As they started down the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vastness of the entrance hall, Lady Gwendolyn cast a nervous glance at Abby. “Are you quite sure that people will like me, Miss Linton?”
The girl had been unnaturally quiet during luncheon in the sitting room where they always took their meals. Now they were heading out to deliver baskets to a number of infirm and needy tenants on Rothwell land. Abby looked forward to the outing, for she had grown up visiting the people of the parish. Yet she could imagine how daunting the task must seem to a girl who had spent her life sheltered in a gilded cage.
She gave Lady Gwendolyn a warm smile. “Of course they’ll like you, darling. You’re a lovely, warmhearted young lady. In truth, they are far more likely to be worried that you won’t like them.”
“Oh my, I wouldn’t wish anyone to think such a thing. But what shall I say to them?”
“When at a loss for conversation, the best course is to ask questions. Most people are happy to chat about the things that are of interest to them. You might ask a farmer’s wife what type of crops the family is growing, or what the names and ages of her children are. The trick is to ensure that the other person does most of the talking.”
“How clever! Yes, I can see where that would be very helpful.”
As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Abby noticed that the front door was already open. A footman in blue livery stood at attention while Finchley spoke to a pair of women who stood on the portico. As the old butler stepped aside to allow them entry, a shock of recognition struck Abby.
“Pray excuse me!” she told Lady Gwendolyn, before hastening forward to greet the visitors.
Finchley’s squinty eyes gleamed with interest. “Mrs. Rosalind Perkins and Miss Valerie Perkins,” he intoned.
“So I see,” Abby said, brushing a kiss to her sister’s scented cheek. “Rosie, whatever are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to call, of course! I should think you’d have expected us.”
Rosalind looked the picture of fashion in jonquil muslin with a fluted bonnet that sported a trio of egret plumes. Her daughter, Valerie, wore a demure gown of pale Saxon green, a yellow sash tied beneath her bosom. A jaunty straw bonnet crowned her strawberry-blond curls.
Squealing with delight, Valerie hurled herself into her aunt’s embrace. “Aunt Abby! I can’t believe you’re living in such a magnificent house! Why, it’s like a palace!”
“Hush, my sweet,” Rosalind murmured. “Did I not warn you to mind your manners? It won’t do to behave like a hoyden.”
“Of course, Mama.” Valerie instantly assumed a modest demeanor. She dipped her dainty chin, though her blue eyes sparkled beneath a siren’s long lashes. That fetching expression looked as if it had been practiced in front of a mirror.
Abby returned her attention to her older sister. “Surely you must know that I’m not allowed to entertain guests.”
“Oh, but we are not your guests,” Rosalind said. “We’re fortunate to see you, but we’ve actually come to call upon the duke. It’s only proper that we should welcome him back to the neighborhood.”
Abby choked off a groan. She ought to have realized at once what her ambitious sister desired—for the Duke of Rothwell to fall head over ears in love with seventeen-year-old Valerie. How imprudent of Rosalind! Had she given no thought at all to the awkward position in which she’d placed Abby? Very likely not. Rothwell was bound to be provoked by a request to receive relatives of the governess, no matter how well bred they might be.
Finchley, she noticed, was already disappearing down the long corridor. The ancient butler looked in a hurry to inform the duke of his unexpected visitors. And he was too far away for her to stop him without creating a scene.
Unclenching her teeth, Abby murmured, “Might I remind you, Rosie, you don’t live anywhere near this neighborhood any longer. In fact, I would have thought you’d have gone home to Kent already.”
“Oh, la! Peter had business in Dorset, so it made more sense for us to await his return before setting out for home together. Clifford invited us to prolong our stay, and Lucille has been very glad for our company since you left her without a companion. How auspicious it was when we heard that His Grace’s coach had been sighted in the village yesterday. Why, it is almost as if it were ordained by the fates!”
While speaking, Rosalind was eyeing the gilt and marble appointments of the entrance hall, the high domed ceiling, and the large murals that depicted scenes from Aesop’s Fables, as if she were imagining her daughter reigning over all this splendor as the Duchess of Rothwell. Meanwhile, Valerie’s inquisitive gaze was fastened on Lady Gwendolyn, who hung back shyly by the newel post.
Abby wrestled with the awkward situation. It wasn’t her place to introduce Rothwell’s sister to anyone without his consent. Yet she could hardly be rude, so she brought her charge forward. “Lady Gwendolyn, may I present my sister, Mrs. Perkins, and her daughter, Valerie.”
Both visitors curtsied to the duke’s sister, whose lips curved in an uncertain smile. In a hesitant voice, the girl murmured, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her dove-gray eyes flashed to Abby, silently begging for help. “Perhaps,” Abby suggested, “you could escort the visitors to the antechamber to await Finchley’s return.”
Lady Gwendolyn led the way through an arched doorway and into an elegant room with apricot-painted silk on the walls, Sheraton chairs, and porcelain vases on pedestals. Bringing up the rear, Abby prayed that the butler would return swiftly with the news that the duke was not receiving today. How cringeworthy to imagine her sister boasting of Valerie’s ladylike accomplishments to Rothwell.
He might be an incorrigible rogue, but that didn’t mean she wished to give him ammunition to mock her or her family.
“Oh, I do adore your gown,” Valerie told Lady Gwendolyn. “I have been looking for a length of muslin in that very shade of peach. And the ribbons are so pretty, too. Who would have thought to use fawn, but it is absolutely perfect! You must tell me the name of your modiste. I shall turn eighteen in January, so I am to make my bows next spring, and Mama and I are already planning my trousseau. May I tell you about it?”
Lady Gwendolyn looked a trifle bemused by the prattle, but she readily agreed, and the two girls sat down on a chaise near the window. They soon had their heads together in a tête-à-tête, with Valerie doing most of the talking while Lady Gwendolyn smiled and nodded.
“How perfect, they soon will be fast friends,” Rosalind confided in a murmur. “It is precisely as I had hoped!”
“Hoped?” Abby said, frowning. “What do you mean? I thought you’d come to charm the duke.”
“Half an hour’s visit is scarcely adequate. That is why I intend to suggest to His Grace that Valerie would make a suitable companion for his sister. James put the idea in my head when he mentioned that Lady Gwendolyn spends most of her time cooped up in this house with only her aunt and a few servants for company. Do you know how long Rothwell plans on staying?”
As the local vicar, their brother James knew the comings and goings of everyone in the parish, but Abby doubted that he would have suggested such a brazen ruse. No, this had all the earmarks of one of Rosalind’s madcap notions. “It’s my understanding he’ll be in residence for no more than a week, perhaps less,” she said dampeningly. “And since you too will be going home to Kent soon, there is scarcely time for a friendship to form. You might as well abandon this scheme.”
“Abandon it, bah. When the most eligible man in all of England is right here on our doorstep? Rothwell is past thirty and he must soon be turning his mind to marriage. And why not to my dear girl? Just look at her. Is she not the most taking little thing you’ve ever seen? Such charm! Such beauty!”
Abby flicked a glance at her niece, who was indeed the essence of the peaches-and-cream young lady. Valerie was personable and lively, and despite her modest portion, she doubtless would attract a great deal of male attention when she made her debut. But she was also a complete widget with little experience of the world.
“Of course she’s lovely, but do be reasonable. There must be flocks of girls with grander connections. Besides which, the duke is nearly twice her age and he’s a hardened libertine as well. In fact, he has brought several rakes and questionable females here with him—along with a prizefighter out in the stables.”
“Oh, la! If Rothwell deems them acceptable company for his sister, then it must be so for Valerie, too. As to marriage, she will have him twined around her pretty little finger in no time. But first, she must have her chance to catch his notice. That is where you can help, Abby.”
“Me?” The very notion of being recruited for such mischief appalled her. “I want no part of this scheme. Lady Gwendolyn and I were just on our way out, anyway.”
Rosalind frowned. “Where are you going?”
“We’re spending the afternoon visiting a number of tenants on the duke’s estate.” Abby glanced out the window. “I see that our carriage is already waiting outside.”
“Ah, I did wonder if someone else had come to call. But you mustn’t leave just yet. If Lady Gwendolyn isn’t at home, it will ruin everything!”
“All the more reason for us to depart at once. Then I won’t have to witness you pitchforking my niece into Rothwell’s lap.”
As Abby turned away, intending to collect the girl, Rosalind caught hold of her arm. Abby found herself the subject of her sister’s sharp brown gaze. “Perhaps there is another reason for your refusal to help,” Rosalind whispered. “Is it possible that you still harbor a soft spot for His Grace?”
