Only
she
wasn’t charmed.
The man might be overwhelmingly attractive in every way a male could be, but she loathed him. That easy smile and genial air only cloaked the flaws beneath the surface.
Yes, she despised him.
Thoroughly.
Completely.
“I’m sorry, my dear Miss Reid, but aren’t you related to Manderville?”
Annabel glanced up, realizing with belated chagrin she was being addressed. A group of eight ladies all looked at her expectantly, among them her future mother-in-law. The rest were Alfred’s assorted aunts and cousins. She cleared her throat, unaccountably horrified by the question. “No . . . no. Not at all. His uncle is my guardian. That’s the extent of it.”
It was the truth. There was no blood tie. Thomas Drake and her father had been lifelong close friends, and that bond had been deep enough that her father had made provisions that in case the worst happened—and it had—her care would be entrusted to his old friend. She’d been a bewildered, bereft eight-year-old girl after her parents were killed in a sailing accident. Whatever she now thought of his infamous nephew Derek, Sir Thomas was a wonderful man, and he and his wife, Margaret, had treated her like their own child. In some ways, since they had never been able to have children of their own, Annabel wondered if she hadn’t been as much a blessing to them as they were to her.
Either way, though she loved Thomas and Margaret, Derek was another story altogether.
“But you
did
grow up on the family estate, correct?” Lady Henderson gazed at her with unconcealed inquiry.
“I . . . well . . . yes, I did. In . . . Berkshire.”
Why had she stammered out her reply, especially with so many people looking at her? The unwelcome subject was the last thing she wanted to discuss. She loathed gossip. If the whole scandalous issue would go away, she’d be more than happy. She sat in the drawing room of her fiancé’s London home, all formal furnishings and far too crowded for her tastes, and that was bad enough without rehashing such an uncomfortable topic. Annabel liked books and solitude a great deal more than fussy teas. A nice copy of Voltaire and a sunny window seat were more to her liking than the current situation.
“I expect you saw him rather frequently.” Lady Henderson’s pale eyes held sly curiosity.
Everyone
looked at her expectantly. Of course, because they were talking about Derek Drake, and if his name was mentioned in a roomful of women, it would not go unnoticed.
Damn him.
Yes, it was a little galling to know he actually owned the house she considered home. Her guardian was the youngest brother of the deceased earl, Derek’s father. For that matter, she had an uneasy feeling Derek had provided her dowry. When Annabel asked Margaret outright, she’d been evasive about the matter, and Margaret wasn’t one to lie, so that was answer enough. Thomas did well enough financially, but Derek held the true wealth in the family.
That was irony. The man she once thought she loved was giving money as an enticement for some
other
man to marry her.
“He’s a decade older,” Annabel pointed out, “so not that frequently. By the time I was eight, he was off to Cambridge and he seems to prefer London to Berkshire anyway. We rarely see him. Even when we are in the city, he has his own town house.”
Another lady—she was fairly sure her betrothed called her Aunt Ida—murmured, “I can guess why. London is so much more . . .
populated
.”
Which meant more available women. The implication was clear, and though the last thing she wanted to do was defend a hopeless libertine like the Earl of Manderville, Annabel inexplicably did. “He actually has a lot of business interests and it is easier for him to have access to his solicitors and stewards while in the city. Manderville Hall is inconvenient. He’s a busy man.”
“I would guess so.” A different lady, this one thin with unnaturally dark hair for her age, gave a sharp trilling laugh. “Though I doubt business is the first thing on his mind. Nevertheless, he is easy to forgive for his indiscretions since he is such a
beautiful
young man.”
“More so than Rothay?” someone asked.
“Impossible,” another one chimed.
Yes, Annabel’s heart countered traitorously.
More than any man alive.
