Page 21 of The Duke of Desire
Chapter Five
Ashadow fell over Ivy’s book as a cloud drifted overhead. She glanced up and contemplated whether rain was possible. Ah well, at least today they were close to the house should they need to run for cover.
“Ooh!” The chorus of exclamations surrounded her, and she transferred her gaze to the shuttlecock court that had been set up on the lawn.
“The match goes to Axbridge!” Lord Wendover announced to much applause. Axbridge’s opponent, the elder Mr. Travill, shook his hand good-naturedly, and the two men departed the court.
“And now we’ll take a short break for refreshments.” Lord Wendover gestured to the footmen who were now distributing baskets of food and drink to the blankets that had been set out and on which the spectators sat.
“Oh good, I’m quite hungry,” Emmaline, who sat beside Ivy, said.
Ivy closed the slim book she’d been reading and set it on the blanket beside her. “It appears Townsend is headed this way.”
Emmaline blushed and looked expectantly in his direction. It was evident to anyone with rudimentary skills of observation that she and the viscount were enamored of each other. While Ivy couldn’t support marriage, she was always glad when someone found happiness.
He bowed when he arrived, first toward Emmaline and then toward Ivy. “Might I sit with you?”
“Of course,” Emmaline said, smiling. “Please join me and Miss Breckenridge.”
He sat down, and Ivy wondered how she could politely excuse herself so that they could be alone. Well, alone amidst a few dozen people.
Lady Dunn was seated on the next blanket with her friend Mrs. Marsh. Ivy should check on her.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Ivy said. “I need to visit with Lady Dunn.” She stood and carefully made her way to Lady Dunn. “Can I get you anything, my lady?”
“You’re such a dear,” Lady Dunn chirped up at her. “In fact, I would like a bit of my tonic. Would you run up to the room and fetch it for me?”
“Of course.” Ivy turned and made her way to the house. Lady Dunn sometimes took a tonic for headaches or other soreness, and Ivy knew just where to find it.
Once she’d obtained the bottle, she started back toward the stairs. As she emerged from the sitting room, she encountered Clare. She’d noticed he wasn’t at the shuttlecock tournament.
Noticed? That made it seem as if it had been a nonchalant observance. She’d looked for him immediately, and upon finding him absent, kept glancing toward the house in the hope that he would come out. Yesterday’s blind man’s buff had left an indelible impression on her. The way he’d looked at her had shaken her to the core.
“Miss Breckenridge.” His deep voice caressed her with warmth and something else she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Your Grace. I thought you’d planned to participate in the shuttlecock tournament.”
“I do. I’m on my way there now. Have you been watching?”
She nodded. “Axbridge beat Mr. Travill in the last match.”
“The father or the son?”
“The father. I believe Townsend is up next. I forget who he’s playing.”
Clare smiled. “Ah, then I am on time. I am playing after that.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”
Despite yesterday’s closeness, or whatever one might call it, he seemed utterly unaffected. He was treating her with the same bland kindness that he had on the walk. Bland? She only thought so because, compared to their initial interactions, it was. And yet she couldn’t describe yesterday’s blind man’s buff as bland. No, that had been exciting. Thrilling.Dangerous.
“Should we arrive downstairs together?” she asked tentatively. “I don’t wish to cause a stir.”
“I see your concern. I’m happy to wait here for a bit.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. The pose was so carelessly masculine, so sublimely alluring, that she merely stared at him for a moment. “Unless you want me to go first?”
She shook herself from her idiocy. What was he doing to her? She straightened, pulling her shoulders back as she’d been taught. “I’ll go.” She turned and immediately spun back around. “I nearly forgot.”
He arched a brow, and the expression lent him an air of provocation. No, that wasn’t quite right. Healwayshad an air of provocation; this merely emphasized it. “What’s that?”
“The book you sent.” Last night, she’d arrived in her room to find a slim volume resting on her pillow. It was the poemTheLady of the Lakeby Walter Scott, and tucked inside the cover had been another note from Clare. This one had read:
