Chapter Seven

Lady Jane Tavistock, Lady Louisa Evans, Lady Abigail Ainsworth. The ladies had formed a small cluster under an apple tree and were filling their baskets with ripe fruit.

Eliza eyed them critically from her vantage point on the picnic blanket.

When Lady Freesia had suggested an afternoon of apple-picking would be welcome after a dull morning of travel, Eliza had proclaimed the idea brilliant. Not because she had any special interest in apples—although she loved them in a pie—but because it gave Wessex the perfect opportunity to know the ladies better, outside of dancing and dinner.

Eliza had spoken to each of the ladies over tea and found them every bit as amusing, pleasant, and pretty as she had during the Season. She liked them all, although a preference for one over the other had not yet shown itself. But her own preference mattered very little. The question was, which lady would the duke prefer?

Lady Jane was tall and slender with hair the color of butterscotch. She had a wonderful singing voice, and not only did she read the papers, but she had opinions about their content. Eliza was certain she would make an excellent duchess.

Lady Louisa had soft brown curls, an extraordinary bosom, and cheeks as round and rosy as the apples they plucked. She laughed and smiled a good deal, but there was a sharpness to her wit that would serve her well in a marriage with Wessex. He needed a lady with high spirits to keep him in line.

Lady Abigail had hair of deep red, which was not very fashionable, but hers was so gorgeous that one could not wish for any other color. She was gifted with both the pianoforte and bawdy jokes. Eliza thought Wessex would enjoy making that discovery.

All in all, she was satisfied with her selection. It would be interesting to see whom Wessex chose for his duchess.

Although if he continued to ignore the ladies in favor of conversing with Lord Abingdon and Mr. Eastwood, he would be left with no choice at all. Aggravating man.

As though he sensed her thoughts, he pivoted slightly from his companions and looked about the orchard. His gaze caught and held on her frowning countenance. He studied her for a moment—a moment during which she ought to have looked away or at the very least stopped frowning at him, but she did neither. His lips moved as he said something to his companions that she could not hear, and then he sauntered toward her.

She twisted a blade of glass around her finger as she watched him approach. If her heart beat faster with each step, it was only because each step brought him annoyingly closer.

“You summoned me, fair Sigrid?” he asked with a slight bow of his head.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Ah, but you did.” He threw himself down next to her on the blanket and reclined on his back, his long, elegant fingers linked together to cradle his head. “You frowned at me so fiercely, which you do only when you have something disagreeable to say. As you take great delight in being disagreeable, I came at once. Never let it be said that I refused a lady her pleasure.”

It was indecent how wicked the word sounded on his lips. Pleasure. As though they were not talking about a scolding, but something better left to the dark of night, when one was hidden under a thick blanket. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“Get up,” she hissed furiously. “Everyone suspects—and hopes—that you intend to find a wife at this house party. You cannot show me such attention, or they will think you are wooing me.”

“Absurd.” He squinted up at her. “I would never woo a woman from this angle. I can see right up your nose.”

A burst of shocked laughter escaped her, and she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. He mustn’t be encouraged. He would intensify his charm tenfold if he thought he could make her laugh, and she would never survive it.

The duke’s eyes widened. “You laughed. I made you laugh.”

“No,” she denied, somewhat desperately.

“I did, I did!” He was as gleeful as a child with a new toy. “Tell me, what turned the tide in my favor? Was it the inflection of my tone? Or are noses inherently amusing?”

“Oh, you! You are impossible!” she cried.

He drove her mad, stole her reason. It was the only explanation for the unladylike shove she gave his shoulder. He yielded easily at her touch—too easily. She wasn’t prepared. His hands grasped her wrist as she lost her balance and toppled against him.

The world contracted in the oddest way. The presence of her friends faded as though they had drifted far away. She was suddenly very aware of his knee pressing against the soft flesh of her inner thigh, the coolness of his fingers that encircled her wrist, the sound of her own rapid breaths. He made no similar sound, as he had turned unnaturally still and stopped breathing altogether. She blinked up at him in stunned stupor.

Had his mouth always been so…kissable?

But then he gently righted her and returned to his former position—with an extra foot of space between them, she noticed. The world expanded again, her sanity returned, and she remembered that they were not alone. She glanced quickly about, but no one seemed to be paying them notice.

“Careful, Miss Benton,” Wessex murmured. “Someone might think you have a tendresse for me.”

Eliza gasped in outrage. “I? How dare you! It was you who—”

He grinned. Of course he had been only teasing. Despite herself, her anger slipped away. She rolled her eyes and huffed a sigh. “You are trying my patience, Duke. We have things to discuss, and you are wasting my time with your nonsense.”

He looked at her with interest. “How would you spend your time, if not with my nonsense?”

“I would—” The words were right there on the tip of her tongue before she remembered herself. That was the danger of Wessex. He could charm her into revealing far too much. “I would enjoy the company of my friends and the sunshine, of course.”

“But that is exactly what you are doing now. The sun has not stopped shining since I joined you here on your blanket, and I am a friend, am I not? Enjoy me.”

Eliza watched him stretch his legs, catlike, and resisted the urge to stroke him as she would a beloved pet and listen to him purr. She enjoyed him more than she ought, truthfully—but then, so did everyone else. It was abominable how likeable the man was. How tempting it was to bask in the mellow sunshine and spar with him!

They would not have many more such moments together. Once Wessex married, he wouldn’t have the time to provoke her into lecturing him. Nor would that be her responsibility any longer. The future Duchess of Wessex would no doubt take umbrage at another woman correcting her husband—especially since he enjoyed it so much.

Alas.

“I should very much enjoy hearing your opinions on the ladies you invited here, but I fear you have not bothered to speak to them enough to draw any conclusions,” Eliza said severely. “Why are you wasting a perfect opportunity to get to know them better? Never tell me that Lord Abingdon and Mr. Eastwood are more enticing than your future wife.”

“At the moment, I must admit their conversation is, although they are lacking certain other attributes I would prefer my wife to have.” He did not enumerate what those attributes were, although Eliza had her suspicions. “But today is only Wednesday. I have a fortnight to make my choice. If I haven’t made up my mind by then, I will simply draw a name from a hat.”

“You wouldn’t!” Eliza exclaimed, horrified.

He laughed, the perverse man. “No, I wouldn’t. Marriage is a permanent condition, and I take that very seriously. But it would make an excellent story to tell our grandchildren, don’t you think?”

She could very easily imagine it, Wessex gleefully recounting the fateful moment to a delighted passel of children, while his wife looked on with resigned amusement. He would be gray-haired by then, his body softer, but he would still be handsome.

Unless he’d had the pox, which was not an impossibility.

“If those grandchildren are ever to exist, you must first find their grandmother. Be a good duke and wander over to Lady Jane and offer to assist her apple-picking. Let her enjoy you for a while.”

He turned his face to look at her. “Are you sending me away, Sigrid?”

“Yes. Shoo.”

He obliged, leaping gracefully to his feet. “Very well. Lady Jane, you said?”

She nodded.

He bowed and set off in the direction of the ladies. But instead of Lady Jane, he offered his arm to Lady Abigail—just to be contrary, Eliza was sure. Not that it mattered, truly. Any of the three ladies would make Wessex an excellent duchess. She wouldn’t have chosen them if she had thought there was the slightest chance Wessex would be unhappy with them, or they with him. Her efforts were rewarded, for Lady Abigail seemed very pleased with the duke’s attention.

Everything was going precisely to plan. How lovely.

Odd, then, that she felt as though something precious was slipping from her grasp.