The question rattled Abby. Rosalind was the only one in the family who knew about that long-ago romance. Abby had been obliged to confide in her sister since there had been no other way to smuggle out letters to Max. It was strictly forbidden for a young girl to correspond with an unrelated male, and so she had not dared to ask her father to frank the letters. Instead, she had sent them to her sister, who was ten years her elder and enjoyed more latitude as a married woman. Since Rosalind had always reveled in clandestine plots, she’d gladly forwarded them to Max.
Now, that inquisitive stare made Abby feel defensive—especially in light of her own disturbing flash of desire at seeing Rothwell stripped to the waist. “Don’t be absurd,” she said firmly. “That was a mere childhood fancy, and it is long since finished. I can assure you, I’ve no interest whatsoever in him anymore—nor he in me.”
Seeing that Rosalind looked satisfied by the answer, Abby realized belatedly that she ought to have pretended to still carry a torch for him. That might have better served to thwart her sister’s plan. But it was too late now.
“I have always envied you for not being of a disposition for marriage,” Rosalind said, while checking her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror. “It is quite a trial to fret over one’s children, you know, and to always worry that one is doing what is best for them.”
“Not of a disposition for marriage?” Abby latched onto that startling statement. Was that how her family viewed her? As a spinster by choice? She’d had no alternative but to spend her youth looking after their parents without ever enjoying a London season. She had loved them dearly and had made the best of matters, yet that didn’t mean she had not yearned for more.
“Why, yes, you always seemed so cheerful living with Mama and Papa. It made me glad to see you content to remain at home when none of the rest of us were able to do so. You have always been the kindest and most caring in the family.” Rosalind gave her a woebegone look. “Are you certain you cannot find it in your heart to aid your niece on her journey to happiness?”
“I don’t understand what it is you expect me to do.”
“It’s quite simple. I shall seek His Grace’s permission to leave Valerie here for the afternoon. Then, when the storm strikes, you must convince him that the roads are a quagmire and beg leave for him to allow Valerie to spend the night.”
“Storm?” Abby blinked at the golden beams of sunshine streaming through the windows. “Don’t be absurd, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”
“Lucille’s arthritis kept her abed this morning, and you know how her aches and pains always portend rain. You may be certain the weather will turn foul by nightfall.”
It was true, whenever Clifford’s wife suffered an attack, it foretold inclement conditions in the near future. But this once, Abby didn’t believe it. “Perhaps she’s still feeling the effects of yesterday’s rain. You surely cannot pin all your plans on such a flimsy hope.”
“What I hope is that I may count on you, dearest sister.” Rosalind clasped Abby’s hands. “Please, if you love Valerie, you must promise to do everything in your power to help her.”
Abby hardly knew how to respond. Her sister had placed her in an untenable position. She certainly didn’t wish for Valerie to end up a spinster like herself. Yet the mental image of her niece clasped in Rothwell’s arms, the subject of his ardent kisses, was simply too much to bear.
Her gaze strayed to the doorway. Good heavens, what was keeping Finchley? If only the butler would return to report that the duke wasn’t receiving, then Rosalind would be forced to abandon her scheme and depart.
“It isn’t up to me whether to help or not,” she said testily. “You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—”
The words died on her tongue as Rothwell stepped into the antechamber.
* * *
Max had been heading into his study to meet his estate agent when a voice from far down the corridor had stopped him.
“Your Grace,” Finchley called in a gravelly tone, scurrying forward with the speed of someone half his age. “If I might have a word.”
Max turned back to meet the butler. “What is it?”
“You have visitors. Mrs. Rosalind Perkins and Miss Valerie Perkins.”
He had no intention of squandering the afternoon in the company of nosy neighbors who would gabble gossip or, worse, thrust their simpering daughters at him. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Send them away. Along with whoever else might come knocking.”
“If I might be permitted to say, Your Grace, that would be poor manners, indeed. Especially as Miss Abby knows these two very well.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Max said impatiently. “She’s lived her entire life in the area. I expect she is well acquainted with everyone in and about the village.”
“But they’re her sister and her niece. Miss Abby and Lady Gwen are with them right now. They happened to be coming down the stairs as I opened the front door.”
