A baron and his wife passed by on their way to stroll through the gardens. Greetings were exchanged, pleasantries said, but he itched to pursue George’s unexpected admonition.

He swung around to face the lawn. “Why so concerned about my happiness?”

George matched him, bracing both hands on the stone balustrade. “Because you’ve never forgiven yourself for being the one to survive the accident.”

He tensed from head to toe, his mid-section clenching as if he’d taken a blow. The Richland family, while loving and good, were prone to weaving delicately around unpleasant topics. Dancing by. Skimming over. Treading on eggshells from time to time. Never hitting a problem head on.

“What makes you think that?” His voice was deceptively calm. A storm threatened to erupt inside him. He held onto the stone, needing its solidness.

“You’ve been irritable all year.”

He was aghast. “Our family suffered great loss.”

George nodded with small concession. “Yes. Father and Darius will forever be on our hearts, but we must move on.”

“I have.” Now he was defensive. “I honor them by fulfilling my duties, but I fail to see why you’re spewing balderdash about forgiveness or the lack thereof.”

“You’re alone far too much.”

“I prefer to keep to myself.”

“That’s true. You’re far too aloof.”

He flicked an unseen speck off his sleeve. “Reserved, thank you.”

“And you’ve given up architecture.”

He flinched. Now they were getting somewhere. George’s words pierced the marrow of his bone. Even he heard the misery in his voice when he said, “I built follies, not grand cathedrals.”

“But you loved building them all the same. I can tell you miss it. Don’t deny it.”

He wouldn’t.

George delivered another assault. “Don’t stop pursuing the things that give you pleasure.”

“There is being the Duke of Richland,” he said dryly.

“So? Be a duke and a builder of follies.” George paused before dropping his voice an octave. “Mrs. Chatham told the dowager you should take up more building projects. She’s convinced the work makes you happy.”

His head swiveled sharply to his brother.

George whistled softly. “Like a bloodhound at the mention of her name.”

He was baffled. The day had opened up a world of possibilities after his interlude with the widow. The night was proving to be a puzzle. He’d kissed Mrs. Chatham, or she’d kissed him (a distinction not worth splicing), yet she wasn’t at the ball.

Why was she hiding?

“Are you going to seek her out after your dance with Lady Jacintha?” George asked.

No need to clarify the woman he’d seek. His attention drifted to a dormer window on the third floor. He’d been astonished to learn the dowager had ensconced Mrs. Chatham in the east wing. That side of Richland Hall was for family alone.

Gentle light shined through the small square glass. The widow was on the other side of it, hiding away. Once or twice he thought a lonely soul looked down the festivities. He could go to Mrs. Chatham, coax her down from her uncharacteristic tower of solitude. She always did well at local routs. Villagers enjoyed her amiable conversation.

Perhaps she found the size of the ball off-putting? The swell of too much noise?

The orchestra was taking a break. The old fellows were mopping their brows and gulping down punch. They’d play again after a decent rest. His minuet with Lady Jacintha was coming due like a dreaded debt he didn’t want to pay.

A stream of people poured outside, but he would dive in and fish out a certain neighbor tucked quietly in his home. He was about to leave when George grabbed his sleeve.

“You’re going to her now, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“There will be consequences if you don’t come back.”

There would, but he was a duke. Excuses would be made and accepted. It was another thing to take in stride, no different than his stiff new shoes.

The crowd swelled around them. Several portly gentlemen ambled down the steps, heading to the striped canopy where the day’s refreshment tables served as nightly card tables. If he wanted to escape, now was the time, but George tugged his sleeve again.

His brother was earnest, dipping his head to impart a grave message. “Before you go, there is something you need to know about Mrs. Chatham.”




CHAPTER 6




THE LETTER SAT in her lap. She read it again, taking bittersweet delight in each wonderful word.

Richland Hall, Friday afternoon

May 23, 1788


Dear Mrs. Chatham,

I could wax on about our fine spring weather. I could offer effusive thanks for the oil of amber, but I won’t because my afternoon with you was transcendent. Wholly unexpected. One kiss can change a man. Yours did. You reset my fulcrum. I am balanced again, and the world is right because of you. Please accept my humble thanks for the gift of your time today. I can only hope to deserve more of it.


