The Twelfth Night Wager Page 6

  They walked to the rear of the estate and out into the landscaped grounds. The grass beneath their feet was a thick carpet of green, allowing them to avoid the mud.

  “The second Earl of Hardwicke employed Capability Brown to bring a more natural look to the surrounding land,” announced Eustace. “He turned the garden’s geometrical design into a serpentine park.”

  “I rather like what he did, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I prefer the naturalized look. I particularly wanted you to see the beech trees with their leaves of yellow and brown.”

  Grace lifted her gaze beyond the manicured gardens they were walking through to the trees in the distance. She would like to see more of the leaves in their fall colors.

  As they walked along, her gaze returned to the perfectly shaped yew bushes and the clipped hedges that bordered the rosebushes and other flowering plants. There were many flowers still blooming in colors of deep pink, red and violet. Late-blooming daisies in shades of yellow and orange took up the borders. “The beeches are an apt frame for the green of the lawns, but the gardens are glorious.”

  Eventually leaving the gardens, they took the path to the woods. The prospect of being alone with Eustace did not worry her. It seemed natural to be with this man. And she suddenly realized she was very happy for no reason at all, save she was in the company of the man they called the Redheaded Rake.

  “See the folly in the distance?” Eustace asked, breaking the silence. “It was the first Lord Hardwicke’s attempt to create a medieval castle ruin, complete with a tall gothic tower for the pleasure of the lord’s family and guests. Perhaps on our next excursion I will take you there.”

  Grace shuddered. Looking at the tall medieval tower in the distance gave her a sense of foreboding, knowing she must meet Pickard there on Saturday.

  “Perhaps,” was all she said. She might not feel such trepidation if Eustace agreed to go with her. But how was she to hold herself away from a man whose very strength gave her comfort in a time of need? She walked a very thin line, she knew, between welcoming his protection and avoiding a liaison that could reduce her to one of his conquests.

  They walked among the beech trees, and the colors made her heart lighter. The grass beneath their feet was covered by a blanket of the golden leaves.

  Once they were out of sight of the manor, he took her hand. She didn’t object. Picking up a perfect leaf he handed it to her.

  “A souvenir of our walk, my lady.”

  Grace was sentimental, and such a gesture touched her heart. She accepted the leaf as if it were a great prize, more precious than any rose. And she knew in that moment she would keep the leaf. “Why, thank you.”

  He turned her to face him, and with one hand on her waist and the other cupping her head he brought her lips to his. The kiss was tender and almost loving. She did not want it to end.

  When he broke the kiss, she said, “I know. You could not resist.”

  He laughed. “No, I could not. Did you mind awfully much?”

  “You know I did not.”

  He did not try again to kiss her, and she thought it was likely for the best. She was not at all certain she would have resisted.

  * * *

  As the week drew to a close, Christopher was determined to get Lady Leisterfield alone again, and this time in a place more private than a grove of beech trees. He had seen others walking the grounds that afternoon and so had not pursued another kiss. He did not want to risk their being seen.

  It was the afternoon of the ball, and standing in his bedchamber as his valet attended him he realized he’d not had a moment alone with the lady since the day before, when he’d caught her after breakfast. His invitation had been a simple request to have her join him for a walk to the folly. But he had been taken aback by the horrified look she gave him in response. Stunned, he had not pursued her when she hurried away to join her friends. Instead, he’d watched them walk away. Lady Claremont had turned and given him a look of disapproval, leaving him wondering what he had done.

  Well, he would wonder no more. Pulling on his boots, he set out determined to find the lady.

  He did not see her in the room where the other guests had gathered for cards and conversation. Nor was she wandering through the gardens where he found the Ormonds and Lady Picton. It was then that he thought of the lakes; Lady Leisterfield would be attracted to the serene water covered with lily pads. He set out across the grounds with that destination in mind.

  Having walked around the lakes, he was disappointed when he did not see her. But gazing farther into the distance toward the folly, he saw a woman walking swiftly toward the medieval tower. The woman, who wore no bonnet, was blonde. It might be Lady Leisterfield.

