A Duke of Her Own
Page 58

The real Eleanor felt strangely calm. Gideon seemed too beautiful, and too passive. Why did he want her to do all the kissing? Why did she have to—
She cleared her throat. “Not tonight,” she said. “You’re right. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
She had the door almost closed when it opened again under the pressure of his hand. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here with Villiers and those bastards of his.”
“I’m visiting Lisette,” she said patiently.
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long will your visit be?”
“Oh, a few more days,” she said, not having given it much thought.
“I’ll come back,” he said. “I’ll escort you and your mother back to London.”
“But then everyone will know—”
“I love you,” he said, his voice shaking a bit. “I love you and the world can know. I am willing to accept censure in order to have you.”
“Wonderful,” Eleanor said weakly. She closed the door, leaned against it, her forehead against the cool wood. “Wonderful.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Knole House, country residence of the Duke of Gilner
June 20, 1784
“Someone must find places to which we can send the children for the treasure hunt,” Lisette said briskly. “Eleanor, why don’t you do that? It’s outdoors and you can take that dog with you. I need you to find four appropriate places from which a child might bring something back. An egg from the henhouse: that sort of thing. I’ll write the clues tonight.”
“It looks like rain,” Villiers said, peering outside.
“Then you go with her and hold an umbrella,” Lisette said. She turned to Eleanor’s mother. “May I ask you…”
Eleanor rose and walked out of the room without a word, so Villiers followed. She had all the signs of a woman about to explode, whether from anger or grief, or something else, he didn’t know.
Grief would be a bit much, given that the Duke of Astley had swooped in and declared his love. True, he was already gone when the household rose, but that was just his moralistic way.
“Are you feeling cross because your prince has left?” he asked, catching up with Eleanor just as she sent a footman to fetch Oyster.
She gave him a cool look over one shoulder. “He’ll be back.”
“No one could believe otherwise, given his ardor yesterday.”
Eleanor had an odd look on her face, but just then the footman rushed up with Oyster, who was celebrating the happy prospect of a walk by barking.
“Hush,” Eleanor said.
Naturally he paid no heed to that, so Villiers unbelted his sword stick, gave it to a footman, and took the leash instead. The dog was so ugly that he was an abomination. Nothing could be done about his jaw, but his manners were another story.
“Quiet,” he said.
Oyster stopped in mid-yap.
They walked out of the house and around a path to the right, Eleanor leading the way as if she knew precisely where to go. Villiers took one look at her rigid back and decided that cheerful conversation was overrated. He occupied himself instead with refusing to walk every time Oyster pulled on the leash.
It didn’t take long at all before the puppy was doing a reasonable imitation of a well-mannered creature. They headed out of the gardens as Eleanor took a small winding path that led into the woods stretching down the hill.
Villiers had lost sight of her by the time Oyster and he had come to an amicable agreement about the proper pace for a walk.
He should have brought Tobias along, he realized. And perhaps even the two little girls. Then he could have marched down the walk like a damned middle-aged family man, with children and dog. Following an irate wife down the path. The shocking thing was that the picture didn’t even feel aberrant—until he realized that of course he wouldn’t be following Eleanor anywhere.
He would follow Lisette. Sweet golden Lisette.
He had to stop and apologize to Oyster because the poor beast didn’t deserve to have his leash tugged so hard.
The path turned a hard right and then dumped into a rocky stream. It looked as if a giant had tossed white boulders and rocks the way children toss marbles. They lay in scrambled heaps, some as large as carriages, others the size of chamber pots. A weak stream trickled around them. On the far side of the stream was a great bramble hedge that climbed up a small hill.
“Eleanor!” Villiers called out.
“Yes?” Her head popped up from behind a huge rock.
He felt foolish. “Oyster and I are here.”
“I see that.”
“What are you doing?”
“Wandering about. We used to come here as children. Look how good Oyster is being. I would have thought he would be a water dog. Perhaps he’s becoming sick.”
Villiers raised an eyebrow at the dog quietly sitting on the ground, only his tail betraying excitement. “I doubt it,” he said. “I believe I’ll let him off the leash.”
“Really?” Eleanor said dubiously. “I never—”
Oyster was off the leash and joyously dashing onto the rocks. He squealed like a piglet when his paw slid into the water, so Villiers judged him unlikely to drown.
“Come on, then,” Eleanor said impatiently. “Don’t you want to see?” Her head disappeared.
He sighed. It didn’t suit him to clamber about on the rocks. It didn’t suit his clothes, either. It was very tiresome, growing to be self-aware. He preferred life when he used to stride around London paying no mind to anyone except the occasional chess opponent.
He managed to get over the rocks without scuffing his boots. Notwithstanding the earlier look of the skies, the sun was out and pouring over the rocks, throwing shadows into high relief. The river wandered into tiny eddies and pools, but most of the rocks were dry and hot. They were bleached as white as the cliffs of Dover.
“What are you—Oh.”
Eleanor had found a small pool. Scandalously, deliciously, she had taken off her slippers and her stockings. Her ankles were delicate, not white, but the color of sweet cream. Her toes wiggled like small fish in the clear water.
She looked up at him and smiled. Her bad mood seemed to have evaporated. “My brother and I used to spend hours here when we were children visiting the estate.”
He sat down and pulled off his boots. He didn’t like cold water. He didn’t like undressing in the outdoors. But he had ceased to pay much attention to his own likes and dislikes, not while his body was driven by this hunger. “Did Lisette like putting her toes in the water?”
Eleanor’s face stilled and he cursed himself silently for bringing up his fiancée’s name. “Oh, no,” she said after a second. “Lisette…no. But those are her favorite roses.” She jerked her head over her shoulder.
He glanced up and saw that an apricot rosebush had scrambled partway up the bramble hedge on the far side of the stream. The blossoms hung in heavy clusters, their petals the color of orange liqueur in the sunlight.
“If you want to make her happy, you’ll fetch her some,” Eleanor said, pulling her skirts up a little higher so she could reach the bottom of the stream with her toes.
“You must be joking,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her legs. They were elegant and slim. “They’re over my head, not to mention the fact that I’d fall into the water. It looks much deeper on that side.”