Four

Stonebridge Cottage was a beautiful and charming estate nestled among the picturesque hills of Oxfordshire. Although it seemed incredibly unfair to refer to it as a mere cottage. Cora had spent the winter back at home in New York imagining a quaint limestone house with a thatched roof and a cozy fireplace. While the home did boast a stone facade, the roof was steeply gabled and consisted of four floors if one counted the cellar. The only concession to its cottage descriptor was the climbing ivy that obscured much of the stonework. It was like something out of a storybook; one of the darker fairy tales. Beautiful and serene but meant to bear witness to all sorts of unfortunate misdeeds. The house party itself might not qualify as one of those offenses, but surely any marriage that came of it would.

On the first day of the gathering, Cora had privately acknowledged that the actual marrying of a noble wasn’t as neat and tidy as she had originally made it out to be. She had been struck by the plethora of gray hair and balding spots among the candidates. Cora had known that many of them were older. She had seen most of them in person over the past couple of weeks, but that wasn’t quite the same as seeing them all together.

By the last night, she was forced to admit that she didn’t particularly want to marry any one of them. The irony of that was she had planned for a very benign and decidedly not happy ending. She had known that she would marry a man she hardly knew and there would be no romance or tender feelings. The entire plan was written down in her journal. She had even used black ink to more formally convey her sentiments on the matter. She had been resolved and unwavering. But that had been when the plan was on paper and not playing out in front of her like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Tonight was the last night, and Camille had thrown a proper country soiree to end the festivities. Several of the surrounding gentry families had been invited to help fill up the dance floor. A lively tune drifted out to where she stood on the terrace with Sir Barnaby Twistleton. She could quote the information she had gathered on him from memory. Thirty-eight years old. Never married. Parents deceased. Receding hairline and questionable teeth due to an unfortunate tobacco habit. An avid fisherman who spent his days, well, fishing, meant frequent travel through the British Isles from one loch or river to another.

He was actually near the top of her list, because he would be gone for long stretches of the year, and he seemed to have a gentle disposition. What more could one want in a husband? She should be thrilled that he had arranged it so that he led her out here directly after their dance. She should be elated that he looked at her in the same way Eliza had looked upon that gutter cat they had saved when they were children.

But when he opened his mouth—she sensed a proposal coming—her stomach churned so fiercely she was certain she would be sick in the bushes.

“Miss Dove, I am aware that we were instructed to send offers to your mother after the gathering, and I agree that is the right and proper thing.”

Oh, dear God, he was proposing!

He continued in a halting voice, nervous and uncertain. “I wouldn’t conceive of offending you or impugning your dignity, but I simply could not wait. I want you as my bride, and I wanted to tell you that in person.”

“I . . .” She couldn’t manage to make any other sound. The chilly evening wind blew threads of hair tickling against her cheeks.

“Miss Dove?” At her continued silence, he said, “Dear me, I’ve shocked you.”

Cora had set this plan in motion months ago, and it was too far gone now to turn things back to how they had been. They couldn’t go back to New York. Their home was gone, sold for the land under it, which meant it had probably been demolished. Mr. Hathaway wouldn’t be happy to see them return anyway. She would lose her inheritance. Marriage was the only way out of this tangle.

Say yes. Just accept now and be done with this.

She opened her mouth to do just that—after all, it didn’t really matter which of the suitors she accepted; she would acquire a divorce, or at the very least live apart from him. However, her gaze caught on the spittle that always seemed to settle at the corner of his mouth. She would only have to stare at it for two years, three at most. Same for the faint odor of mold combined with sweat that seemed to follow him.

“Sir Barnaby—”

She couldn’t do it. Her lungs felt empty, as if she couldn’t get enough air, yet breathing in only made her feel light-headed.

“Miss Dove?” His nasally voice, already high, rose a little further as he sensed her panic. He reached for her, hands fluttering uselessly, and glanced inside, looking for help.

Her eyes followed his. Another polka had started, and Eliza danced by in the arms of Viscount Mainwaring. He was one of the younger suitors at twenty-eight. They had observed him in Hyde Park and determined that he seemed a bit snooty, but beggars couldn’t afford to be too selective. He had been polite if a bit cool, but his preference for Eliza was obvious. Cora was nearly certain he would offer for her sister.

