Chapter Two
Gwen wasn’t entirely sure how she made it back to the carriage on her shaky legs, or how she endured Aunt Mary waxing lyrical about how a match with the Earl of Canterbury would be a Very Good Thing.
“To be sure,” she said as they pulled onto the gravel driveway beside the elegant house, “he has been married before, but we can hardly hold that against him. A man may not choose for his wife to die.”
“Not ordinarily,” Gwen said, which earned her a glare.
“Do you remember what your mother told you?”
Gwen wondered if the pillars by the front door were Grecian or Roman, and if her mysterious kisser would be somewhere inside.
Her lips still tingled. With difficulty, she dragged herself into the present.
“Yes, I remember. Always smile, only speak when spoken to, accept any opportunity to play the pianoforte or harp, but under no circumstances sing.”
“And marry the earl,” Aunt Mary said. “That is the most important of all.”
“How old is the Earl of Canterbury?” When Gwen had last asked this question, her mother had refused to answer.
“Two and forty,” Aunt Mary said, not sounding as though Gwen ought to be discouraged at the prospect of marrying a man over twice her age. “He married his first wife young, the Lord bless her soul.”
And Gwen was more of an age to marry a son of that union—had there been one—than the man himself. Unease swirled in her stomach.
She was unlikely to be prey. Her dowry was insignificant, and her mother was a parson’s daughter who had made an advantageous match. Her father owned considerable land in Northumberland, but he had no interest in politics or Society.
In short, she was a perfectly acceptable match, but perhaps not a desirable one.
Especially not to the Earl of Canterbury.
She could have been his daughter.
Once they finally pulled to a stop, everything happened at once. Several manservants exited the house, greeting them and removing their luggage. As Gwen stepped out of the carriage, she examined the large facade. The pillars were Grecian, she decided, and rather ostentatious up close.
She disliked everything about the earl already, and she had yet to meet him.
“Miss Summers,” the butler said, chest swelled in an odiously pompous manner. “And Miss Butler.”
Aunt Mary gave a battle-axe smile and gestured for Gwen to go ahead.
Instead of leading them inside, the butler led them around the side of the house to a large lawn.
Blankets and parasols had been set up at one side of it, on which ladies reclined in a picture of pastoral grace.
Several other young ladies, this time with gentlemen accompanying them, played pall mall farther on the grass.
To Gwen’s relief, the stranger was not one of them.
And yet—was that disappointment in her gut?
She didn’t want to see him, she reminded herself.
He was most assuredly not a gentleman; he had kissed her without her consent and held their host in nothing but contempt.
No doubt he held her in contempt, too, for being a part of this house party and for vying for Lord Canterbury’s hand in marriage, though she had no choice in the matter.
Obnoxious man.
A burly gentleman with graying hair and no other notable features broke away from the game and strode toward them. He smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cold and calculating. Lord Canterbury, she presumed.
Clearly, there was something wrong with her, because the stranger’s eyes had also been cold and calculating, yet she had not shied away from his stare. No, she had held her ground as he approached.
But as this man approached, she had the bizarre, overwhelming compulsion to flee.
“My lord,” Aunt Mary said. “This is my niece, Miss Gwendoline Summers. Gwendoline, this is our host, the Earl of Canterbury.”
“Miss Summers,” he said as she curtsied obediently, hearing her mother berating her in the back of her head. Be polite. Smile.
“My lord,” she murmured.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” He laughed, though nothing he had said was funny. His eyes still had that assessing gleam. “I’m delighted you could make it.”
Sensing something more was needed from her, Gwen lowered her gaze. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Ah, thank you, thank you!” He offered her his arm, and she cringed a little internally as she took it.
He led her back to the game of pall mall, even though she had much rather sit with the other ladies on the grass.
Handing what amounted to a weapon to a lady with no semblance of coordination felt like a mistake.
Still, at least if Lord Canterbury said something she disliked, she could retort in a manner he might listen to.
When she arrived at the small group, Lord Canterbury made the introductions.
There was Lady Judith Stanton, who sported blonde hair and an elegant cream muslin; Viscountess Windermere, who was a tiny, dark-haired woman; and Miss Simone Fernside, a rather strikingly beautiful lady with deep-black hair and large brown eyes.
There was also Viscount Leighton, a slender man who looked deeply taken with Miss Simone’s beauty, and Mr. Preston Scott, a rather flamboyant gentleman who offered Gwen an elegant bow and who seemed enamored of a broad-shouldered, blond-haired Adonis of a man standing—as though posing—on the patio.
