted, pulling a blanket over his head. A moment later Lilac screamed and the clatter of broken china, underscored by a furious roar from Quigley, propelled Oliver down the stairs and out into the glare of a gray morning.
And a vicious assault in progress.
Was he seeing things? A man appeared to be chasing Lilac through the roses, and Quigley had taken a shovel to swing at—God, it couldn’t be.