Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Mr. Kingston, in the flesh.

Her logical mind knew that she was doomed to disappointment: She had not forgotten that even in the days immediately following their meeting, she had felt let down by his reticence and his seemingly resolute lack of interest in her. But whether one happened to be a wife deprived of a husband’s affection or a widow shut off from society, the nights were long. And in the dark, alone, her thoughts had all too often turned to Mr. Kingston.

This house party, for example, she had thought about for an entire year. The house was so big. Even with dozens and dozens of guests there would still be sections devoid of occupants, where her footsteps would echo as she walked down a long corridor.

What if she were to come upon Mr. Kingston in such an empty corridor? What if, as they passed each other, instead of nodding politely, he reached out and took her hand? And what if he then lifted her hand to his lips?

At least she was somewhat realistic in her fancies, not attributing to Mr. Kingston any kind of romantic verbiage that she had never heard from him. Only a silent, simmering passion.

It was possible, wasn’t it?

“I had no idea you could stare with that much intensity, Stepmama,” said a voice at her elbow.

She started. “Christian! When did you come back?”

“Just now.” The current Duke of Lexington was lanky, handsome, and all of two days past nineteen.

“What happened to Port Mulgrave?”

He was supposed to spend the last few days of his Easter holiday on the North Yorkshire coast—with his father’s passing, he was no longer restricted to the quarry or just the countryside surrounding Algernon House for his excavations.

“Terrible weather on the coast, and the locals don’t expect it to improve anytime soon. I will have to content myself with the quarry—there is an amphibian skeleton that might prove interesting.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be off, then. And don’t worry about rearranging the seating chart for dinner—I shall feast in the splendid solitude of my room.”

“You should be more sociable,” she admonished. The boy was perfectly amiable in private, but terribly aloof before company.

He grinned at her. “The Duke of Lexington will be as sociable as he chooses to be—and not a bit more. Especially not with the ancient crowd his stepmother prefers.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. He pecked her again on the cheek and sauntered out.

She had been a new bride of seventeen when she’d first met him, a sturdy, bright-eyed little boy of four. Now he was a man nearly full-grown and she a widow thirty-two years of age. Where had all the years gone? And when?

Her attention returned to Mr. Kingston, who had dismounted and was leading his horse along, his hat dangling from the fingers of his free hand. The gait of that man, unhurried and confident—and the way the fabric of his trousers moved with each fluid step…

She blew out a breath of air.

He crossed a stone bridge and turned onto the path that would take him to the stables. If he looked up, he would see her before the open window, lusting after such inconsequential qualities as the shape of his brows, the width of his shoulders, and the—

He looked up, as if he had known all along that she was there. Her hands gripped the windowsill, but she did not look away.

Their gazes held until he disappeared behind a bend in the path.

Clarissa remained at the window until a knock came at the door. It was a footman, delivering a letter from Miss Kirkland.

My dear Duchess,

I am more than a little surprised to see you thinking of marriage so soon—somehow I had received the impression that it might be years yet before you willingly walk down the aisle again.

Are you certain you are ready?

But I suppose you must be, if you have already invited all these gentlemen—and ladies, of course—to Algernon House. In light of that, I shall reverse my earlier decision: It seems I had better be there, since the occasion is turning out to be far more momentous than I had thought.

Yours devotedly,

J.M.K.

Clarissa exclaimed in both surprise and delight. Miss Kirkland, as it turned out, was something of a recluse who always found excuses to decline Clarissa’s invitations to meet. Had she known that a little misunderstanding concerning her matrimonial intentions would bring Miss Kirkland to Algernon House, Clarissa would have made such jokes much sooner.

P.S. I fear that in person I shall prove to be a sore disappointment. With pen and paper I am at ease; in the solitude of my own company my thoughts and ideas flow without obstruction. But before others it takes me the greatest effort to string two words together, and more often than not my words emerge awkward and off-putting.

P.P.S. By the time you read this, I should already be on my way.