“Yes,” Lucinda answered hesitantly.
The man smiled, his handsome face lighting with apparent pleasure. “You’ve nothing to fear, Lady Lucinda, though I suppose I have the look of a beastie this early in the morning. I am Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.” He tipped his hat, managing an elegant bow while seated, his sun-streaked golden hair falling into his face. “Clairemont sent me to see to your safety.”
Lucinda relaxed back into her saddle, not sure if her relief was due to Lord Weston’s legitimacy or the absence of Will. “Safety, Lord Weston? From what exactly? The beasties you made reference to?”
His green eyes flashed with amusement. “Oh, yes, there’s the beasties and any other number of woodland sprites, Lady Lucinda. Don’t tell me you’ve yet to see one in this fair park?”
“I don’t recall such a sighting, Lord Weston, though I suppose it is entirely possible I did come across one of your sprites and simply did not recognize it for what it was,” Lucinda replied, allowing the whimsical tone of their conversation to ease her mind.
“Impossible,” he said with a laugh. “When you meet a sprite, you’ll know it. Now, shall we get you home before the weather turns?”
It was Lucinda’s turn to laugh as she glanced at the darkening skies. “Lord Weston, has the weather not turned enough for your liking, or would you prefer snow before returning to the comfort of your town house?”
Lord Weston walked the chestnut behind Tristan and reined him alongside Lucinda’s mount. “I spent a fair amount of my youth in Scotland, Lady Lucinda. This,” he waved negligently at the menacing sky, “is nothing compared to the ferocity of a Highland storm. But I’ve no doubt Clairemont would have my head on a pike were I to let you catch a cold, so shall we?” He smiled, gesturing for Lucinda to take the lead.
She clucked at Tristan, lifting the reins and turning him back onto the path. “How is it you know the duke?”
“Doesn’t everyone know Iron Will?” he countered, joining her.
“That, Lord Weston, is not what I asked.”
Lord Weston laughed again, the melodious deep baritone falling easily on Lucinda’s ears. “He said you were a woman with a quick wit and sharp tongue. Will and I met at Eton, or to be more precise, we met in the headmaster’s office at Eton, on a regular basis, as it were.”
“Partners in crime, then,” Lucinda confirmed.
He grinned and winked at her. “Not exactly, no. It took some time, and much blood, before we recognized our shared goals.”
“Which were?”
“To beat the life out of anyone we could,” he said matter-of-factly. “We were good at it too,” he added, giving her a knowing look. “The moniker Iron Will isn’t handed down lightly.”
A giggle flew from Lucinda’s mouth.
“Are you laughing at me, Lady Lucinda?” Lord Weston asked, wiggling his thick blond eyebrows up and down.
Lucinda forced a frown. “Of course not, my lord. That would be …” She hesitated, searching for just the right word.
“Heartless? Cruel? Unspeakably unkind?” he offered helpfully.
“You are very kind, Lord Weston,” she said simply.
“And you are too generous,” he answered, underscoring his sincerity with a smile. “Though I am not surprised. Will said as much.”
Lucinda figeted with her reins. “The duke is quite chatty, is he not?”
“Not usually. But when it comes to you, he’s a veritable font of knowledge.”
“It does makes one wonder, then, why he could not summon the interest required to rise and meet me this morning.”
“Oh, well, Will
is
a busy man,” Lord Weston began, “what with being a duke and all.”
The chestnut nosed at Tristan, blowing out a huff of air when he failed to receive a response. “That’s a handsome horse ye have there. Thoroughbred?” Lord Weston asked.
“Yes,” she replied, almost certain that he’d changed the subject on purpose. He did not want to divulge anything more about Will, although Lucinda did not know why. And there seemed little point in trying to question him further.
“Yes, he is. And yours? He’s a beauty. Reminds me quite a bit of Sebastian’s Fury.”
Lord Weston’s expressive face registered surprise. “Fury was Pokey’s sire. You know horses?”
“Pokey?”
He leaned forward, covering the chestnut’s ear with his palm. “Shhhh,” he cautioned in a loud whisper. “Poor Pokey did not inherit his sire’s gift for speed. He’s sensitive, though, so I try to spare his feelings when I can.”
“Ah, I see,” Lucinda murmured before raising her voice. “Well, my lord, Sir Pokey is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous chestnut I’ve seen of late. Such strength, such character—he truly is one of a kind.”
