Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

GARETH LEFT THE HOUSE, avoiding the front of the castle where yet another carriage was arriving. His mother had planned the wedding and guest list, and as far as he was concerned, she could welcome every distant cousin and acquaintance who came. Normally he would be busy as usual, off in his study or out riding the estate. If he had any discipline, he’d return to his study now. Or more accurately, if he had any discipline, he never would have left it and gone down to the hall where he knew his bride and her sister were greeting guests. He knew because Blair had mentioned it as they sat down to work. And if his cousin had deliberately set out to destroy Gareth’s peace of mind, he couldn’t have done a better job. Within an hour Gareth had admitted defeat and gone to see for himself.

He didn’t want to think about why.

The contrast between the two sisters couldn’t have been sharper. Helen, his future wife, held herself with perfect poise, her hands clasped in front of her. Her smile was polite, her manner reserved. She was lovely, from the top of her glossy dark curls to the tips of her pink slippers peeking out from beneath her snow-white skirts. She was every inch the perfect duchess.

Mrs. Barrows, on the other hand, was like a bolt of light in the dark expanse of the hall. Her dress was blue, with bold embroidery on the skirt and—God help him for noticing—all over the bodice. Her smile was wide and warm. She greeted the arriving guests as though she were truly delighted to meet them, her hands as animated as her face. He lurked at the back of the hall and watched her laugh with his cousin Jack Willoughby, and a tendril of something like jealousy circled his gut.

Speaking to her, though, hadn’t helped at all. He’d been spurred forward by an apparent argument between the sisters, and he’d told himself he was being a solicitous fiancé, urging his bride to sit down and rest, as she did look rather pale. But then her sister spoke to him, and he’d almost forgotten his future wife was in the room.

Cleopatra. She was well named. Gareth could easily see men being willing to fight and die for her. How could two sisters be so unlike? And why, by all that was sane and reasonable, was he so mesmerized by the wrong one?

He had to stop this. He must think of Miss Grey—Helen. Perhaps if he called her by name, he would feel closer to her. Helen, Helen, Helen.

He walked down the gravel path that led to the stables. One of the ancient oaks that grew along the path had been felled, split right to the roots by lightning in the recent storm. It had fallen away from the carriage lane, but it would take weeks to clear the debris. There would be firewood for a year from that tree. Several men were working on it and doffed their caps as he walked by. Gareth nodded at them and walked on.

The Kingstag stables were spacious, laid out with a small courtyard in the center. The stalls could house almost eighty horses at a time, although in recent years they had rarely done so. Since Gareth’s father’s death, his mother had chosen to remain quietly in the country while raising her young daughters. Now he supposed there would be more entertaining at Kingstag; not only would he have a wife but his sisters would be making their debuts soon, which would necessitate balls and parties and all manner of visitors. He suspected his mother was looking forward to it, given her enthusiasm for the wedding plans. He remembered how much she had loved hosting parties and soirees when he was young. It was the only reason he had agreed to a large wedding celebration. Left to his own devices, he would have been happy to wed in the bishop’s private quarters.

He wondered what Helen wanted. He hoped his mother had consulted her.

A shiny black phaeton with startling yellow wheels currently stood in the stable courtyard. Grooms were unhitching a pair of large black stallions, although their actions were slowed by the awestruck glances they kept bestowing on the carriage. It must be Jack’s. If it wasn’t, Gareth would wager half his estate it would be Jack’s by the end of the week. His cousin was drawn to beauty like a bee to a flower, and this phaeton cast all others into the shade.

“Did you win it, steal it, or borrow it?” he asked loudly.

Jack Willoughby stepped out from behind his carriage. “I’m wounded. Naturally I bought her. Had to borrow a bit, but she’s mine.”

“She?”

“Hippolyta.” Jack whispered the name with the reverence of a lover. He reached out and rubbed a spot of dirt from the gleaming wheels. “Hippolyta, my beauty.”

“You named your phaeton.” Gareth shook his head. “Of course you did.”

“Just look at her, Wessex! Such curves, such elegance! Have you ever seen a female finer than this?”

Cleo Barrows’s laughing face flashed into his mind. Gareth exhaled. “As a matter of fact, yes.”