The gleam in Finchley’s rheumy blue eyes hinted at a certain delight in the situation. Max couldn’t imagine what the codger found so amusing. Though he’d wondered if the staff had guessed about his boyhood courtship of the girl on the neighboring estate. Only look at how Beechy had bade him sit with Abby the other day in the kitchen. Perhaps having the two of them living under one roof injected a little unwarranted excitement into the tedium of their everyday lives.
Too bad they’d be disappointed.
“Where are they?”
“I left them in the entrance hall. Shall I show them into the Turkish Saloon? Or perhaps the Gold Drawing Room?”
“No. I’ll go downstairs myself. Pray inform Hammond that I’ll be a trifle late for our meeting.”
Max stalked along the lengthy corridor, his footfalls sharp and clipped. Already, he half regretted the impulse that had spurred him on this detour. He ought to have stuck with his original decision and ordered Finchley to turn them away. There could be no logical reason for him to want a word with any of Abby’s relations.
Except curiosity perhaps.
That long-ago summer when they had met nearly every day in their secret glade in the forest, Abby had related many humorous stories about her family members. There had been one about her elder sister Rosalind … something about her setting a trap to lure the dashing younger son of a baron into marriage. Max strained to recall the particulars, but the tale was lost to the mists of time.
Not that he wished to remember. Nostalgia served no purpose. Yet he could not deny a certain interest in making the acquaintance of Abby’s sister. All four of her siblings had been considerably older than him. Consequently, they’d been married and living elsewhere by the time he and Abby had met. Other than glimpsing them occasionally at London parties, the only one with whom he’d ever had any particular dealings was her brother James Linton, to whom Max had awarded the living at the village church several years ago. The matter had been handled by post based upon a recommendation from the previous vicar.
He’d had only a nodding acquaintance with Abby’s parents, too. They’d seemed a devoted couple, though old enough to be her grandparents. He’d seen them in the village from time to time, when he was home on holiday from Eton.
Home. He felt an unwanted catch in his throat to think that Rothwell Court had once been his home. He had lived every day of his life here until age sixteen. His earliest memories were of playing solitary games of pirates, constructing ships out of bedsheets and chairs, and of sometimes escaping the nursery to battle the Spanish or the French amid the shrouded furniture of an unused wing, or to stalk imaginary prey through the jungles of the conservatory, much to Aunt Hester’s delight and his nanny’s dismay.
Aware he was smiling, Max wiped his expression clean and headed down the grand staircase. The entrance hall was unoccupied save for the footman on duty at the door, but the hum of voices led him across the marble floor to the antechamber. Nearing the doorway, he heard the low pitch of Abby’s voice.
“It isn’t up to me whether to help or not,” she said in a rather distressed tone. “You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—”
As he stepped inside, she fell silent, those expressive blue eyes widening. What did she mean by having no authority? Judging by the bloom in her cheeks, it must be something she didn’t wish for him to know.
He squelched his curiosity. Whatever issue that troubled her did not concern him so long as she performed her duty to his sister and stayed away from his London friends. In particular, he had thoroughly disliked the way Ambrose had salivated over her charms. He found his own attraction to her to be irksome enough, for she was a rustic spinster, too slim and willowy to suit his tastes, and no match for the dainty blond beauty of Lady Desmond.
Nevertheless, Abby had a quiet elegance that was enhanced by her bluish-gray gown, the same one she’d worn while spying on his sparring match with Goliath. He found nothing to praise or criticize in her regular features, yet there was a lively sparkle in her eyes that lit up her expression and set her apart from more practiced flirts. And that luminous look still had the power to twist his gut into knots.
A straw bonnet framed the oval of her face, and he recalled that she’d planned to take Gwen out on a mission of mercy to visit his tenants. That must be why they had been coming down the stairs at the time of her sister’s arrival.
He strode forward to greet Abby’s sister. A family likeness could be detected in the structure of her cheekbones and the pert chin. With strands of silver in her copper hair, Rosalind Perkins looked to be some ten years older than Abby. The moment she spotted him, her frown transformed into a smile that had the effect of revealing fine lines around her mouth and eyes.
Abby sketched a curtsy. “Pardon me, my lord duke. I was expecting Finchley to return. May I present you to my sister, Mrs. Perkins, and her daughter, Miss Perkins. Rosalind and Valerie, the Duke of Rothwell.”