Lucinda could have sworn the horse’s ears pricked up at the lengthy compliment and his stride took on a prouder attitude. She smiled with delight.
Lord Weston mouthed “Thank you” as he stroked Pokey’s neck. “He is indeed, and we thank you kindly for your generous words.”
The rain began to pour in earnest and the wind picked up, ruffling the skirt of Lucinda’s blue velvet riding habit. “Shall we, Lord Weston?”
“We shall,” he returned, settling his hat more firmly as he pulled the brim lower on his brow.
They urged their mounts into a faster trot and made haste for home.
“My dear, we leave for Clairemont House soon,” Charlotte called from the drawing room.
Lucinda slowed her steps, her bedraggled riding habit dripping water on the marble foyer floor, and stopped just beyond the threshold to the room. Somehow, Lucinda had convinced herself that if she forced all thoughts of Her Grace’s kind invitation for tea from her mind, perhaps Charlotte would forget as well.
Clearly, that had been wishful thinking.
“Do we have an engagement?” She stood in the doorway, feigning confusion. Attempting to tuck-up her rain-soaked hair was a useless effort, as was smoothing her sodden, wrinkled skirt. Her efforts did little to right the ruined garment.
Charlotte looked up from her needlepoint, her shock at Lucinda’s appearance quickly giving way to concern. “Good heavens, Lucinda, you’re soaked through to the skin.” She hastily rose from the settee and crossed the room, yanking at the bellpull.
Mary appeared instantly, taking one look at Lucinda’s soggy state before urging her upstairs.
“We must get you out of those clothes, my lady,” she instructed, pausing mid-flight to stop a footman and demand that hot water be brought up.
Lucinda lifted her sodden skirt as she trudged up the stairs, Mary urging her from three treads above as Charlotte huffed from behind.
The moment they entered the bedchamber, Mary undressed Lucinda then went to supervise the filling of the tub. Once it was full, she summoned Lucinda and waited to leave until her lady was safely emerged in the steaming hot water.
Charlotte came to stand next to the tub. “You soak every last ounce of rainwater off of you, young lady. I need to see how the gardener is managing my rosebushes this morning, but I will come and check on you shortly. I want you warm and dry by the time I return.”
“You enjoyed your time with Lady Clairemont,” Lucinda said, not making it clear whether her words were a statement or a question.
Or had it been an accusation?
Charlotte paused dropping her gaze to look at Lucinda. “I did, very much so.” She turned her gaze back to the doorway and began walking, stopping just short of the hallway. “It is as if she is experiencing life for the first time, now that her husband has died.”
“She has her freedom,” Lucinda answered quietly.
“Exactly.”
Charlotte disappeared around the corner, leaving Lucinda to stare at her toes.
Her aunts had extolled the value of a woman’s independence since she was a child, until it had become her credo. Freedom was more than most women could hope to attain.
The pursuit of absolute freedom had been the impetus for her involvement with Will, King Solomon’s Mine being the key. With the stallion they would not only establish a credible reputation within the male dominated equine world, but they would improve upon it, breeding quality horses and providing for the studs into their retirement years. Will could not give her what the prized stallion surely would.
“That is it, then,” she said out loud, letting the water trickle through her fingers. “You choose a horse over a man.”
In some measure, the choice had been made for her, since Will’s feelings clearly did not match her own. But she took some small comfort in uttering the words nonetheless.
She reached for the perfumed soap, a new feeling of resolve blooming in her breast. She would have tea. She would, before this charade had run its course, have danced, flirted, made polite conversation, and demurely deflected countless empty compliments.
“It is a small price for freedom,” she said, quietly but firmly, then began to scrub in earnest.
Clairemont House overlooked St. James’s Square and was surrounded by sumptuous homes that only the cream of the ton could call their own. Hidden from the street by a sizeable iron gate, the short drive curved in a graceful arc, affording guests the opportunity to view the house and extensive grounds as they approached. Despite the dazzling quality of its fellow structures, Clairemont House stood out. The façade was entirely of Portland stone, the architecture fashioned in the neoclassical style, complete with eight massive columns and as many windows framed in ornamental carvings.
