Accidental Peers 03 - Compromising Willa (5 page)

Fortunately, Smythe’s appearance with the refreshments rescued her for the moment. Eyeing the artful arrangement of delicate sandwiches, meat pies, cheeses, biscuits, small cakes, and pastries, she noted the kitchen staff had gone out of its way to impress their prestigious guest on such short notice.

Turning to Hartwell, Mother said, “Tea, Your Grace? Or lemonade?”

“Lemonade, if you please. I am quite partial to it.” He flashed that scoundrel’s smile in Willa’s direction. “I find myself drawn to the paradox of how something so tantalizingly sweet can also be so tart.”

The footman entered with the elements necessary for tea. Willa scooted forward to unlock the tea caddy, wondering how anyone could prefer lemonade over tea. Nothing competed with a perfect blend.

The duke’s dark brow furrowed. “Lady Wilhelmina brews the tea?”

“No one prepares it like Willa,” said Mother. “Although the mistress of the house usually has the honor, I concede to my daughter’s obvious mastery.”

Feeling Hartwell’s eyes upon her, Willa opened the caddy and selected from among the special variety of leaves. Once the rich distinctive aroma of fermented tea leaves wafted into the air, she promptly forgot all about the duke and everything else. Her senses alert and engaged, she concentrated on her preparation, the calming sensation of formulating the perfect brew settling deep in her bones. She measured an ideal mix of green and black leaves from China before adding her own distinctive ingredients—a bit of dried orange rind, a hint of rosemary, and pinch of cinnamon. She frowned to see they’d brought out the silver teapot. China teapots produced better-tasting brews, but allowances had to be made when a duke came to call.

She added the mixed tea leaves to the pre-warmed pot and nodded for the footman to pour boiling water over them. The humid steam drifted upward, carrying the beginnings of the brew’s aromatic scent. Willa inhaled, both savoring and assessing the aroma. She closed the top of the teapot and wrapped a cloth around it to seal in the heat during the brewing process.

Satisfied the tea was steeping properly, she looked up to find Hartwell’s inky blue eyes studying her as if he could see right into her soul. Her skin tingled and her heart thudded. Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away.

“Willa.” Mother’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Have I told you Lady Barnes is desperate for your tea recipe with thyme in it?”

Hartwell blinked, breaking eye contact, and Willa started breathing again.

The duke cleared his throat. “Perhaps I will take tea after all.”

“Excellent choice,” Cam said. “Once you’ve tasted Willa’s tea, none other will satisfy you.”

“No doubt,” murmured Hartwell.

Willa’s ears burned. “One lump or two, Your Grace?”

“Three, if you please.” His piercing gaze held hers. “I have a tendency toward overindulgence.”

Suddenly remembering the tea, she gaped blindly at the pot, unable to recall how long she’d let it brew. She poured the steaming dark amber liquid into each cup, hoping she’d timed it properly. At least the brandied color appeared correct. The pungent smell of fresh tea, with a hint of citrus coupled with the sharpness of rosemary, filled the air, satisfying the senses. She counted out three lumps for the duke and then moved onto her family members, taking care to prepare each cup according to their individual tastes. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Hartwell took his first sip.

He sniffed it, very subtly, but Willa caught the almost undetectable action because she always did the same herself. Then he tasted it.

“Excellent,” he pronounced. “Full bodied and aromatic with a slightly tangy finish.”

Warmth spread through her, and it had nothing to do with the tea since she hadn’t sampled hers yet. Taking a sip, she could only agree with his assessment. Her special concoction tasted full and lively on the tongue, with just the right touch of astringency.

Cam reached for a sandwich. “Hartwell, I was telling the ladies that you were in India.”

Mother crossed both hands flat over her chest. “Yes, how exotic, Your Grace.” Willa fought to keep from rolling her eyes at the way her mother fawned all over the duke. No doubt he was accustomed to toadyish behavior from females, especially marriage-minded mommas like hers.

