Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

But whatever their initial hopes for her, it was clear that all the burden of making a great match had descended upon Helen. Cleo felt sorry for that. She had been so happy with Matthew and wished the same for her sister, whether it was with a duke or a lowly tailor. She got some glimpse of what her sister must have endured after Matthew died. Her father had tried to insist that she sell her shop and return home. Unspoken was the presumption that she would make a better match the second time, now that she was a widow of some modest fortune. After that conversation, Cleo had made only the briefest visits home. She had no desire to settle into a ladylike uselessness in her widowhood. Working in the shop reminded her of Matthew, and Cleo liked being responsible for herself. She could support herself, it turned out, so why shouldn’t she? Without the shop, she would have precious little of her own: no children, no husband, no income … nothing to keep her mind occupied. What else was she to do with herself?

The unfairness of her father’s feelings made her want to scream. Never mind that her shop, which he hated, supplied her money, which he somehow managed to accept. At times she had been almost determined to stop offering it, since the source of the income was so hateful to both her parents. Perhaps they would be more appreciative if they felt the lack of her “common merchant” funds. But cutting them off would mean cutting off Helen as well. Helen was the dearest person in the world to her; Helen had wished her joy when she married Matthew. And now she had made a splendid match to the illustrious Duke of Wessex—even if he did seem awfully reticent and reserved—and Cleo would never regret helping her sister find happiness.

That was the thought she must keep in the forefront of her mind for the next few weeks. Stirring up an argument with either one of her parents would only cause Helen anxiety, and she had absolutely no wish to embarrass her sister in front of the Cavendish family.





Chapter Five





THE GUESTS BEGAN TO ARRIVE the next day. The house came alive with trills of female voices, and the jangle of harnesses was almost constant. Cleo had marveled at the size of the castle when they arrived, but after a while she began to wonder where all these guests would stay. Surely even Kingstag Castle couldn’t hold them all.

Helen, of course, had to greet everyone, welcoming them at the duchess’s side. Cleo joined her, losing herself in the excitement of meeting new people, none of whom seemed to recoil at the sight of her, common merchant though she was. Perhaps that was because she said nothing at all about herself, speaking only of her sister and the wedding and how lovely the castle was.

“I’m starting to sound like Mama,” she whispered to her sister after a while. “All I can speak of is Kingstag!”

Helen sighed. “There is a great deal to say about it.”

“Well, it truly is magnificent.” Cleo craned her neck to admire the vaulted ceiling of the hall, which put her in mind of a cathedral. The house was full of modern improvements—there was indeed piping for water inside the house—but it retained much of its ancient air as well. “To think, you’ll be mistress of this in a few days! Do you remember when we used to dream of living in a castle?”

Her sister smiled. “Yes. But even then I never dreamt of one this enormous.”

“All the more to explore!” Cleo grinned, but finally realized how pale her sister had become. “Helen, are you well?” she asked in concern. “You should sit down.”

There was a distant rattle of wheels on gravel. Helen turned toward the open door. “I can’t. Someone else is arriving.”

“Let Her Grace greet them. Come,” she urged. “I’m sure the duke wouldn’t want his guests to first see you passed out on the floor.”

“No, indeed,” said a male voice behind them.

Cleo jerked around. The Duke of Wessex stood there, watching in his intent way. His wasn’t a merry, fond countenance, but she had the feeling that he paid closer attention than most people. Even in this trifling circumstance, she felt the force of his regard in every fiber of her being. No wonder he was such a powerful man. She could barely drag her eyes away from his.

“Your Grace.” Helen dipped a graceful curtsey. “We did not expect you.”

“I had some pressing business to attend to this morning; my apologies.” He barely glanced at her. “What makes you think your sister is about to faint, Mrs. Barrows?”

Cleo wet her lips and darted a wary glance at her sister. Helen might have been a statue, from all the emotion or energy she conveyed. “She looks pale to me, Your Grace, but perhaps I’m imagining things.”

“I would never discount the keen eye of a loving sister.” He turned the blast of his regard upon Helen, who seemed to waver on her feet under it. “I agree with Mrs. Barrows, my dear. You must sit down.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. Now that the mighty Wessex had given his approval, Helen would sit. Still, she wasn’t one to cast aside help, so she merely took her sister’s arm and helped her into the nearby morning parlor, where a pair of elegant settees stood in front of the windows. Helen sank onto one, and Cleo perched on the edge of the facing settee. In the bright sunlight, her sister’s face looked drawn and lined, as if she had aged since they arrived. It was distinctly odd, and Cleo frowned in worry. Her sister should be glowing with happiness, or at least contentment. Instead she looked like she had come down with some wasting disease.

Wessex followed. He rang the servants’ bell, then closed the door. He came and seated himself next to Cleo, opposite his bride. “Why are you unwell, my dear?”