“And let this house party be for naught?” He forced a smile. “I’ll soldier on.”

He’d had his fill of physicians.

Since the accident, the dowager had summoned doctors from every corner of the realm. Their wisdom ranged from prescribing ample doses of laudanum, to bloodletting and more bloodletting and more bloodletting after that. Two had even suggested amputation of an otherwise sound limb.

“My sweet dear,” she said sadly. “Always the stalwart one. I wish with all my heart I could make this go away.”

Mrs. Chatham’s head dipped at the private moment. Her presence at this family tête-à-tête proved what he’d long suspected. The dowager held the widow in the highest confidence. Together, they’d constructed everything from the guest list to the entertainments for this week-long house party.

When the widow’s gaze met his, knowledge reflected in their depths. Tonight marked a separation of the wheat from the chaff. He would dance with three young ladies of style, comportment, and estimable status. His choices for the final selection. After the ball, quiet invitations for a longer stay would be extended to those three women and their families. The rest would return home tomorrow.

But he’d have to dance in the first place.

The dowager turned to her friend. “Charlotte, that remedy you mentioned last week. Would you consider administering it to the duke?”

Mrs. Chatham’s eyes went saucer big. “Me? I rather thought Simms might.”

The dowager huffed, a sign she’d not be thwarted. “His valet would show him all the tender care of a plow horse. It must be you. Who else would know the exact dosage? Or have the right touch?”

A frisson feathered his groin. Mrs. Chatham touching me? No! No! No! “What the devil are you planning?”

His mother gave him the gimlet eye and waved over a footman. “We’re in a desperate state, Richland. I’m willing to try anything.”

Was he?

Alarm bells careened through his head. He should stop this. He was the duke after all, but the dowager was equally determined. It was in the line of her mouth and angle of her chin. His mother was indomitable, well-acquainted with years of directing her sons. One had better luck stemming the tides than stopping her once her mind was set.

Hands clamped behind his back, he’d tolerate this madcap remedy for the moment. The past year, he and the dowager had tactfully juggled their new positions in life’s hierarchy because she understood change was coming. She wanted it. For her happiness and the future of Richland Hall, he’d allow some leeway.

Thomas strode to their circle, a flurry of scarlet and gold livery. There under the sprawling oak tree, the dowager beckoned the trusted servant to bend his bewigged head to hear her softly issued commands.

“Deliver a heated tea kettle, several buckets of water, and our largest, empty butter churn to the duke’s sitting room. When you’re done, have a chambermaid go to Mrs. Chatham’s room and retrieve an amber vial.”

“You will find it on the escritoire by the window,” the widow put in.

“And Thomas…” The dowager’s tone was serious.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“You understand this requires the utmost discretion. I don’t want the duke and Mrs. Chatham disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.”

The footman didn’t bat an eye. “Very good, Your Grace.”

He was speechless, watching Thomas speed toward the sprawling Dutch-Palladian structure that was Richland Hall. His mother whispered like a conspirator in Mrs. Chatham’s ear, but the widow had eyes for him alone. Lively, seductive, experienced eyes. Her earthy stare sent exciting currents between them. Hair on his arms stood on end. A similar sensation had happened once when he’d stood too close to a demonstration of von Guericke’s frictional electrical machine. Agitation had sparked his skin.

But this? This was a thrilling jolt. A prudent man would quash the madness now, but wisdom wasn’t foremost on his mind. Anticipation was.

“What are they up to?” George asked in low tones.

“I don’t know, but it involves hot water, a butter churn, and an afternoon alone with Mrs. Chatham.”

“Sounds torturous.”

Or a new circle of Heaven.




CHAPTER 2




THERE WAS delightful horror in being attracted to Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland. A lofty title and ridiculous wealth made him the crème de la crème of eligible men. He was leagues above her in birth and breeding. For those qualities alone, they would never suit. They didn’t interest her at all. What drew her to him were the small treasures that made the man.

The way his hands held a letter.

His attentive manner with his family.

The firmness of his lips before giving an edict, and their pliant softness when listening with compassion.

