“Of course, I mean the young ladies in attendance.” George gave him a
His brother couldn’t hear his lustful musings, nor thankfully had George noticed him ogling Mrs. Chatham, the advantage of a piratical eye patch. He was rusty in the art of wooing. With flirtation in general. Until the ducal title landed on his head, he’d spent his days designing and building follies for country homes.
He tried smiling, but searing pain lanced his leg, a residual effect of the cataclysmic carriage accident that had taken his father, his brother the heir, and the vision in his left eye.
George choked on his tea. “Not that! You’re snarling at them.”
“That bad?” Air hissing between clenched teeth, he rubbed his hip. Sweat nicked his hairline. His leg locked again. The familiar ache started at his knee and flared like molten nails digging into his thigh.
His mother caught the move from her seat under the red-striped canopy. A delicate frown marred her features. She held up an elegant finger, pausing polite conversation with Lady Malmsey and the Countess of Kendal. The supremacy of that single gesture. Carriages braked hard for it, and servants snapped to attention at the sight of his mother’s raised hand. Given time, the Dowager Duchess would take a turn at stopping the sun, such was her power. Concern in her eyes, she rose from her chair and headed his way.
“Leg acting up, is it?” George asked.
“It will improve.”
George’s merry blue eyes softened. “Our mother will fret.”
“I know.”
Her worry was the millstone about their necks. This house party was Richland’s reawakening from a long, dark year of solace. The dowager’s sons wanted this for their loving matriarch. Last year had shredded them all, but their mother’s hurt was most profound. Seeing her wracked with sobs followed by weeks of disturbing silence had frightened them all.
He would do anything,
“Prepare yourself. She’s bringing reinforcements.” George clicked his heels and called out a cheery, “Mother. Mrs. Chatham. Come to check on us?”
The duke froze his massaging hand. Pain subsided only to be replaced by new agony—the swish of velvet skirts and familiar orange and ginger perfume. He was at once tense and restless. Desire had a rhythm, and he found it in the cadence of the widow’s walk.
Unrestrained womanliness. A certain…knowing.
It drove him mad.
Primal instincts flared to life when Mrs. Chatham drew near. His skin tightened. Muscles clenched. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why she appealed above all others. The pert smile on her wide mouth? Sparkling sherry-brown eyes? A natural sensuality?
At the moment her eyebrows pressed a worried line as she dipped a curtsey. “Your Grace. Lord George.”
“Mrs. Chatham,” they said in unison.
His heart ticked faster. Did the sun shine brighter with her in his vicinity? He must’ve stared a fraction too long because the widow coughed delicately and directed her attention to the dowager.
The grand dame swept forward and touched his elbow. “Your leg pains you.”
“It will pass.”
A motherly sigh and, “I am sure it will, but we must consider tonight’s ball.”
He covered her hand with his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Worried I won’t be in top form?”
“You will have to drag him away,” his brother teased. “It’s all he can talk about.”
The dowager’s mild laugh jiggled ruby earbobs. “Don’t be impertinent. I know each of my sons all too well.”
She was a wonderful woman, his mother. Piles of silvery-gingered hair, a smattering of freckles that defied the best cosmetics, and a talent for winding her offspring around her little finger.
He stiffened, fighting a flash of discomfort along his outer thigh.
“It’s dreadful to see you like this.” She drew closer, worry threading her voice. “Perhaps we ought to cancel the ball, and call for another physician.”
“And let this house party be for naught?” He forced a smile. “I’ll soldier on.”
He’d had his fill of physicians.
Since the accident, the dowager had summoned doctors from every corner of the realm. Their wisdom ranged from prescribing ample doses of laudanum, to bloodletting and more bloodletting and more bloodletting after that. Two had even suggested amputation of an otherwise sound limb.
“My sweet dear,” she said sadly. “Always the stalwart one. I wish with all my heart I could make this go away.”
Mrs. Chatham’s head dipped at the private moment. Her presence at this family tête-à-tête proved what he’d long suspected. The dowager held the widow in the highest confidence. Together, they’d constructed everything from the guest list to the entertainments for this week-long house party.