  But why would she go to the very place he had spoken of, a place that had brought such a fearful expression to her face? It was all very curious. She was too far ahead to hear him shout, so he hurriedly followed, hoping he might soon be with her alone.

  The woman reached the tower before he did and disappeared into its entrance. Some minutes later he neared, hearing raised voices echoing off the stone walls. Pausing just outside, he listened.

  “I cannot believe you would accost me here, my lord.”

  Christopher recognized the voice as Lady Leisterfield’s.

  “Oh, but I assure you, my lady, I am here at the invitation of Lord Hardwicke for this evening’s ball. Knowing you were among the guests, it seemed a most appropriate time for us to meet. And the folly is quite remote and quite private. No one will hear us. Have you brought the money?”

  “Of course not! I do not carry such funds to a house party.”

  “That is most unfortunate. You knew I would be in touch. Has something changed since I showed you the letter from your husband…?”

  “N-no. But you will have to give me time.”

  “Very well. I will grant you three days—until next Tuesday. And then you must bring the payment to this address at the same time in the afternoon.”

  There was a pause, and Christopher presumed the man was handing her his card.

  “If you do not make the payment, I will send one of the letters to the newspapers the next day.”

  “No! You mustn’t.”

  “Then I will bid you good-day, my lady, and expect to see you next week.”

  Christopher pressed himself against the wall just the other side of a stone feature so that he was hidden from view. He watched the thin, balding speaker walk away. From the back Eustace could see the man was clothed as a gentleman, but he did not recognize him.

  Eustace ducked into the folly to find Lady Leisterfield standing alone and staring straight ahead. At the sound of his boots on the dirt, she started, bringing her hand to her heart.

  “Oh! It’s you.”

  “I followed you thinking we might see the folly together. I had no idea you were meeting someone.”

  Her face was pale. He put his hands around her upper arms and gently drew her to him, pressing her head to his chest. She was trembling, and he wanted to comfort her. Especially when she said nothing.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe. Who was that man, and what mischief was he about?”

  “It was nothing,” Lady Leisterfield said in a halting whisper. But her trembling had not subsided.

  Christopher tightened his arms around her in comfort. “I heard some of the conversation, my lady. It was not ‘nothing.’ It sounded like the man was threatening you, which distresses me greatly. These letters he spoke of, do they form the substance of blackmail? If so, I would help you.”

  She raised her head from his chest and looked into his eyes. “Can I trust you not to reveal the nature of the matter?”

  “You may,” he promised. She could trust him with her life.

  “He is Viscount Pickard, an odious little man.” She stepped back and looked at the ground, and Christopher had a sense that the subject was difficult for her to verbalize. “The matter you overheard relates to some letters between Charles and�
��another man, which if made public would be ruinous to my stepson David—and to me, for that matter. Unbeknownst to me, Charles was paying Pickard two hundred pounds a month to keep them private. Now Pickard wants me to make the same payments. To buy all twelve of the letters, which he claims to have, he would ask more: ten thousand pounds. I can make the monthly payments, but I don’t trust him. And I cannot afford to buy all of the letters, even assuming he has only twelve.”

  “What do these letters concern, my lady?”

  Her wide blue gaze held his for a long moment as if she were trying to decide if he could be trusted. “Sodomy.”

  Good Lord. He swallowed. “Might the accusation be false? Might he be misrepresenting the letters?”

  She shook her head in denial. “No. Pickard showed me one of them. There can be no doubt.”

  Christopher let out the breath he’d been holding. It seemed the old lord had been hiding a secret most foul. Even the most licentious in the ton would frown upon such a crime. And it suddenly put the marriage of the Leisterfields in perspective.

  “I will go with you next Tuesday, and together we will confront the man,” he promised. “You cannot live under such a threat.”

  “What will you do?” Lady Leisterfield asked.

  “I will think of something. I am not without resources.”