She couldn’t send Eliza to her fate alone. Her mind made up, Cora said, “Sir Barnaby, I wi—”

But a commotion cut her off short. The heads of every person on the dance floor in her line of vision swiveled toward the entrance. Several couples collided in their zeal to see who had walked into their midst. The ones who hadn’t been aware of whatever was happening at the entry noticed that, and then they, too, stumbled in their steps. The musicians, who had kept playing, ended the song on a plaintive note.

From her vantage point on the terrace, Cora couldn’t see who had come in. It was as if royalty had deigned to pay a visit to their little party.

“Who is it?” She immediately thought of Lord Devonworth, and butterflies took flight in her stomach. It couldn’t be him.

“I do not know,” answered Sir Barnaby. “Perhaps the duke has come. He lives up the road a piece, you know.”

“Duke?” There was no duke invited, but from what she had gathered, dukes could come and go as they pleased.

“The Duke of Strathmore,” he said, as if she should know who he meant.

Her mind was swimming with all the names she had memorized, so it took her a few beats to pull that one to the surface. Lord David Felding had been invited but had not sent any sort of acknowledgment. He was the younger brother and presumptive heir to the Duke of Strathmore.

Before she could comment, Sir Barnaby ushered her inside. Several well-dressed men stood at the entrance. One of them was Lord Devonworth. His hair wasn’t wet and curled from the rain and his own sweat. He wasn’t wearing shirtsleeves that were wet and clinging to his shoulders. Yet, he was just as handsome and alluring as he had been that day on the football field. The cut of his coat emphasized his strong shoulders and the trimness of his waist. His blond hair was long enough to curl against his collar, approaching wild while staying on this side of refined. Even from across the room she noticed the distinctive lines of his profile, and her stomach swooped.

His gaze traversed the room, moving from one couple to the next and then sliding over the women who had gathered in the seating area along the far wall. Her skin prickled with anticipation. He was looking for her. She just knew it. Finally, he found her inside the terrace doors, and his gaze settled on hers. Their eyes locked and she couldn’t breathe.

Was this stranger the man she was meant to marry? Why else would he bother to put in an appearance if that wasn’t his intention?

“It is the duke,” Sir Barnaby whispered. “He’s come.”

“The duke?” She had already forgotten that Lord Devonworth had arrived with others.

Sir Barnaby nodded, or at least she thought he did. She was having trouble looking away from Lord Devonworth.

“There,” he added. “Her Grace is greeting him.”

A tall, handsome man in his mid to late forties stood next to Lord Devonworth. He had dark hair with narrow strands of silver streaked through it and deep-set eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He looked over the room as if everyone here was one of his subjects and he found them all distinctly unamusing.

Camille approached them, welcoming the new guests. Mr. Thorne, her fiancé, was at her side. He had just arrived from Paris earlier in the day. They were the only two people in the room who didn’t seem unnerved by the arrival of a duke.

This seemed to break the spell. The room became animated again as women raised their fans to whisper to one another and people shuffled apprehensively. Before she even knew what she was doing, she left Sir Barnaby and was walking across the room, not even bothering to skirt the dance floor. Not that anyone noticed, because everyone was too caught up in staring at the newcomers. Lord Devonworth watched her the entire time, his eyes appraising her. He didn’t look away until she came to a stop before the group and Camille turned to her.

Unfortunately, Fanny had roused from her stupor and arrived at exactly the same moment. Etiquette dictated that Camille introduce Cora’s mother to the duke first. The older man shifted to acknowledge the woman who thrust out her hand for him to bow over. Whether he had actually intended the gesture or not, he was left with no choice but to take it.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dove,” the duke said. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.” The vowels were clipped and the tone crisp in the posh accent she had heard spoken in London. Most of the countryside gentry and even Mr. Thorne, who lived in London, had a slightly more relaxed manner of speaking.

Fanny fell into a deep curtsy. It was obvious she was smitten with him by the flush of her cheeks and the way she couldn’t seem to look away from him. “Lovely to make your acquaintance as well, my lor—erm—Your Grace. I am absolutely delighted that you have come to meet my daughters.”

