Chapter 18 #2
“Do you mind if we invite Elise Crewes and her family to Eastwell Park after the breakfast?” asked Danielle, coming up to him with a slice of cake. “And Miriam and Whittle, of course. And perhaps the Brooms and Lord Fernsby?”
“To Eastwell Park?” Luke repeated, a fork halfway to his mouth.
“The staff is untrained for guests, of course,” she allowed, “and I’ve given the new housekeeper no forewarning, but I should
like to show the house to Elise and Killian Crewes. Not for long, just a few hours? Sorry, I am loath to let my sister out
of my sight, now that we’ve met. And they came all this way.”
What could he do but agree? “You should do,” he’d said, taking a bite of cake. It tasted like sand.
He stood by her side as she saw the last guest out of the parish-hall doors, and then they made their way to Eastwell Park.
Luke drove his hired wagon with Princess Danielle beside him. Her two nieces and a youth called Lord Bartholomew rode in the
bed of the wagon. Beside the princess sat the dog who’d traveled with the Creweses. The Dinwiddies and the remaining Creweses
followed in their carriage.
Oh, the irony, Luke thought, steering the horses down the long, hedge-lined drive to Eastwell Park. He’d come to Kent for a quick marriage
of convenience to a lonely exiled princess who pined for France. Instead, he was trapped in a wedding that would not end.
The princess wanted nothing more than to settle in Kent. And, unless he was mistaken, she also wanted him. Unbelievably. Unaccountably.
Remarkably.
He reminded himself that her loyalty to the village and the manor house was his chief advantage. He would abandon her, a liar
and a user, but Eastwell Park would remain.
Loyalty to village and house, Luke repeated to himself as she led a tour for her family. He trailed slowly behind the group, noting the pride in her voice.
While the tour commenced, the housekeeper and the newly hired kitchen staff scrambled to prepare tea. Abbott dusted terrace
furniture. If this trend continued, Luke thought, they’d be searching for bed linens and felling timber to heat guest rooms.
Midday stretched to afternoon, and Luke felt like a man standing in the gallows with a noose around his neck. Instead of pulling
the trapdoor, the hangman tested and tweaked the mechanism, judged the rope for thinness, and reviewed the crime.
And then, ten minutes into tea, Princess Danielle pulled him to the side. “Do you think we might slip away now?” she whispered
to him, biting her lower lip.
He blinked at her. “You mean leave? The two of us?”
“Well, retire. Upstairs.” Her face turned pink. She took a sip of tea, peering at him through lowered lashes. “The bride and
groom are not expected to entertain the guests all day. Or so I’m told. Amelia is an expert on weddings. I’ll reunite with
Elise later in the week. Now we might . . .”
“Right,” Luke said, watching her. Her pretty face was a mix of anticipation and shyness. She wanted to be taken to bed. Their
wedding night. Even as his own body burned, he felt the noose cinch tight.
Time was up.
“That is, unless you . . .” She stared into her teacup.
“Oh no, let us clear them out, if that’s what you want. What was Amelia Broom’s protocol for retreat?”
“I honestly believe we’re meant to simply say goodbye and excuse ourselves. They can see themselves out? My mother will take over as hostess. And Abbott will help.”
Luke thought of escorting her upstairs, saying all the things he had to say, and then descending to face this same crowd,
lingering on the doorstep. Fernsby would call him out; Killian Crewes would shoot him on the spot. And that said nothing of
the violence wrought by the women.
No, no—they had to actually depart. Gone. He must be alone with her to tell her what he’d done. What had been done to her.
What they’d done.
He cleared his throat. “Why not invite them to return for a proper meal in a day or two? This might suggest that their current
visit has come to an end.”
“Oh, right, that should do it.”
“Alternatively, we could simply say, ‘Everybody out.’ ”
Danielle laughed, but she backed away, nodding as she went. Turning to the group, she announced that she and Luke would like
to invite all of them to return on Tuesday for a family dinner.
Correction, Luke thought tiredly, she alone would serve them dinner on Tuesday. He would be gone.
The invitation worked. Dogs and children were gathered, embraces exchanged, hands shook. Fernsby took the reins of Luke’s
wagon to help transport her parents to New Bridge Road. Within a quarter hour, Luke and Danielle were alone.
“Do you suppose the maids need help clearing the tea?” she wondered. “I’m not accustomed to having kitchen help.”
“I’ve been reading up on this topic,” he said. “According to my sources, the mistress of the house does not clear dishes after
tea—or ever. You wanted these people in jobs; let them do their work.”
“Alright,” she said. “In that case, should we . . . ?” She trailed off, picking imaginary lint from her gown.
Luke closed his eyes. He swallowed. His heartbeat began a march to the inevitable. “Will you take a turn with me around the
garden?” he asked.
“The garden?” She looked confused.
“Yes,” he said, holding out his arm. “I am hoping we can talk.”