  She looked up at him. “Thank you, Eustace. I am very grateful.”

  “I’d like to turn your gratitude to something more, my lady.”

  * * *

  Grace’s confidence in Eustace’s sincerity faltered as her lady’s maid helped her into the gold moiré silk gown she would wear to the ball that evening. Could she trust him to keep her secret? Was he only offering his help to get her into his bed?

  Hawkins slipped a string of pearls around her neck, letting the gold and sapphire pendent drop just above the dip between her breasts. “Have you enjoyed your time here at Wimpole?”

  Trying not to show her immediate concern, Grace said, “Yes, it’s been lovely being away from London.” And she could not forget how Eustace had held her, lending her his strength, and how he’d offered his help. No, he would not use Charles’s sins against her. Moreover, she believed Eustace could handle Pickard and his threats. He had said he would think of something. She would trust that.

  “It’s sure you will be the most beautiful woman at the ball, my lady. ’Tis a wonderful sight to see you in such a beautiful gown. The gold color warms your skin. This is one of the fabrics Lady Ormond helped you select, is it not?”

  “Yes. Lady Ormond is very good at finding the rare jewel in mountains of bolts of cloth.”

  Hawkins smiled, handing Grace her gloves. “I wish you a grand evening. I know all eyes will be upon you.”

  Grace wasn’t at all certain she wanted all eyes upon her. Her only goal was to get through the evening and avoid Lord Pickard.

  * * *

  Christopher was suddenly in an awkward position, his plans altered by the episode involving Pickard. He could not very well seduce a lady for whom he suddenly felt very protective, and to whom he had offered his help. Ormond, seeing the change in his otherwise confident demeanor, had not resisted the opportunity to tease him as they shared a glass of brandy in the library that evening before the ball.

  “I say, Eustace, in this race you’re about, are you the hare or the tortoise?”

  Christopher smiled wryly, trying to keep his ire contained. “Just remember,” he reminded the marquess, “the tortoise won in the end. No matter my speed, I intend to prevail.”

  In truth, his desire to protect the fair young widow having become a priority, he wasn’t at all certain winning the wager was still the main thing. Though the idea of making love to her had not lost its appeal. If anything, his attraction to her had grown. She was not only beautiful with a body he found alluring, but he enjoyed her company immensely. She was no widow on the prowl for a man with a purse; she was a woman unto herself.

  Perhaps in the past she had been an observer more than an active participant, but he intended to change that. He was certain that in her heart the virtuous widow was a passionate woman. Her riding style told him that: the wild spirit he had glimpsed when they thundered over the green lawns of Wimpole together, the color rising in her cheeks. Somewhere that girl who galloped over the hills of Oxfordshire had become a subdued woman. He intended to restore the youthful passion that she had long buried. No, his desire to know the woman intimately had not subsided. Having kissed her and held her, he knew how right she felt in his arms. He wanted her still. Far too much.

  He and Ormond found Lady Ormond and Lady Leisterfield in the south drawing room just at the entrance to the gallery where the ball was to be held; the wood planking on the floor of the long chamber allowed for dancing far better than any of the other rooms in the manor. Christopher’s first glimpse of Lady Leisterfield took his breath away. Her hair, no longer in a simple knot, had been artfully arranged into a pile of golden curls at her crown. How he would love to pull out the pins and see it fall free around her shoulders. This he vowed to do when he finally made love to her.

  Christopher bid the two ladies good evening, and complimented both on their gowns. Then he turned to Lady Leisterfield. “You must save the first dance for me, my lady.”

  His gaze took in her shapely form and the seductive manner in which her gown clung to her womanly curves. He felt an overwhelming desire to possess this woman he had held only a few hours before. If he could have, he would have had every dance, but more than two would have tongues wagging, and given the pending wager that would be unwise.

