Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

She jumped to her feet. “I’m going to take a walk in the garden.” It might not be the nicest thing to leave Helen at their mother’s mercy, but she didn’t think she could take all the smothering maternal affection. She whisked out the door and back to her own room for a shawl, then went in search of the outdoors.

Despite the lightning, the storm was mild. Only a light mist was falling when a servant directed her to the gardens behind the house. She let her skirt drag in the wet grass, lifting her face to the sky. It felt good to be outside after two entire days in the carriage with her parents. If she could have managed it, Cleo would have hired her own carriage just for herself and Helen, leaving the elder Greys to congratulate themselves on Helen’s triumph all the way to Dorset. Their mother, of course, had wanted Helen nearby in case a spasm of delight overcame her again and she needed to smother her daughter in an embrace. Their father hadn’t trusted Cleo not to put “radical and absurd” ideas into Helen’s head. He’d watched her warily the entire trip, and Cleo had nearly bitten her tongue off a dozen times keeping her silence. And his final warning, delivered even as they drove up the sweeping drive of Kingstag, had almost been too much. She’d had to sit in the carriage a minute and compose herself before getting out.

But she would keep her composure, come what may. It was only for a fortnight, and it was for Helen and her wedding. She was aware that her parents had invited her only because Helen wanted her to come. Her father might be ashamed of her and her mother might think her unnatural, but her sister still loved her, and she wouldn’t repay that by causing strife and discord.

She slowed down as she reached the gravel paths of the garden. The Duke of Wessex, no matter that he might be remote and cool when it came to courting a wife, had a lovely garden. She stopped to examine all the plants, marveling at the profusion of greenery and blooms. How on earth did they get them to grow so thickly? Her own house had only a small garden, and nothing seemed to thrive. But these roses! They were everywhere, lush globes of pink and yellow petals that smelled divine. Cleo stuck her face into the flowery bower and sniffed, in paradise. What she wouldn’t give for her garden to look like this….

And this would be her sister’s home. She touched another fragrant rose, spilling a cascade of raindrops onto her skirt. The Duke of Wessex wasn’t at all what she had expected. From Helen’s description of him, she’d imagined an older man, very elegant and urbane. The man she’d met today was far more masculine. Thick waves of dark hair threatened to tumble over his high forehead, which gave him a somewhat wild look that was at odds with his surprisingly sensual mouth. He was undeniably handsome, but there was an implacable strength in his face as well. Cleo fancied he was a man of strong passions and great control, the sort of man who wouldn’t be denied anything he set his heart on.

Then she shook her head at how ridiculous she was, imputing an entire personality to a man she’d only just met. No doubt he’d turn out to be much as Helen described him, once she got to know him a little better. Dukes were far out of her ordinary acquaintance.

She bent down to sniff a peony, trying to squash the seed of worry that had sprouted when Helen confessed to nerves. Her sister was gentle and kind-hearted, and Cleo wasn’t at all certain Helen would be able to stand up to a man as intimidating as the duke.

It worried her that Wessex had only called on Helen a few times. How could one marry on such short acquaintance? She could forgive her sister, who had, no doubt, been dazzled by his rank and broad shoulders and very handsome face, but she hoped the duke hadn’t chosen Helen because she was beautiful, demure, and dutiful. He must be a very busy man, and if he didn’t spend time with his bride, he would never know how wonderful Helen was. And if he made Helen miserable….

She sighed and walked on toward the irises. As strong as her instinct was to protect Helen, this was not her battle. Helen had chosen him, and she must have had her reasons. Again her father’s warning echoed in her mind: Hold your tongue or you will be dead to all of us.

The rain grew a little harder, and she shook out her shawl, intending to drape it over her head. She had two weeks to take the duke’s measure. The duke had two weeks to recognize what a jewel Helen was.

“Are you well?”

She jumped at the sound of the voice, dropping her shawl in the process. The man she had just been thinking of stood behind her. “No, no,” she said, flustered, then corrected herself. “That is, I’m quite well, thank you. I was just admiring the roses.”

The Duke of Wessex stooped to retrieve her shawl. “My mother is a passionate gardener. She’ll be pleased you admire her work.”

“Very much so,” she said with enthusiasm. “They’re superb!”

“She does dote upon them,” he agreed.

“Everything beautiful must be nurtured and loved.” Cleo reached toward a pink rose that climbed up a nearby wall. “Nothing could bloom this profusely without a great deal of care.”