At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 2

  She exhaled, impatiently. Women did that around him. Often.

  “The precious diamond and sapphire ring that is a priceless Wessex family heirloom that you were asked to collect from Gold & Son’s Jewelers in London and safely deliver to the duke?”

  “Oh, that ring.”

  He had gotten it. It was ... somewhere. Couldn’t think of where exactly at this moment.

  Jack took another step up and this one brought him close enough to loom over her. She peered up at him with an expression of peevishness shaded by terror. He noticed the determined rise and fall of her bosom—he tended to have an eye for these things—and noted that she was taking the sort of deliberate calming, deep breathes one took when trying very hard not to panic.

  She thought he had forgotten the ring. Well, he hadn’t. It was ... God, he was struck with the damnedest desire to slide his hand around her waist and tug her against him. Then he’d taste that mouth of hers in a very improper kiss.

  “Lord Willoughby! We must deliver the ring to the duke or else ... we just must!”

  She pushed him back with her little palms on his chest. Henrietta did have the right of it. He should find that ring and he should not attempt to ravish her in the servants’ stairwell. It’d be deuced uncomfortable, for one thing.

  “Don’t worry, Hen. I have the ring,” he said. And then he made a promise as he brushed past her on the stairs: “You shall have it before dinner.”

  Chapter Three

  “You’re not going to drive that damned carriage all the way to Dorset, are you?” a friend asked skeptically. “A high-flying, delicate vehicle like that won’t be able to manage the roads.”

  “Don’t say such things about Hippolyta,” Jack said, adopting a wounded expression.

  “You’ll be a magnet for trouble in that thing.”

  Jack just grinned. “But Hippolyta goes so fast no one could possibly catch us.”

  Two days later

  Nine days before the wedding

  The decision to knock on Lord Willoughby’s bedchamber door had not been an easy one to make. Henrietta had tossed and turned for the better part of the night debating what to do. The other part was spent fretting over whether to seek the opinion of Sophronia. The woman might not be useful, but she would definitely have an opinion as to Henrietta’s course of action.

  On the one hand, it was beyond the pale for a woman to even be seen on the bachelors’ floor, let alone knocking on a gentleman’s bedchamber door! That it was Jack wouldn’t help matters at all. Then again, no one would believe Henrietta a player in some debauched exploit. No one.

  Above all: the ring. Dear Lord, the ring. Sophronia had informed Henrietta that it had been a gift from the very first Duke of Wessex to his bride. It became a family tradition and one that had been upheld for countless generations. Until now. Possibly.

  The Duchess of Wessex—the duke’s mother—had been pestering Henrietta for days now. Fearing she’d been too busy greeting guests to track down an infamously distractible gentleman, she’d enlisted Henrietta’s help.

  Three days earlier:

  “The longer it is in the hands of Lord Willoughby—who still hasn’t returned from the stables, though he arrived hours ago—the more I worry! I never should have consented to his having him transport it. But the duke insisted.”

  “I quite agree, Your Grace. I will do everything I can.”

  Two days ago:

  “Really, Henrietta, I must have that ring! As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, what with all the plans for the wedding and whatever the gentlemen are doing in the stables.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Yesterday:

  “Henrietta, where is that ring? Lady Grey is anxiously inquiring about it.”

  Lady Grey was the bride’s mother; she was tremendously impressed by and extremely interested in everything her daughter was about to become mistress of.

  “I’ll fetch it now, Your Grace!”

  She’d been hiding ever since.

  Henrietta knocked on the door to Jack’s bedchamber. Bright and early.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  No answer.

  Every moment she stood waiting outside his bedchamber door increased the odds that she would be caught, which increased the odds that she would find herself in trouble, which increased the odds that she would be deemed an unsuitable companion and relation and would be asked to leave Kingstag. Her life would be over.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  She pressed her ear against the door, hoping to hear the sounds of someone stirring but hearing only silence.