  He thought he saw relief in her blue eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

  Glancing around the room that was filling with the guests, he spotted Pickard standing in one corner speaking to two other men. The music began, and claiming his dance Eustace swept Lady Leisterfield into his arms. Soon they were caught up in the waltz with other couples joining in. He avoided the corner where Pickard was ensconced and tried to keep Grace’s back to the man.

  “Smile, my lady. Forget this afternoon’s unpleasantness. Show yourself unaffected. Tonight you are my fair lady and I am your gallant. Think of nothing more. Tomorrow you will be on your way home and I shall be with you on Tuesday to deal with Pickard and see to your safety.”

  “But seeing to my safety is not your concern,” she whispered.

  “Nonetheless, I am making it so.”

  He wanted to keep her safe from men like Pickard. Strangely, he even wanted to keep her safe from men like himself.

  She did smile then. “You are ever the gallant charmer, Eustace, and no matter the reason for it, tonight I fear I desperately need your charm and protection. I thank you most heartily for both.”

  Dancing with her seemed as natural as breathing. She was light in his arms and they moved as one around the floor. As far as Christopher was concerned, there was no other woman in the room. Of course he would dance with others this night, as would she, but if Pickard tried to approach her, he vowed to be at her side in a moment.

  If he held her a bit closer than was proper in the crush no one would notice. He never took his eyes from her beautiful face, and her blue eyes remained steady on him.

  * * *

  Grace stood to one side of the room with Emily and Muriel, sipping her punch. After several dances, the room had grown warm and the drink was much appreciated. She watched Eustace charming the two brunettes.

  When Miss Wentworth sent him an unsubtle invitation with her eyes, Grace’s own eyes narrowed before she realized she was feeling jealous again. I’m not like this! How could she entertain possessive feelings toward a man who wanted to add her to the long list of women he’d bedded—and primarily for one thousand pounds!

  “I’m delighted the two of you have been dancing,” stated Lady Claremont to Grace and Emily. Looking quite pleased with herself and drawing a quizzing glass to her eye, the countess surveyed the guests. “I’m happy to note there are a few eligibles out the
re on the floor tonight.”

  “All in good time, Muriel,” said Emily with feigned seriousness. “Perhaps another ten years and I will be ready to once again become a tenant for life. However, I have not forgot the husband I had, and that memory keeps me in my current unwedded state.”

  “Humph! Such a man is worth forgetting, war hero or no. Sir Thomas was unkind to say the least. I never would have suggested him for you. Nevertheless, I shall not allow you to wait so long, not when you are a beautiful young woman with much to offer. You cannot spend all your time with an old out-of-fashion’d dowager like me.”

  “Eccentric, perhaps. Old, never. And certainly not out of fashion,” promised Emily. “You constantly keep us on our toes, Lady C.” Then, with a grin in Grace’s direction she added, “Why, it is all we can do to thwart your efforts to see us matched. We are fully aware whist is not your only game.”

  “As with whist, my dear, a winning strategy must be situational. I merely take advantage of the hand given me. And I always track the cards in play.”

  Grace was certain Muriel was speaking of the men in the room, and she wondered if Eustace was one of those that the dowager was tracking. The countess was very sly.

  “Have you given Eustace that second dance?” the older woman suddenly asked.

  “How did you know—?”

  “I assumed he would ask for two, more if he could get away with it—the rogue.”

  The countess saw too much. Did she guess Grace was the unnamed woman in the wager?

  “What about you, Emily?” Lady Claremont inquired. “I saw His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire, with fevered eyes while you were chatting with him. The young lord’s not even thirty. Perfect for you. Has he asked for a dance?”

  “Asked and delivered, Muriel. He’s a rather good dancer, actually. But I am a mere knight’s widow. One, may I remind you again, who does not wish to wed. In any event, the duke’s fevered eyes came about when he began to speak of his improvements to Chatsworth and his travels on the Continent. He showed no particular interest in me. Alvanley is more attentive.”

  “I have my doubts about Baron Alvanley,” said Lady Claremont, as if puzzling over a problem. “He may be one of those who remains unwed.”