Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Cleo laughed. She started down the green to collect the abandoned bowls. “Have they really gone toward the lake?”


“I did see a group of young ladies in the general vicinity of the lake today,” he confirmed, walking beside her. “It might have been some time ago….” Cleo laughed again. “But a long walk will do him good. He ought to clear his mind before he finds them. I’ve rarely seen one girl this week without three or four others nearby; the poor lad will be severely outnumbered.”

“It builds character,” she said.

“He’ll need it if he fancies Bridget. I daresay she’ll make Sophronia look demure and quiet.”

“Yes. Lady Sophronia showed me her dirk.” Cleo grinned at the way he cast his eyes upward and sighed. “A rather unusual remembrance of an old love.”

“There are many unusual things about Sophronia.”

“She is your great-aunt, I understand?”

The duke paused. “Great-great-aunt. Perhaps. I’m not entirely certain. I think I inherited her along with the house.”

Cleo snorted with laughter, and this time he laughed, too. Something seemed to melt inside her at the sound. His laugh was a rough rumble, as if he didn’t use it often. She stooped to retrieve a pair of bowls, holding them to her chest. When she rose, Wessex was holding the jack. He gave it a little toss, catching it easily in one hand. “Would you fancy a match, Mrs. Barrows?”

Cleo watched his fingers curve around the bowl. Good heavens, he had fine hands. “I haven’t played bowls in a very long time.”

“Neither have I,” he said. “But it’s a fine day out, and the greens are marked.”

She glanced at the awning on the hill above as they walked to the head of the green. Helen was still in conversation with Mr. Blair, but she raised her hand and gave a cheery wave. Cleo was torn. It was a fine day, and she wouldn’t mind a lighthearted game in the sun. Since the duke had invited her, surely not even her father would find it objectionable. She could suggest inviting Helen and Mr. Blair to join them, except that she knew her sister hated bowls. And perhaps this was her chance to determine the duke’s feelings for Helen.

“Very well. But we must have stakes.” She grinned at his raised brow. “Not money! After each cast, the winner must share something of himself or herself. After all, we shall be family within the week, and we ought to become acquainted, don’t you think?”

He looked at her for a long moment. In the sunlight, his hair seemed to have a hint of auburn; the breeze had ruffled it until he looked quite tousled. And his eyes were so dark, unfathomably deep as he regarded her. Cleo heard the echo of her own words—we shall be family—and felt her heart sink a little. Oh, why had he followed her, thwarting her intent to avoid him? He ought to be sitting beside Helen right now, gazing at Helen, making Helen yearn to smooth his wild mane and imagine his large hands on her skin.

“Of course.” Wessex bowed his head. “Will you set the jack?”

Unnerved, she turned toward the green and pitched the jack. It didn’t roll far enough, and she clenched her hands as he strode out to get it. She had to wrench her gaze away as he bent over to pick it up; good heavens, he was a finely made man, from all angles. And he would be her brother. Sisters did not look on their brothers so admiringly.

The second time she managed to set the mark appropriately, and the duke stepped to the footer to cast his first bowl. “Were you a good bowls player, when you last played?”

Cleo laughed. “Oh, my. I certainly thought so, but I was a girl then.” She delivered her first bowl, pleased to see it roll to within a respectable distance of the jack. Nearer than his, in fact. “I suppose you’re far more accomplished, given that you have a bowling green within sight of your house.”

He made his next shot. “Merely having a green doesn’t make one skilled.” His bowl wobbled off the green into the ditch.

“It takes a while to learn the bias of the bowls,” she said diplomatically, hefting her own. It was smooth and dark, shaped more like a fat egg than a round ball. This time she misjudged, and the bowl came to rest at the edge of the green.

They played the rest of the end and then walked down together to score it. “One point to you,” said Wessex, collecting the bowls. “What secret do you want to tell me?”

“Se-Secret?” she stammered, laughing nervously. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean a secret—”

“But we’ve only just met,” he said, watching her in that too-intent way he had. “Everything about you is a mystery.”

“Helen and I had a game, as children,” she said after a moment. “We would choose a play—one of the great works of antiquity, most often—and act out every part. It nearly killed my father when we performed Lysistrata, even though Helen and I had very little idea what it was about.”

“How old were you?” he asked, looking a little incredulous.