Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“How have you found Kingstag?” he asked as they strolled along the lane.


“It’s magnificent,” she said. “My mother hasn’t exaggerated in the slightest.”

“I’m not certain angels dwell in the attics,” he said dryly, “but I’m delighted you’ve found it comfortable and welcoming.”

“Did she really say angels in the attics?” Cleo tried and failed to bite back a laugh. “Well, she’s very pleased by it, and the excitement might have gone to her head a little.”

“I could seat her next to Sophronia, who would point out every draught and inconvenience of the house.”

Cleo shook her head. “It would make no difference. My mother is determined to see no fault, even if the ceiling should collapse before her eyes. She would only exclaim over how rustic it looked to have a pile of rubble in the dining room.”

He laughed. “That would be too rustic for me. I prefer solid walls and ceilings.”

“As do I. The grounds may actually be perfect, though,” she went on, shading her eyes with one hand to survey the lake, sparkling in the distance. Willow fronds waved above their heads, dappling the path with sunlight, and the scent of honeysuckle sweetened the air. “I don’t know how anyone even notices the house in these surroundings.”

“My mother deserves much of the credit. She created the landscape as much as the gardens.” He glanced at her, and Cleo felt her face warm. Not just a garden of love, but a whole landscape. “In fact, I seem to recall a nuncheon for the ladies in the garden today.”

She smiled uneasily at the veiled question. Nuncheon in the garden would include her mother. For the first few days, it had been enough for Millicent to bask in her role as mother of the bride, which was trying but not unexpected. Lately, though, Millicent had become almost unbearable in her delight, and when she wasn’t praising Kingstag in some way, she was fretting at Cleo about being proper and respectable. In the decade since she’d left home Cleo had got used to her freedom, and her patience for her mother’s anxious, inane chatter was wearing thin. And if her mother knew that the Duke of Wessex was carrying the drapery shop correspondence from Mr. Mabry at this moment, she’d probably faint dead away. “I have some letters to write and thought I might get a bit of exercise as well. I miss the outdoors.”

The duke nodded. “Your shop, I suppose, keeps you indoors a great deal.”

Cleo jerked, glancing at him in alarm. She wasn’t to talk about her shop at all, not to anyone, but especially not to him. But he was watching her with those dark, dark eyes, and she felt compelled to answer.

“Yes,” she murmured. “It does.”

“Mr. Blair tells me it’s quite a prosperous business,” he went on. Cleo couldn’t resist a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting her mother to be lurking nearby, but they were quite alone. “Quite an achievement.”

“Yes, for a woman,” she said, too late hearing the edge in her voice. She forced a smile as he looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “My apologies,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t have spoken so.”

“No,” he corrected her. “You should speak as you feel.”

Cleo fastened her eyes on the path in front of them and they walked in silence for a few minutes. “I was wrong,” she said when her voice was even and calm again. “I shouldn’t have spoiled our walk.”

“I don’t think it’s been spoiled at all.” He was remarkably unruffled. “It’s a draper’s shop, I believe?”

“Yes,” she said politely. There seemed no reason to lie about it.

“Is it a large one? I have little experience of draper’s shops.”

Cleo was torn. On one hand, he sounded genuinely interested, and she was proud enough of her business to want to talk about it. On the other hand, her parents would have an apoplexy if they discovered it. “Moderately,” she said, erring on the side of modesty.

“And yet you manage it on your own?”

“Does that surprise you?”