Oh, she could wax long about the little things that attracted her to the duke, but this infatuation had to stop. How demoralizing to lust after a younger man. Her first husband had been eighteen years older than her. Society smiled on those unions. An older woman/younger man liaison was deliciously naughty, a rarity, but such connections did happen.

Marriage between a humble merchant’s widow and a duke? Nigh on impossible.

Thus, striding up wide, shallow stone steps to the back of Richland Hall, she entertained not a whiff of hope that she was among the three to be selected. She hadn’t been invited here for that anyway.

Biting her lower lip, she acknowledged her assignment. She had this afternoon to get the duke in dancing form—a difficult chore since she’d made avoiding him an artform. She couldn’t say the same about His Grace. He kept looking at her with an ardent eye. Nor was she fooled by his numerous trips to the canopy. He’d dawdle near her corner of the refreshment table, only to leave empty-handed.

Men sniffed around her now and then. None interested her more than the distant duke.

He was so, so…different.

Before the accident, he’d lived as an architect and builder of follies for wealthy estates. Always a few days in Kent, gone the next. That Lord Nathaniel earned his coin made him an interesting varietal in Richland’s hothouse of privilege. Women flirted with him, and he’d smile back with unfailing politeness because his course was set. He was going to make his way in the world before he married.

As the obscure second son, he’d stride through the halls lost in thought, rolled-up design plans tucked under his thickly muscled arm, his boot prints leaving bits of dirt behind him. Such concentration.

What it would feel like to be the center of his focus?

A delicate swallow followed that thought. I’m here to help. She’d keep that reminder in her head since the duke was taking the stone steps with care on their stately forward march.

“Is your gait tentative because of your leg, Your Grace? Or the new shoes?”

A smile cracked his profile. “I’m pretending my discomfort doesn’t exist.” His chuckle was endearing. “Apparently without success.”

Another stone step was breached, then a second, and a third. They made fine work of avoiding eye contact on their promenade.

“You’re not answering me, Your Grace.”

A ducal brow arched in her side vision. She was over-bold, but faint hearts never won the day.

“You won’t allow me to suffer in silence?”

“Not when I’m tasked with healing you.”

His arm flexed under her fingertips. The duke was equal parts quiet and certain. Acknowledging the extent of his pain was tantamount to admitting weakness…of yielding to a woman.

No man relished that. Well, some did privately.

“Both the shoes and my leg bother me,” he said with clipped efficiency. “Thank you for noticing.”

“I’ve noticed a good many things about you, Your Grace.” The way your sleeve tightens around your upper arm. The keen expression on your face when you read. The wool of your breeches molding to your backside.

“Regale me, Mrs. Chatham. What have you observed?” His baritone was smooth as simmering chocolate on a lazy morning.

They passed butterflies flittering over the dowager’s roses, and two orange tabby cats lolling in the sun, stretching with satisfaction.

The duke invited discourse.

How tempting.

“I’ve observed your preference for boots over buckle shoes. You like your coats in unembellished shades of blue, brown, or green. Never black. You’re given to brooding when a design does not materialize as planned.” She grinned, mostly for her own pleasure. “And you have a penchant for steak, chops, and mutton stew.”

“I sound a trifle boring.”

“I prefer to call it quietly fascinating.”

The duke hummed thoughtfully. “That would be a first.”

The world abounded with rogues. An intelligent man, handsome and appealing in character and visage, was a rare find for women of her ilk. How she came upon that nugget of wisdom would not be a topic of conversation. Ever.

Stoic footmen flung open the doors to the formal salon. Once inside, their footfalls were muffled by densely piled carpet. Landscape paintings by Dutch artists she couldn’t name trimmed one wall. A bank of floral arrangements and marble busts lined another. This room was predictable. Overdone and meant to impress like so many of the peerage. The same couldn’t be said of Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland, which was why he intrigued her.

When they reached the east wing stairs, she let go of his arm. The subtle loss left her empty. She craved connection with him. Grabbing a handful of skirts and the cold, hard banister was her consolation with the duke climbing the stairs beside her.

“Whatever this remedy of yours is, Mrs. Chatham, I want a minimum of fussing.”

Ah, now we’re back to cool politeness. “In my experience, men usually enjoy a woman’s attention.”