Miss Valerie Perkins sprang up from the chaise where she’d been chatting with his sister, her youthful features alive with coy pleasure. As she and her mother made their genuflections to him, Mrs. Perkins said brightly, “It is a great honor to meet you at last, Your Grace. I trust we are not intruding?”
“I was about to sit down to a meeting with my agent,” he said bluntly. “I haven’t much time, but since we are neighbors, I did not wish to snub your acquaintance.”
“My sister lives in Kent,” Abby interjected. “She and her daughter are staying at Linton House for a short visit.”
“A prolonged visit,” Mrs. Perkins corrected with a sidelong look at her sister before turning a smile back to Max. “You see, having grown up here, I’ve a sentimental attachment to this corner of Hampshire. It’s all so charming and tranquil. I do believe my daughter has grown to love the area as much as I do.”
“Indeed, I find it ever so beautiful, Your Grace.” Miss Perkins made a coquettish peek up at him from beneath a flutter of long lashes. “Most especially here at Rothwell Court. Mama and I greatly enjoyed the drive from the gatehouse with all the lovely trees and the rolling hills. And might I add, the magnificence of the house quite stole my breath away. I daresay there is no finer estate in all of England.”
Max hid an unexpected twist of amusement at the gushing tribute. The little minx was barely out of the schoolroom and she thought to beguile him with her kittenish wiles. He intercepted Abby’s glance and caught a glint in her eyes as if she’d just had the same thought. For one brief moment, they gazed at each other with a strange sort of kinship. It was as if the past fifteen years had never happened and they were back in their secret glade, sharing a laugh over the absurdities of people.
She blinked and looked away, the warmth of her expression fading into a cool smile. “We mustn’t keep His Grace from his business affairs,” she told her sister. “And I’m afraid it is past time for Lady Gwendolyn and I to set out on our errands.”
“Oh, must they both go?” Gwen piped up, then blushed as everyone turned to look at her. His sister stood rather shyly to the rear of the party, her fingers twined at her waist as she lifted pleading eyes to Max. “That is, I—I wondered if Miss Perkins might come along with me and Miss Linton. Please, Max?”
“But you’ve only just met.”
“That may be true, Your Grace, yet I do believe we are destined to become bosom bows,” Valerie Perkins said, slipping her arm through Gwen’s. “You see, it has been ever so lonely since all of my friends live in Kent. Lady Gwendolyn has been kind enough to offer to keep me company this week.”
“What a marvelous notion,” Mrs. Perkins said, gazing fondly at them. “And quite perfect, for you are a mere two years apart in age. Why, I could leave you here in the care of your aunt Abby and send the carriage to fetch you before dinnertime. Provided, of course, that His Grace agrees.”
Max had no doubt the plot had been hatched before they’d even set foot on his land. It was patently obvious that she wanted to dangle her pretty daughter in ducal waters in hopes that he would snap at the bait. And little Miss Perkins had ingratiated herself with his sister in order to encourage the scheme.
It isn’t up to me whether to help or not. You must understand, I have no authority whatsoever—
Now he understood the distress he’d overheard in Abby’s voice. Mrs. Rosalind Perkins must have tried to recruit her assistance, and Abby had balked at the ploy. Not because she still harbored any tendre for him; that was impossible since she’d ignored his numerous letters years ago. Rather, she believed him to be too irredeemable a rake for her innocent niece.
Abby was right. Although the debaucheries of his youth were much exaggerated of late, he had experienced enough sordidness to know himself unfit to wed a mere child, even if he had the slightest interest in marriage, which he did not. His own parents’ volatile union had cured him of any such inclination. Nevertheless, the mothers of society continued to parade their naïve daughters in front of him. And nothing irritated him more than to be maneuvered by female tricks.
Max was on the brink of issuing a firm refusal when he looked at his sister. Her soft gray eyes beseeched him, and it struck him suddenly that she had no friends. For most of her life, she had lived in this great pile of a house with only his aunt, a governess, and the servants for company. He had never thought much of it, for Gwen had always been a timid sort, happy to play quietly by herself and shy of speaking to strangers.
But now Max wondered if he’d done her a terrible wrong. Perhaps he ought to have sent her off to finishing school, where she would have met other girls her age. Could he truly deny her this one chance to make a friend?
No. Not even if he had to fend off a budding siren and her ambitious mama.
Smiling at his sister, he said, “It shall be as you wish, then.”