  Could one hear silence? Henrietta mused. She ought to pose the question to Sophronia. It’d keep the old woman perplexed for days. But really, she had more pressing concerns at the moment.

  Knock, knock, knock

  What if he were in another woman’s bedchamber?

  It was eminently possible. Dozens and dozens of guests had arrived, many of them women seeking entertainment. With that grin of his and those sparkling blue eyes ... oh, and his wide shoulders and broad chest ... yes, she had noticed, not that she would ever let on. Besides, Jack had been flirting shamelessly with other women. It was quite likely he was in a woman’s bed at this very moment.

  However, Henrietta absolutely could not go knocking on women’s bedchamber doors, politely inquiring if one of England’s most roguish rogues was with them.

  It was bad enough that she was here, risking her reputation and thus her very livelihood.

  Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock.

  Finally Jack opened the door.

  He wore a pair of breeches. Just one pair of fawn-colored breeches.

  That was all.

  She didn’t know where to look! Certainly not at his breeches, which lovingly clad the strong muscles of his thighs, hinting at ... oh, goodness! Henrietta’s gaze raked over his absurdly strong and muscled chest. No, she mustn’t look there! She lifted her eyes to his wheat-colored hair, which was gorgeously tousled from sleep. That wasn’t fair at all! He lifted his hand to stifle a yawn, and she was distracted by the way his muscles rippled in his arms and chest as he did so. And his eyes, heavy-lidded from sleep, still managed a mischievous spark.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Her wits fled.

  This was a mistake. This is why young ladies were not supposed to frequent the bedchambers of rogues.

  Jack’s hand clasped around her wrist and he tugged her into his room, shutting the door behind them. She glanced around, taking note of the draperies shutting out the morning light and disheveled sheets and blankets on the bed. A fire smoldered in the grate. His bedchamber was oddly warm—what other excuse could there be for her sudden spike in temperature? And his lack of attire?

  This was a massive mistake.

  “What brings you here, Miss Black?” he said, yawning again.

  “The wedding ring, of course. Why else would I be here?”

  He gave her a Look complete with a slight lift of his brow and a charming quirk of his mouth. Henrietta reddened. Ah yes. Of course. Indeed. That.

  “I can’t believe that didn’t occur to you,” he remarked.

  “Why would it?”

  “You’re a woman in her prime and illicitly in my bedchamber,” Jack remarked. “Truly, seduction should have crossed your mind. But it clearly did not. You really ought to get out more.”

  “Yes, me and Aunt Sophronia both,” Henrietta said dryly. She hated that he had just explained the obvious to her and she hated that he had needed to. Not for one instance had she ever considered herself in the prime of womanhood and ravishable. However, she would certainly consider it in detail. Later. “Now where is the ring?”

  “It’s probably in my coat pocket,” Jack said with a shrug. He gestured toward a coat flung over a chair. She crossed the room, picked up the garment, tried not to notice how it smelled faintly of him, and searched the pockets—and the lining too, for good measure.

  The
ring was not in his coat.

  “Well, then let’s look in my luggage,” Jack said, not at all bothered the absence of a priceless family heirloom that would be needed in just a few days at the wedding. She just couldn’t have Wessex stand up there with his perfect bride and no ring.

  Jack searched is luggage, located in the small closet connected to his room, while Henrietta waited in his bedchamber. It was not in his luggage.

  Henrietta took deep breaths and endeavored not to panic.

  “I’ll ask my valet,” Jack offered kindly. He smiled, but that only made her heart beat even faster. He returned to the closet, where his valet was staying.

  A nervous moment later, Jack returned from an interview with his valet.

  “Nansen has not seen the ring,” Jack said. He at least possessed the decency to furrow his brow, indicating the slightest concern for their predicament.

  Their terrible, horrible predicament.

  Wessex had taken her in when she had nowhere to go. His mother, the duchess, had been exceedingly warm and generous to Henrietta over the years. She could not repay their kindness by losing a priceless family heirloom. Miss Grey did not deserve to be the first duchess to be married without the ring. She and her family would be livid, surely. But would they be angry enough to insist that Henrietta leave Kingstag?