As greetings went, it was fine, but it was the way she delivered the last line that had Cora’s cheeks burning. She had mimicked his accent so perfectly that the man was momentarily startled out of his aloofness. His eyes widened and he looked at her as if he couldn’t decide if she had a bolt loose or if she was mocking him.

Camille laughed and Cora managed to gently nudge her mother in the ribs. Whenever she met a person with a new accent, she would often copy it back to them. This had been embarrassing her children for all their lives. Cora honestly didn’t think Fanny even knew she was doing it most of the time. Perhaps it was the actress lurking in her soul.

“Well done, Fanny,” Camille said. To the duke, she added, “You’ll find that Mrs. Dove has a brilliant grasp of accents. She spoke with a perfect Scot’s brogue yesterday after only a few words exchanged with the head groomsman.”

“Indeed.” The duke’s tone left the implications of that word and his thoughts up to interpretation. Cora rather thought it wasn’t favorable.

The corner of Lord Devonworth’s mouth quirked upward. Cora was struck again by how handsome he was. His hair shone gold beneath the gas lamps, and his features were well drawn, distinct and strong, as if an artist had taken extra time with each one. His lashes were long and a light brown color, the same color as his brows. His lips were perfectly sculpted with two defined arches at the top over a soft bottom lip.

He must have noticed her scrutiny, because his eyes held hers when she managed to drag her gaze upward. They were darker green tonight, like liquid emeralds. A flicker of heat came to life in her belly, and she struggled to catch her breath again.

“Strathmore, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Dove’s daughters. This is Miss Cora Dove,” Camille said.

Cora almost missed her cue, but she managed to curtsy as Camille had taught her.

“Miss Jenny Dove,” Camille continued.

Jenny curtsied beautifully. Her smile was a perfect bow as she drifted downward, her ruby skirts floating out around her feet. She was the spitting image of their mother with her chestnut hair, porcelain skin, and voluptuous figure. Her face had been created to grace the portraiture of the great hall of some ancient estate. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

Cora hadn’t thought that Devonworth would come, so the possibility hadn’t occurred to her, but now that he was here, she realized that it was possible he might forget about her in favor of Jenny. Men usually preferred her.

“And Miss Eliza Dove.”

Eliza curtsied prettily. At nineteen, she was the youngest of them, and her wide brown eyes were betraying her youth at the moment.

After the duke acknowledged them, Camille took care of the other introductions. Standing on the duke’s left was his friend the Honorable Christopher Warwick. Lord Devonworth stood on his right, while the duke’s younger brother, Lord David, stood slightly behind the group but came forward when introduced. Lord David appeared quite a bit younger than his brother. Thirty at best. He had similar features but seemed to look out at the world through a veil of wariness and skepticism, if the slight curl of his mouth could be believed.

There was a glint of mischief in Lord Devonworth’s eyes as he said, “I’m almost certain we’ve met before, Miss Dove.”

She smiled, unreasonably delighted that he would tease her. “Have we? There have been so many introductions since we’ve arrived in England, I can’t recall.”

Lord David snickered and Lord Devonworth almost grinned. She was certain she saw his lips quirk. His gaze was warm on her face before he looked away, directing his next comments to Camille and Mr. Thorne. “Please forgive my tardiness. I wasn’t certain I would be able to attend.”

“No apology necessary, Devonworth. I know the timing is difficult with Parliament in session. I am happy you could join us,” Camille said.

“Come, Strathmore, have a drink.” Mr. Thorne waved to a footman who hurried over with a tray of fresh champagne.

The men moved to accept the glasses offered to them, except for Devonworth. “Thank you, Thorne, but I would like to dance first.” Holding out his arm to Cora, he asked, “Will you join me, Miss Dove?”

She nodded dumbly, suddenly unable to form a coherent word. She really had expected him to turn his attention to Jenny. Cora glanced at her sister, only to have Jenny smile and nod at her in encouragement as she allowed Lord Devonworth to lead her onto the dance floor. Behind them, Lord David said, “Miss Jenny, you are enchanting.”

The music hadn’t resumed, but when they reached the middle of the floor, Lord Devonworth raised his hand and the opening strains of a waltz filled the air.