She had so adored him when she was a child. With his mischievous smile and easy humor, he’d been a natural hero to a girl who’d been suddenly orphaned. In retrospect, she knew he’d been kind to endure her constant tagging at his heels. That a young man of eighteen had taken the time to give a child a pony and teach her to ride was a point in his favor, but still . . . the man was a despicable cad. The angelic good looks nature had bestowed on him were the worst possible kind of fraud. He should have two horns and a forked tail to go along with his mesmerizing eyes and those nicely chiseled features.
“How on earth could anyone decide which one is more handsome?” One of Alfred’s cousins giggled, her young face showing a slight blush. “They are both divine.”
“Hush, Eugenia,” her mother said in reproof.
“If always swimming in the scandal broth,” the thin aunt said again primly, but there was a gleam of malicious delight in her eyes. “Wasn’t it just a few months ago that Lord Tanner threatened to name Manderville in his divorce proceedings against his wife on the grounds of adultery?”
Four months precisely since that unsavory rumor surfaced, but Annabel had absolutely no comment, feeling ill every time she thought about it. It was best she kept her feelings about the immoral earl to herself, lest she have to explain the reason for her intense dislike. She hadn’t thought it possible, but the public accusation that Derek had participated in the breakup of a marriage made her opinion of him plummet even lower.
“And now this indecent competition. Though it’s indelicate to even think about it, one does have to wonder just how they are going to settle their little dispute.” The matronly Ida, for one who just declared the subject outré, certainly seemed determined to discuss it.
“I’ve heard that Russian actress, the one who played Ophelia so well even with her dreadful accent, is going to declare the winner.” Lady Henderson—who did not need to increase the girth of her already ample waistline—plucked another sweet from the cart.
“Really? Well, I’d heard . . .”
Annabel blocked out the conversation with desperate concentration. Her efforts were ineffective and she probably came across as dull and overly quiet, but she did manage to decide what gown she’d wear later that evening.
So the afternoon wasn’t a complete loss.
After the interminable tea was over, she was grateful to be handed into the waiting carriage. Soon she would be married and her association with Derek Drake would be severed once and for all. Well, not completely, because his aunt and uncle thought highly of him, and Thomas and Margaret were in essence her parents, but at least she would no longer have to endure his company very often. Besides, when she did, Alfred would be at her side and that would help.
Help what? The silent question made her gaze out the window as the vehicle rolled along.
It was best not to think about it.
About
him
.
Tenterden Manor was not her precise idea of a small country estate, Caroline thought with a glimmer of nervous amusement, but the duke had been right about one thing: it was secluded.
It sat in a wooded park, the mellow stone of the structure reflecting the wash of late-afternoon sun. An elegant facade showed Elizabethan influence in the outspread wings, parts of it obviously added over the years. Even if the duke was rarely in residence, the grounds were neatly kept and intensely green, and the clean gravel of the drive curved up toward the front door. Rows of shining mullioned windows were framed by ivy, giving the house a charming, almost fairy-tale effect, despite its great size. Mature trees stretched leafy branches over most of the grounds, letting dappled sunlight through to the clipped grass.
It was lovely and very private. Just what they needed for their little interlude.
Oh God.
Nervousness fluttered in her throat, making it difficult to swallow.
It wasn’t too late, she reminded herself, to ask Huw to turn around and take her back to London and just forget this mad escapade. Aside from the chance she was taking, after the next weeks were over, how was she going to feel?
Like a harlot for offering herself to two of the most celebrated rogues in society?
Perhaps. But then again, maybe she would finally feel like a woman instead, her inappropriate behavior giving some reward. The step she was taking to change her life was drastic indeed, but maybe drastic measures were needed.
How humiliating, though, should she prove a disappointment to the notorious Duke of Rothay.
On the contrary, she told herself firmly as the vehicle came to a halt and her stomach lurched, it was part of the wager between him and the earl that
they
were to prove their skill in the bedroom. She was merely supposed to cast her vote on which one could do it best.
It sounded simple enough.