Cam leaned forward. “What business did you have there?”

“I traded mostly in sugar.”

“Will you continue that endeavor, now that you have returned permanently to England?” Cam asked.

“Indeed. My man of business is seeing about purchasing an adequate building to house my clerks and business concerns here in Town.”

“How did your trade affect the locals?” Willa knew from her reading that many Englishmen made their fortune in India at the expense of native workers. “Was it successful for them as well?”

“Willa!” Mother gasped, shooting her a daggered look. “Your Grace, my daughter means no offense to be sure.”

“Not to worry. I’m certain I comprehend your daughter’s true intentions perfectly,” he said easily. “To demonstrate that I hold no ill feelings, perhaps Lady Wilhelmina would favor me with a carriage ride through Hyde Park.” His smooth smile almost dared her to refuse. “If she is disposed, of course.”

Willa stiffened. She would decline all right. She wanted nothing further to do with men—especially one who seemed to enjoy mocking her. “That is most kind of you, Your Grace. But truly, we have had much family excitement here today and I am disposed to take an afternoon nap.” Mother would think her still emotional over Addie’s news and playing on her softhearted nature would give Willa a chance to bow out of an afternoon ride with Hartwell.

“Actually, I was hoping you could join me on the morrow, provided the marchioness approves.”

“Of course!” Her mother jumped in before Willa could respond. “I would be most pleased. We both would.”

“Willa adores riding in the park,” Addie piped in, wide-eyed.

Willa suppressed the urge to massage her temples. She lacked the energy to continue playing whatever game the duke had in mind. At least if she agreed to accompany him, he might depart posthaste. And an afternoon ride with His Grace promised to be passably more tolerable than another encounter with Augustus. Race would no doubt call upon his betrothed soon. And his brother might well accompany him.

“Why ever not.” She feigned indifference. “Unless Camryn has an objection?” She cast a hopeful look in her cousin’s direction.

Cam grinned. “Not at all, dearest cousin.”

“Excellent,” said Hartwell. “I shall look forward to it.”

“May I be frank?” Willa said the following day as she and the duke rode in his impressive phaeton, a high-perched, black lacquer conveyance.

“Do you have any other manner of speaking?” Hartwell kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Or do you save that particular privilege solely for me?”

“In all seriousness, why are you doing this?”

“Taking you for a carriage ride?”

“Seeking me out to amuse yourself.”

“Perhaps I mean to court you.” He fired off a slow confident smile that made her heart skid. Bold and forceful, it was devastating in its allure. There was something almost animalistic in those decisive rows of long teeth.

She forced herself to remember a duke would never court someone with her past—especially one as appealing as the man sitting next to her. Unless, of course, he’d yet to hear of the scandal. “Why, pray tell, would you engage with someone such as me?”

“Someone such as you?” His dark brows furrowed. “Granted, one risks frostbite from that icy tongue of yours, but I daresay I can withstand the cold.”

“And you do have all of that hot air to keep you warm,” she said sweetly.

He barked a laugh. “That, along with the certain knowledge that summer invariably follows winter. I look forward with great anticipation to the hot and sultry season.”

“I am obviously on the shelf,” she said firmly. “Meanwhile, there are ambitious mothers all over Town who would be thrilled to have the Duke of Hartwell court their daughters.”

“Your mother seems pleased enough.”

“She tends to be swayed by a grand title, with little regard as to the character of the man who carries it.”

“Brrrr.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “I do believe a frosty gale has just blown over me.”

Suppressing a smile, she inhaled, drawing his masculine scent into her lungs. He must have restrained from cheroots thus far today. He had that clean, strong—very pleasing—smell again. “As you can see, I am neither an impressionable young debutante nor a desperate ape leader to be toyed with.” Nor a strumpet who dallied with dukes because of a dented reputation. “So it seems you are wasting your time.”