“Don’t gape, dear,” Charlotte said to Lucinda, straightening her own bonnet ribbons as the carriage came to a stop.
Lucinda pursed her lips, taking in the house before her. “Aunt Charlotte, I am not one given to gaping, but this …” She blinked, gesturing to the view beyond the carriage door. “It is—”
“Impressive? Yes, I know. I still remember my first ball here. Such grandeur, such opulence.” Charlotte’s features turned wistful for a moment before she returned to her practical self. “It’s as breathtaking inside as it is on the outside, so I suggest you take a moment before we disembark to collect and prepare yourself.”
Lucinda sat back against the wheat-colored squabs and took a deep breath, then expelled it with all the force she could muster.
“Better?” Charlotte inquired.
“Yes, thank you,” Lucinda answered, though a question niggled at her. “You spoke of attending a ball here, yet I have never heard of any events being held here. Why is that?”
Charlotte looked to the house again. “It’s my understanding that the duchess refused to host parties of any kind once the boys were sent off to school.”
“Good for her,” Lucinda said, following Charlotte’s gaze.
“Yes, I would have to agree,” her aunt said with a firm nod. “Are we ready, then?”
As ready as I will ever be
, Lucinda thought to herself. “Yes, of course. A cup of tea would be most welcome.”
Charlotte’s fist thumped the ceiling of the carriage twice. The liveried footman jumped down immediately, lowered the step, and opened the door. Charlotte descended first, taking the driver’s arm and allowing him to assist her safely to the ground.
Lucinda took one last, deep breath and stepped out onto the graveled forecourt to join Charlotte. Together, they strolled to the impressive front door, where the beautifully carved knocker announced to the world that the duke was in residence.
A house footman held open the massive oak door, bowing to usher them over the threshold. An anxious-faced butler waited just inside, his build and demeanor reminding Lucinda of a nervous bird she’d once seen at the Kew Botanical Gardens.
“Madam,” he said, bowing to each of them in turn with quick, efficient bobs of deference. “This way, if you please.”
He led them through the sumptuous foyer, their slipper heels tapping lightly on the black and white marble floor. Lucinda tilted her head back to better admire the Doric frieze that adorned the ceiling high above. They reached the impressive staircase, a wonder of engineering in stone that possessed a gorgeous balustrade done in trompe l’oeil.
The butler slowed, stepping aside when they reached the stairs. He gestured for them to ascend, then followed. Charlotte gripped the ornate iron baluster, while Lucinda counted the steps.
“Sixty-two,” she said under her breath as they reached the first floor.
“Pardon? Did you say something?” Charlotte asked somewhat breathlessly, though to her credit she did not faint on the spot.
“No, nothing. Nothing at all,” Lucinda replied, bending her head to conceal her gaze from Charlotte. She tightened her grip on her rose print skirt, lifting it to clear the toes of her slippers as she climbed, and attempted to hide her fatigue.
She rather suspected that she hadn’t managed a single good night’s rest since meeting Will. She tossed and turned, trying to remember every word they’d spoken, and then worse, thinking on each one until she was dizzy. And if she managed to finish that, she spent the next hour berating herself for being unable to sleep.
It was madness, and it had to stop, but for once in her life, she could not make her feelings bend to her will.
They reached the top of the stairs and followed the butler down a long hall lined with Grecian busts, stopping midway. Lucinda paused to allow her aunt to enter the room first.
“Lady Charlotte Grey and her niece, Lady Lucinda Grey, Your Grace,” the butler announced.
Lucinda looked to the end of the room, where a massive fireplace took up nearly the entirety of one wall. Graceful wood furniture was arranged before it, The duchess seated in a chair nearest the window. Lord Michael rose.
Lucinda’s gaze swept the length of the room from one end to the other, frowning when she didn’t find Will.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my brother,” Lord Michael said, strolling toward them. “He’s been detained by business and will not be able to join us.”
He met them halfway down the long room and escorted them to join his mother. Both Charlotte and Lucinda dipped a curtsy to the duchess before taking seats, side by side, on the embroidered, blue silk cushions of the settee.
“I hope the duke’s business matters aren’t of serious concern for him,” Lucinda said, unable to contain her disappointment—and, if she was being completely honest, a healthy dose of irritation. How was she to stop loving him if she was never given the opportunity to observe what she assumed were his many shortcomings?