The burly Huw was at the door of the carriage, holding out a hand to help her alight. His broad face showed no curiosity or censure, as blank as it had been when he’d driven her to the seedy little inn. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was going to think when he realized the purpose of her journey was an assignation. He’d worked for her for several years and their relationship as servant and employer was a very comfortable one. More things might change from this reckless venture than just her perception of herself as a woman, she realized, wondering how much she should care about the opinion of a servant. Most of the beau monde would assure her she shouldn’t mind at all, but Caroline wasn’t sure she could be so blasé.
“Thank you,” she murmured, climbing down, hoping her trepidation wasn’t obvious.
“My pleasure, my lady.” Huw inclined his head, his expression neutral.
The front door opened and the duke himself appeared as she went up the inlaid brick steps. In the brief note he’d sent with directions, he’d mentioned there was very little staff at the house since he didn’t really use it, but she certainly didn’t expect someone of his rank to ever play footman. It was startling. He was also dressed very informally in a loose-sleeved white shirt, black breeches, and polished boots. It made him look younger, but somehow not less formidable—but more. The casual clothing emphasized his height, the impressive width of his shoulders, and defined the muscular power of his long legs. The signature glossy fall of his dark hair brushed his shoulders, shining in the late-afternoon sun and framing those sinfully beautiful masculine features. It struck her that she was really seeing the man, not just the wealthy, handsome aristocrat with that breathtaking smile and compelling confidence. The more casual mode of dress also signaled an intimacy in their acquaintance that brought home the actual situation: she was going to spend the next week in his bed.
She felt a small shiver as he reached out to politely take her hand and bend over it, his mouth just grazing her skin.
He straightened and murmured, “Welcome, my lady.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Caroline managed to keep her voice level, though her pulse had picked up the pace. The duke towered over her, and his shoulders looked dauntingly wide.
His dark eyes regarded her with the faintest gleam of humor. “I hope you are prepared for a week of rustic living. As I warned, there is only a minimal staff. My arrival has the housekeeper somewhat rattled. Come, let’s go inside. I’ll order tea and we can get . . . acquainted.”
So quickly? Caroline wasn’t sure what he meant by that remark and her usual uncertainty took hold of her. Summoning every ounce of bravado, she murmured in a cool tone, “That would be acceptable, I suppose.”
Now he definitely looked amused, his finely modeled mouth twitching. “Spoken like the true icy Lady Wynn. Please keep in mind I only mentioned tea.”
She was well aware of her reputation for distance and lack of warmth. It was why she had embarked on her current mad course. “We both know why I am here, Rothay.”
“Yes, we do.” He still held her hand, his long fingers not relinquishing their light grip. It was a liberty, but given the circumstances, how could she object?
He bent forward, close enough his warm breath brushed her ear. “You are not going to be easy to thaw, are you?”
Those softly spoken words made her pull back and stare at him for a moment, unsure how to respond, an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach. Maybe honesty was best. “No,” she admitted finally.
To her relief he said no more and released her hand. “Shall we go in?”
She stepped past him and walked into the foyer, more than a little rattled by the brief intimacy of their exchange. No matter how countrified he found the surroundings, she noticed—the diversion welcome—with its polished wood paneling, beautiful floors, and high ceilings, the place was both warm and gracious, with the air of an aging beauty. Fine bones under the mellowing exterior, a sense of belonging in the bucolic setting, the smell of wax and baking bread in the air . . .
“This is pleasant,” she managed to say with aplomb, though his reference to thawing her had brought old persistent insecurities to the surface.
What if she was truly passionless and unable to respond to a man?
Nicholas Manning glanced around. The hallway led to an open area with a very large fireplace, with chairs and settees gathered into conversational circles. At the far side, a carved, graceful staircase curved upward. “More so than I remember,” he admitted. “I have neglected to come here for a long time. I have eight houses scattered about various parts of England thanks to my illustrious ancestors. It seems every time a Rothay heir marries, we collect estates like children gather sweets. It is impossible to live in all of them, and besides, my presence in London is required too often for me to spend a lot of time in the countryside.”