“On the contrary, I enjoy myself immensely in your company.” His midnight blue gaze perused her with open appreciation. “I’m even coming to appreciate the nippy air.”

Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Botheration, the man’s flirtations made her nervous and her insides seemed to be vibrating. “Is that why you mock me?”

“Mock you? Not at all, though I must admit I enjoy sparring with you.”

“If it is a sparring partner you seek, perhaps you should repair to the nearest boxing club,” she retorted.

Hartwell laughed out loud, a full-bodied sound which rumbled from deep within his chest. He threw his head back, his profile emphasizing a strong nose and sharp-cut cheeks. Drawn to the sound of his laugh, she couldn’t resist a slight smile.

“I assure you boxing is the furthest activity from my mind when I am with you,” he drawled.

Willa’s cheeks and ears burned. He had an annoying knack of doing that to her. “Honestly, Your Grace.”

“Please, you must call me Hartwell.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Surely, we are well acquainted enough to dispense with this ‘Your Grace’ business.”

“That would be improper as you well know.” She tried to ignore the way her heart danced around inside her chest. “I can endure your antics, but you are shamelessly toying with my mother.”

He sobered. “I beg your pardon?”

“Surely you have noticed she is quite taken with the notion that a duke might be interested in courting me at my advanced age. It is cruel of you to give her false hope.”

Hartwell drew back. “I would never be deliberately cruel to a lady such as your mother. Why do you presume there is anything false in my pursuit?” Pulling the phaeton to a stop in the park, he turned to give Willa his full attention.

The sincere interest shining in those dark blue depths prompted a glowing sensation in her chest, but she forced herself to remember Hartwell would soon learn the
ton
considered her to be damaged goods. The cool mask slipped back into place. “It appears, Your Grace, that your stay in India has left you quite behind the times.”

…

That evening, with his thoughts still full of the ice queen, Hartwell ventured out to Brooks, the London gentlemen’s club on St. James Street. So much about Wilhelmina Stanhope perplexed him.

Your stay in India has left you quite behind the times.
He’d seen Willa retreat back behind that impenetrable façade. What had she meant? Why did she assume his intentions were less than honorable? Clearly, she didn’t comprehend the depth of her physical appeal. Just a glance from those endless velvet eyes would bring any red-blooded man to a point. He had a mind to warm her right up, kindling a fire in those immense eyes. Anything to burn away the controlled, shuttered look she hid behind.

Your stay in India has left you quite behind the times.

A lady of her undeniable beauty shouldn’t still be unmarried at her age. Unless, of course, she’d waited for Bellingham. The thought of it roiled his gut.

Arriving at Brooks, he strode across the club’s plush carpets into the gaming room where a fire roared in the immense marble hearth. The low murmur of voices, punctuated by occasional bursts of muted laughter, wafted through the smoke-hazed room, the air redolent with the smell of burning tobacco and men’s shaving soap.

“Hartwell, you old nabob, I see you’ve found your way back from India,” said David Selwyn, an old friend from Cambridge. “Have you finally tired of building your empire?”

“Not at all.” He wasn’t one to stay idle for long. As a second son, necessity had driven him to make his fortune in India. Now, as duke, desire fueled his continued interest in enterprise. Few things got his blood pumping more than negotiating a lucrative transaction. “However, my ducal responsibilities require that I move the headquarters of said empire to London.” Hartwell joined the table, settling into a plush brown leather chair, and nodding a greeting to the others at the table, all of whom he had some acquaintance with from their university days.

“I say, was that you escorting Lady Wilhelmina Stanhope in the park today?” garbled Lord Edmund Garrick, whose tongue was known to get a little loose when he drank too much.

“It was. Although I don’t see why that would be of any interest to you.” He spoke in a curt tone, unwilling to discuss a lady in these surroundings.

“Brave of you,” Garrick mumbled under his breath.

He lifted his chin. “Why is that?”