  It wasn’t a chance she could take. Failure was not an option.

  Which meant they would have to find the ring.

  Henrietta did the sensible thing—as always—which was to take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. Eyes closed. Deep breaths. Start at the beginning, her mother used to say. Then she would ask, Where was the last place you saw it?

  Henrietta opened her eyes. She asked Jack, “Did you pick it up from the jewelers in London?”

  “Yes. I did,” Jack said confidently. “Mr. Gold himself handed me the ring.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I put it in my coat pocket.”

  “And then?”

  “Hippolyta and I drove to Kingstag.”

  “Hippolyta?”

  Jack winced. Henrietta gasped.

  “Did you bring a...” Henrietta stumbled over the appropriate term to use. Woman. Trollop. Ladybird. “Did you bring an uninvited guest to the wedding?”

  “Forget about Hippolyta. I can assure you it’s not what you think,” he said. “But I cannot explain.”

  Henrietta closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. One ought not deal with rogues in the morning. She truly needed some strong black tea to clear her mind and fortify her nerves.

  “Did you stop along the way?” Henrietta asked.

  “Just for a piss along the road,” Jack answered.

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake! Have you no sense of decency!” Henrietta shouted.

  “You asked!” Jack bellowed back at her.

  The outburst stunned them both. For a moment they stood there in the dimly lit chamber, just staring at each other. The air was thick with tension. Nerves. Desperation. And something else Henrietta couldn’t quite place.

  But she was painfully aware that they were alone and facing trouble.

  Yet her eyes kept straying to the bed. The sheets and blankets were in utter disarray. Had he been alone? Or had he company and if so, what did it matter to her? She was just Miss Black, dependent poor relation and ever-obliging companion to the impossible Lady Sophronia. For once though, Henrietta found herself wishing she were more.

  “I apologize for raising my voice,” Jack said kindly.

  “I, as well.”

  “I dined and spent the night at the Red Lion in Dorchester,” he offered.

  “Is there a chance you were victim to a pickpocket?”

  “Doubtful. I’m an intimidating bloke.”

  “You are obviously wealthy and easily distracted,” Henrietta replied. “I’d try to pick your pocket.”

  “Would you now?” Jack gave her another Look that suggested he understood her comment to have nothing to do with thievery and everything to do with her hands in his breeches.

  “It’s not like that—It’s not what I meant! You rogue!”

  “Aww, Hen. I’m only teasing,” he said with an affectionate smile. That damned smile of his. Made a girl feel dizzy in the head, weak in the knees, and in great need of the restorative powers of Smythson’s Smelling Salts.

  “The ring,” Henrietta said firmly. Again. She would not forget why she was in this rogue’s bedchamber in the first place.

  “The ring,” Jack repeated.

  “Is lost,” Henrietta stated.

  “It must be somewhere.”

  “We have to find it.”

  His gaze locked with hers. Jack’s eyes, she noted, were very blue. The seconds ticked by. His gaze never wavered. She felt a surge of heat from deep within. But it was no match for the sheer crash of panic that seemed to attack them both.

  Jack and Henrietta lunged for the bed.

  Not for a passionate tumble but in a frantic search of that wayward piece of jewelry. Bed sheets were ripped from the mattress. Pillows were fluffed and punched until they exploded in a burst of feathers. Blankets were shaken out.

  There was no ring.

  “What of the bedside table?”

  Surfaces were swept over, drawers yanked out and discarded on the floor. The armoire was divested of its contents and drawers.

  Henrietta dropped to her knees so she might better explore the carpet. Jack stood above her, breeches on but nothing else.

  A maid walked in.

  Her eyes went wide and round. Henrietta turned a furious shade of red as she imagined what this scene must look like. Jack, unclothed. A woman, on her knees. The bedding in an outrageous state of disorder.

  “Nothing to see here,” Jack said jovially.

  “Excuse me,” the maid murmured.

