Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, Gareth excused himself and went in search of oblivion. He found it in the stables. His cousin had the right idea, avoiding all the females. Some of the men looked a trifle guilty—Lord Warnford hastily hid a pair of dice behind his back—but Gareth just raised his hand in greeting and retired to a corner to contemplate the trouble he was in, a bottle in hand.

He brooded over his brandy while a tedious conversation about a horse race occupied the other men. The only person who appeared less interested in the race was the Earl of Bruton, who arrived shortly after he did and looked as grim as Gareth felt. He caught his old friend’s eye and invited him to have a drink, not surprised to see Bruton here. With that slashing scar down his face, the earl had long avoided the ladies.

“Thank God for Willoughby,” cried one decidedly drunk fellow all of a sudden. “He’s saved us all with this refuge from the ladies.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered the rest of the company.

“No offense intended, Wessex,” added the man, still swinging his tankard of ale in one hand. “Felicitations on your marriage.”

God help him; even drinking in the stables couldn’t save him from that topic. He nodded in acknowledgement and poured another gulp of brandy down his throat, wondering if he could drink enough to purge the sound of Cleopatra Barrows’s laughter from his mind. He could still feel the touch of her hand on his arm.

He left the stables, handing his bottle to Lord Everett as he went. If they raised a toast to his bride, he might be ill. There was one inescapable thought circling his brain, and he didn’t know how to address it.

He was marrying the wrong woman.





Chapter Eight





CLEO WENT DOWNSTAIRS EARLY two mornings before the wedding, which was finally almost at hand. After their match of bowls, she had taken care only to cross the Duke of Wessex’s path in company. Even at the ball last night, she had determinedly kept her distance. It hadn’t kept her from noticing how very attractive he was, or how kind and good-humored he was with his sisters, or even how gallant he was to Sophronia. How could one dislike a man who was so wonderful? Cleo had clung to her sister’s side and tried to interest herself in the wedding plans, but that had difficulties of its own. She thought she might scream if she didn’t escape her mother’s hawk-like watch for a few hours. As the wedding drew nearer, so apparently did her fear that Cleo would say or do something unacceptable.

Since Cleo knew very well that she was doing something unpardonable, it was hard to argue with her mother. She had diligently avoided talking about her shop except when directly asked, but her real sin was far worse, even though her mother could have no idea. She had tried everything to keep her wicked thoughts in check, to no avail, and now she had only one option left: avoidance. If she spent her time wandering alone over the estate and secluded herself in her room the rest of the time, she could endure until the wedding was over. Then it would be perfectly acceptable to make her excuses and return home to her little shop, where she couldn’t ruin anyone’s life but her own.

She paused before a mirror in the hall to tie her bonnet ribbons. The castle was still almost silent, populated only by the servants moving quietly about. Everyone would probably sleep late after the ball the previous night. In spite of everything, she would be sorry to leave Kingstag. It really was a wonderful place.

“Good morning,” said a voice behind her.

Cleo jumped. The one voice she’d been trying to avoid but somehow still longed to hear. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she managed to say, knotting her ribbons before facing him. “I was just setting out to indulge myself with a long walk.”

“As was I.” He wore a long coat and carried a rather battered hat. Cleo’s pulse leaped as he pushed one bare hand through his thick dark hair. “I rarely have the time to step out later in the day.”

“Oh! Please don’t let me disturb you,” she began, but he raised one hand.

“On the contrary. I didn’t expect to meet anyone this morning, but it would be a pleasure to have company.”

She should say no. She drew an unsteady breath. “I hate to oblige you….”

“Please,” he said, and Cleo closed her mouth. Without another word she put her hand on the arm he offered, and together they walked out the door.

A blanket of mist covered the ground, lending an unearthly air to the scene. Cleo drew in a delighted breath, loving the cool, earthy scent of the country. They strolled along the gravel, heading toward the lake, which lay still and quiet beyond the fog. “How beautiful,” she sighed. “I rarely see such a sight in town.”

“Are you always an early riser?”

She blushed. She had to be awake early to open the shop. “Yes. I love the morning light.”