Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Helen covered her face. “Oh, my,” she gasped, fighting back giggles. “I can only imagine what Mama would say!” They were still shaking with suppressed laughter when Mr. Blair joined them. He immediately inquired what had made them laugh so hard, and Helen told him with animation and spirit, laughing anew at Sophronia’s concern for her cheese. It made Cleo’s heart lift to see her sister happy again. The only thing that might have pleased her more was if Wessex himself had joined them. He had arrived at the party with Mr. Blair, but was intercepted by the duchess. Cleo kept stealing glances at him, willing him to come over to them. He was looking fondly at Sophronia, and it was hard not to notice how attractive it made him. She wondered if he knew about Sophronia’s dirk.

Then, by chance, their eyes met. It was just a passing glance, no more than a moment, but it sent a little shock through her. He was smiling, his dark eyes bright with mirth, and it transformed his face from handsome to mesmerizing. Cleo turned instantly back to Mr. Blair, but she could feel the duke’s gaze upon her. It made her heart beat a little faster even as it reminded her of her vow to be quiet and discreet around His Grace. Helen had been right about one thing the other day: Cleo was more ebullient than her sister. She tended to attract people’s attention. Therefore, she must absent herself when the duke and Helen met, so there could be nothing to distract Wessex from falling in love with Helen.

If it also kept Cleo from becoming more attracted to him, she would be immensely relieved.

When she caught the duke and his mother watching their little group, she murmured an excuse and slipped away. Mr. Blair was charming and had already brought a wide smile to Helen’s face with an amusing story about Lady Sophronia; apparently, the dirk was not her only memento of a former suitor. Cleo knew her sister looked her best today, and if she left, the duke would be able to sit next to Helen and notice how enchanting she was.

Cleo walked down the gentle slope toward the bowling green, where two boys had been arguing for some time. “It seems you’re in need of an umpire,” she said as she reached them. “May I serve?”

“He put his foot in front of my bowl,” said the younger boy at once. He was sturdy and blond, with the look of a boy who spent hours outdoors. “His bowl is dead and I ought to be allowed to replay mine.”

“I did not!” Henry Ascot’s eyes glittered with tears. “I never touched your bowl! It stopped on its own!”

“You did,” accused the other. “And now you’re trying to cheat!”

“I am not a cheat.” His voice quivered, and Cleo could see how desperately he was trying to contain himself.

“‘Cheat’ is a dangerous word,” she admonished them both. “One should never cast it about without proof. Do you have proof that he impeded your bowl? I presume you’ve measured every cast so far.”

The first boy clamped his mouth shut and dropped the bowl in his hand. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I guess we ought not to play anymore.” He ducked his head and walked away.

Cleo stooped to pick up the discarded bowl, giving Henry a moment to collect himself. He was tall and a bit gangly, with an uncompromisingly square brow and dark hair. Lady Bridget had called him a horrid pest, but he didn’t look very dreadful now. “I hope there wasn’t a wager riding on the match,” she said.

He sniffed. “No. Not one I could win, at any rate.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes. The poor boy looked thoroughly dejected. “I never win at bowls,” he added softly.

“There’s more to life than bowls.”

“I know. There’s boxing and racing and quoits and all manner of sport where I can be a disappointment to my father.”

Cleo bit her lip. She knew more than a little about that herself. Before she could reply, though, someone else did.

“Every man has his talents, Henry. I daresay yours will turn out to be of far greater import than bowls.”

Henry looked warily at the Duke of Wessex, who had walked up behind Cleo. “Do you really think so, sir?”

“I wouldn’t say so otherwise.”

“Of course not.” The boy blushed. He shifted his weight, then awkwardly offered Cleo the bowl in his hand. “Thank you, ma’am, for settling things. I think I’d rather take a walk. Do—do you happen to know where my sister Charlotte’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, no,” said Cleo. Charlotte had disappeared with the rest of the young ladies some time ago, very soon after Henry and the other boy had reached the green.

“Toward the lake,” said the duke. “I believe she was with my sisters.”

Henry’s dark eyes lit up, and Cleo got the idea he’d be quite a handsome fellow in a few years. “Thank you, sir!” He hurried off with a spring in his step.

“What a devoted brother, wanting to see his sister,” she said lightly.

“Perhaps,” replied the duke with a wry look. “I suspect it’s more of an urge to torment. After I sent them back to the house the other day, Bridget came to me to lodge an indignant complaint that he had thrown mud on them.”

“The things a man will do for love.” Cleo heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’ll wager a shilling he has a bad case of calf love for one of them.”

“It had better not be Bridget.” Wessex shuddered. “I had to order her not to put treacle in his bed. She didn’t take it well when he ruined her favorite dress.”