  She stepped out and closed the door behind her.

  “It’s not here,” Henrietta said a moment later, her voice rising in panic. “It’s not on the carpet or under the carpet. We have searched your room, destroying it in the process. The duchesses will be furious with me. Sophronia and I will have to find somewhere else to live, and she’s so particular. This is terrible. My life is over.”

  “Perhaps it is in my phaeton,” Jack said softly. Consolingly.

  “Let us go there directly,” Henrietta urged.

  “No, later,” Jack said firmly.

  “Why not, oh, say, immediately? The sooner we find this ring, the sooner we can relax and enjoy the wedding festivities.”

  “I cannot explain,” Jack replied. “Let us meet there after supper, when the men take port and the ladies take tea. Contrive to get away and tell no one.”

  Chapter Four

  Ah, there was nothing more perfect than this: a blue sky, the open road, a bottle of whiskey tucked under the seat. It was a fine day for driving a carriage like Hippolyta through the English countryside. But wait—was that another carriage following him?

  The dining room

  Later that night

  Mrs. Cleopatra Barrows was sister to the bride and far too observant.

  “Is anything the matter, Lord Willoughby?” she inquired.

  Damn. She had caught Jack drumming his fingers on the table and peering anxiously at his pocket watch. Again. And only the second course had been served.

  “Everything is just fine. Why ever do you ask?”

  But it wasn’t fine. He’d lost the blasted wedding ring. But they had a week yet to find it. God willing, he’d never have to tell his cousin how he’d lost the Wessex family heirloom. Jack took a long swallow of wine.

  “You seem a bit agitated,” Mrs. Barrows remarked.

  “What could possibly agitate me?” Jack said grandly, with his infamous grin. “I’m dining on excellent fare, drinking fine wines, the conversation is charming, and I’m surrounded by beautiful women.”

  His gaze fell on Henrietta, seated with Sophronia further down the table. The candlelight lent a glow to her skin. Whe
n she became aware of his attentions, a faint blush stole across her cheeks. His mind, inevitably, wandered to thoughts of her naked skin in candlelight—legs tangled with his, arms entwined with his, her belly and, oh, God, her breasts. Would she blush there too?

  Candles. He needed candles.

  Already, they had an assignation scheduled for later in the evening.

  Judging from Henrietta’s obvious and frequent glances between him and the large clock on the mantel, she was a nervous wreck about it. Or was she excited? He reckoned she did not have assignations with rogues every day. Or night, rather. Or at all, ever.

  She had to be nervous. The ring was missing and Lady Grey, mother of the bride, was requesting to see it with an alarming frequency. She’d even started pestering him about it at every opportunity, which meant he spent an inordinate amount of time taking refuge in the stables. Poor Henrietta was stuck with him in her efforts to find it. Jack was under no illusions—he was careless and easily distracted. His heart was good. His attention span was not.

  Jack was struck with a ... a ... feeling. If he were to describe it—here he took a long sip of wine—it would be something like the desire for her good opinion of him. Not because he was vain and needed all females to fawn over him.

  No, he wished her to think well of him because he’d earned it. Perhaps he’d find the ring and thus rescue her from inordinate amounts of worry. Jack imagined how happy she’d be. “My hero!” she’d exclaim before launching herself into his arms and pressing her lips to his.

  Candles. He needed to bring candles to the stable tonight.

  He glanced her way once more. But it was Lady Sophronia who caught his eye and winked at him! He nearly choked on the sip of wine he’d taken.

  But then, of course, he winked back at the old gal.

  Shortly before the ladies departed for tea in the drawing room after supper, Jack excused himself. He cajoled a dozen candles from a housemaid. He sent Watson on an impossible errand up at the house and bribed some footmen to pour brandy with a heavy hand. It was imperative that Jack and Henrietta have time alone to thoroughly search Hippolyta.

  Taking great care not to be seen, he exited the back of the house and loitered under a large oak tree where he and Henrietta had agreed to meet.