Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“About twelve,” she said airily. “And Helen only eight.”


Wessex coughed, then he laughed. “I would pay a fortune to have seen your father’s face. He doesn’t seem the type to take it well.”

Her father didn’t take most things she did well. Cleo’s smile faded. “I was a bad influence even then,” she murmured before she could stop herself. The duke gave her a keen glance but said nothing.

They bowled another end, and this time Wessex won a point. Cleo shook her head as she retrieved two of her bowls from the ditch but was glad that it was his turn to reveal something. “I inherited my title when I was sixteen,” he said. “Barely older than young Henry.” Her eyes rounded in shock. “My sisters were infants, my mother was heartbroken, and I was responsible for everything.” He turned to face the house, squinting against the sun. “I was deathly afraid of letting my father down by making a hash of it.”

“I’m sure he would be very proud!” Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. “Kingstag is beautifully maintained. Your sisters are lovely young ladies, and it’s clear to all that they adore you. No man can be a failure if his family loves him.”

His arm flexed under her fingers. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “My sisters’ happiness is very important to me.” He paused. “As is, I think, your sister’s to you.”

Cleo snatched her hand away. “Yes, very important.” She went back to the mat, trying to ignore the faint question in his voice at the end. Helen’s happiness was very important to her, and yet here she was, almost flirting with her sister’s fiancé. She turned toward the awning again, both relieved and disconcerted to see Helen still absorbed in conversation with Mr. Blair. It should be Wessex sitting there with his head next to Helen’s, bringing that glowing smile to her face. He should want to be there, instead of here in the sun with Cleo. But when the duke joined her, bowls in hand, she didn’t say anything. She put her foot on the mat and bowled.

Wessex won another point. They walked to retrieve the bowls and she was glad again she didn’t have to say anything. “What can I tell you?” he murmured, facing her thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

“Something from when you were young,” she suggested, thinking it would be safer. “A fond memory.”

“Ah.” He grinned. The wind lifted his hair from his forehead, and he looked boyish for a moment. “Blair came to Kingstag when he was about ten. His family fell on hard times and my mother invited him; his mother is her cousin. As you might imagine, we had a grand time, two boys with all this to explore.” He swept one hand in a wide arc to encompass all of Kingstag. “One day I conceived a plan to go boating on the lake. Blair wasn’t as eager but he went along with it, and we soon were in the middle of the lake, two sporting gentlemen at leisure.” He shook his head. “Imagine my shock when I looked down to see an inch of water in the bottom of the boat. We neither of us wanted to swim—my mother would have punished us for spoiling our clothes and boots, to say nothing of taking out an old, leaky boat—so Blair bailed water with his hands while I rowed ferociously. We managed to come within a few feet of the shore before it sank entirely. Both of us had the most incredible blisters.”

“That’s your fond memory?” Cleo smiled. “Blisters!”

“No, it was the thrill of saving ourselves from disaster.”

“That I can understand, particularly if you didn’t get caught.”

“We didn’t,” he assured her, his eyes twinkling. “Blair and I have always backed each other up.”

She laughed. “All the sweeter!”

“Indeed. It was one of the few times I truly escaped responsibility.” He met her gaze. “Today seems like another. I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

Cleo’s heart felt warm and light even as she tried to tell herself he was just being polite. “Nor I, Your Grace.”

“Wessex,” he said. “Please.”

Now her face felt warm. “Very well. But you must call me Cleo. After all, we shall be family.” Perhaps if she reminded herself of that, forcefully and frequently, it would blunt the attraction she felt.

The expression on his face certainly didn’t. If anything, it made things worse. Wessex had a way of looking at her that made the breath almost stop in her chest. “Very well, if you wish,” he said after a moment. “Cleo.”

She shouldn’t have. She’d made a mistake. It sounded too familiar, too tender when he said it. Cleo glanced back at her sister in despair. Helen hadn’t looked at Wessex any more than Wessex had looked at Helen. Not only had Cleo failed to discover the duke’s feelings for her sister, she had only succeeded in making her own feelings worse.

If she didn’t catch herself soon, she would find herself utterly in love with him.