In his defense, this man was possibly the greatest specimen of manhood Gwen had ever encountered. Unfortunately, judging by his slightly vacant smile, his brawn came at the cost of his brain.
Lady Judith leaned slightly closer to Gwen. “As bird-witted as they come, but rather striking, don’t you think?”
“A pity he’s not rich,” Lady Windermere said, fluttering her fan so indolently at her face, Gwen suspected no breeze landed there at all.
Lady Judith looked briefly amused. “You are already married.”
“Oh, him,” Lady Windermere said in disgust. “I am certain he will drink himself into an early grave before too long passes, and then I must think about my next husband.”
“Mr. Harridan would do you well,” Miss Simone said, both hands on her mallet. “He would be far too consumed by his own reflection to bestow you with his attention.”
Gwen glanced between the ladies, who all seemed to know each other well. “You seem to know a lot about the company,” she ventured.
“Of course!” Lady Windermere said, as though such a thing were obvious. “We were all in London together.”
Miss Simone glanced at Lord Canterbury, who was thankfully lining himself up for a shot and ignoring them. “Rumor has it,” she said, keeping her voice very low, “that he has an intention of marrying Miss Jameson. Who, by my understanding, has a very large dowry.”
“Oh, her father is disgustingly rich,” Lady Judith said, joining the small huddle. “All from trade, but I have heard rumors that this”—she waved her hand at the house and its surroundings—“is all tied up.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “He needs the dowry to pay off his debts, you mean?”
“A tale as old as time,” Lady Windermere said. “And a woman’s lot to endure. One cannot rebuff an earl.” She sighed and glanced at Mr. Scott, who was occupied in tugging a loose thread in his sleeves. “I ought to have encouraged dear Preston’s suit, but…”
“He has no taste for feminine company,” Miss Simone said under her breath. “But his mother is very eager for him to marry, poor man.”
“One must have an heir,” Lady Windermere trilled, but the words sounded bitter. “One of you may take him, however. He will be a very kind and gentle husband, and utterly disinterested in you. It is everything a lady could want.”
Lady Judith nodded to another gentleman standing beside the seated ladies, his hands clasped behind his back. “I might have been tempted if I were not hoping for Lord Milbourne to take a fancy to me.”
“Good luck,” Lady Windemere said. “He is an incorrigible flirt.”
Lady Judith’s eyes gleamed. “Not as much of a flirt as the Duke of Conwyn.”
Miss Simone cackled. “That rake? He won’t settle down for all the fortunes of England, I guarantee it.” To Gwen, she said, “He came into his title young, and I have never seen a man sow his wild oats with quite so much enthusiasm as the Duke of Conwyn.”
Lady Windemere clucked her tongue. “Handsome as the devil, and with the same temperament. The only reason Canterbury invited him is because he’s his late wife’s brother. I’ve heard they do not get along.”
“Which gentleman is he?” Gwen asked, deciding she would avoid him, if only because she knew with certainty that as little interest as an earl was likely to take in her, a duke would take far less.
Unfortunately, that was when Lord Canterbury turned back to her.
“It is your turn,” he said, holding out his mallet.
Her fingers brushed his, and she suppressed a shiver of disgust. Strange how such a small, innocent contact like that could inspire such a feeling of revulsion, while the stranger had—
Now was not the time to think of that.
Gwen hefted the wooden mallet in her hand and eyed the small ball she was supposed to be hitting.
Here goes nothing.
She swung, putting all her strength into the hit, and to her surprise, the mallet connected. She watched as the ball flew through the air and landed in the undergrowth.
A slow clap sounded from behind her, and Gwen turned, expecting Mr. Scott. Instead, she found herself staring at the stranger from the hill. Her heart pounded in her throat as he approached, deep, dark gaze fixed on her mouth, then rising, slowly, to her eyes.
She felt certain everyone present would be able to read what had happened between them on her face, or from the sudden moisture on her palms.
“An excellent shot,” the stranger said, his eyes still on her. His lips curved in that sensual, wicked smile that had probably lured countless young ladies to their ruin. “I commend you.”
“Y-Your Grace,” Lord Canterbury said, sounding flustered and a little irritated. “Where have you been?”
Shock filtered through Gwen’s thoughts, and her shuddering heartbeat made its way into her mouth. This man—the handsome stranger who had kissed her—was the Duke of Conwyn.
And now she was trapped in the same house as him for a week.