Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

He cleared his throat. “And a large contingent of gardeners.”


She laughed. “I am sure they help as well, but this is a garden of love. Don’t you agree?”

The duke didn’t move. “Love?”

Cleo vaguely knew she ought to mention her sister, but the intensity in his dark eyes jangled her thoughts. “Yes. Love for the plants … although also a place where one might be moved to steal a kiss in the shrubbery.”

She had shocked him. His eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. Oh dear; she’d let her mouth run away from her already.

“Indeed. You may be correct,” said the duke before she could apologize. “Forgive me if I interrupted your study of the roses and the—er—shrubbery. I was on my way to see a tree.”

“A tree?” she echoed, grasping at a new topic gratefully.

“It was struck by lightning, or so I was told.”

Cleo remembered the tremendous crack of lightning when they first arrived. “Oh, yes! I almost fell off the carriage step, it startled me so. I hope the tree didn’t damage anything.”

His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes were piercing as he looked at her. “Likely not. We are positively overrun with oaks at Kingstag. I expect we’ll all be glad of the lightning when the tree is fueling our fires.”

She grinned in surprise, not having expected a duke to pay attention to what went into his fireplaces. “How very practical.”

For a moment his gaze seemed to snag on her smile. Cleo wiped it away at once. Oh dear, had her impulsive nature already managed to offend? But all he said was, “Quite.”

She wet her lips. The rain was growing harder now, although the duke didn’t seem to mind. “I think I ought to go back to the house now. The rain….” She held up one hand as if to catch the drops falling around them.

He looked up as if just noticing the rain. “Of course. And here I am, holding your shawl.” He handed it back to her.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Until dinner?”

He thrust one hand through his hair, sweeping the wild locks back over his forehead. It exposed his sharp cheekbones and firm jaw more starkly. Cleo was impressed in spite of herself. Gracious, how could Helen not want him to whisk her into the shrubbery? “Until dinner, Mrs. Barrows.” He bowed and walked on, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Cleo flung the tail of her shawl over her head and hurried toward the house. Suddenly, two weeks didn’t seem so long after all.





Chapter Three





IT WAS AN ETERNITY before the dinner hour finally arrived.

Gareth delayed going to the drawing room. He smoothed his cravat and tugged at his jacket, trying not to notice how his heart seemed to be thudding very hard against his ribs. He hadn’t seen his bride since the Greys arrived. That was perfectly expected; no doubt she had wanted a chance to rest from the journey and refresh herself. The fact that he kept picturing Mrs. Barrows—instead of Miss Grey, his chosen bride—reclining against the pillows of her bed was surely just a result of the lightning strike. It must have been closer than he’d thought and disordered his brain. No doubt as soon as he saw her at dinner, he would realize how mistaken that first electrifying impression had been.

Of course, he’d met her for a moment in the garden and nothing had happened to change it. On the contrary; she’d called it a garden of love and mentioned kissing in the shrubbery, and his mind had almost ceased working.

But now it was time to see her, along with his bride and her parents and even—God help him—all his family. His sisters were wildly excited to meet Miss Grey, and his mother had deemed dinner the proper time. Perhaps some of his bride’s quiet self-possession would wear off on Bridget especially, he thought, trying not to think how Mrs. Barrows’s lively nature was far more like his siblings’.