With kind regard,

Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland

SHE FOLDED the foolscap and set it lovingly on the table beside her chair. Pandora’s box had been opened by a single kiss and a few choice words. They’d said aloud what had long simmered under the surface.

“How do I put this back inside the box?” she mused to her empty room.

They’d unleashed what could never be, and that was difficult to swallow.

She tucked one foot beneath her bottom and let the other leg dangle. An open book was in her lap. She’d tried to read it several times. The pages swam. The story eluded her.

This self-imposed exile was awful. She’d return home tomorrow. Sneak out early, though it was cowardly. The duke would be busily dancing attendance on three fortunate young women. Really, they’d dance attendance on him. It’d be a race to win his heart.

Her face crumpled. The duke could share his lust with her, but never his love.

Twice she’d peeked out the window at the goings on below. The grounds swelled with merry-makers. Everyone celebrated the Richland family’s return into the blessed arms of society. A season of joy was upon them. She’d not interfere. This past year had seen her traipsing about Richland Hall far too much. Now she would extract her person and drown herself in her garden.

Inquiries about a cottage in Cornwall would be made. The sooner, the better.

A knock at her door startled her. Hair on her arms bristled. He was on the other side; she knew it with every fiber of her being.

Quiet as a mouse, she shut her book and set it carefully on a side table.

A bolder, louder knock sounded.

Drat! Too many candles blazed for her to feign sleep. Polite as Lord Nathaniel was, he could also be obstinate. She touched her cheeks and checked her face in a hand mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed. The duke would know she’d been crying.

Another knock came. Very insistent. The dragon wanted entry. Sighing, she put down the hand mirror.

“Come in.”

A door hinge creaked the tiniest noise. The duke filled her doorway. Masculine. Robust. Dressed in dangerous black. A cutaway coat fit his shoulders like a second skin. Light kissed his auburn hair. No strand was out of place. Lacy, snow white cuffs rested evenly on the back of his hands—his persuasive, passionate hands.

It was foolish, her visual devouring of the man, but even the best-intentioned women slipped.

“You’re quite dashing, Your Grace.”

“And you’re quite…comfortable.”

She laughed and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Is that a euphemism for my ugly day gown?”

“You would be beautiful in burlap, madame.”

She sighed softly. By the tender octave of his voice, she believed he truly thought such a foolish thing.

He sauntered into the low-ceilinged room, searching for a chair, finding a dainty one at the escritoire, and hefting it high to plunk it directly before her. The duke’s hand slid under the back of his coat, flaring the cloth tails while he took a seat. Spine straight, he was imposing. A man in the prime of his life, and he’d come to sit with her.

“You’ve been crying. Is that why you’re not at the ball?” His silver-gray eye was hawkish. He’d give no quarter.

Her gaze slid to his letter on the side table. “Because I decided it was in the best interest of all concerned that I not go.”

“You’re making decisions for me?” There was irritation in his tone.

She’d matched it.

“No. I made this decision for me. You might have the power to make me weak-kneed, Your Grace, but I possess a strong mind. It’s the benefit of having used it at least a decade longer than the women who’ve flung themselves at you all week.”

Taking a deep breath, he set both hands palms down on his thighs. He tried to bite back a smile and lost the battle. “Weak-kneed?”

He said it with the most unusual blend of seduction and humor. How was that possible? The effect was butterflies in her stomach. Parts of her hidden under yards of ugly brown wool were doing a jig, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

“Is that the reason you’re in here?” he asked. “The difference in our ages?”

“Of course, a younger person would say that.” She squirmed on her seat. “Youth is its own armor. You feel invincible…until the day comes when you realize you’re not.”

A sober shadow fell over his face, dimming the light in his eye. “I am twenty-six years old. Not a stripling lad. I faced my lack of invincibility last year.”

She winced. “Forgive me. That was a thoughtless, impulsive retort.”

“No harm was done, madame, and it was a truthful thing you said. It’s one of the qualities I admire about you.”