Everyone jumped at the thunderous crash and the burst of light that burned a streak across the sky. “Gracious!” cried Lady Grey, clapping a hand to her heart. “I thought it would strike us all dead on the spot!”

Helen’s sister turned her face to the sky as the first sharp drops of rain hit the ground. “It looks to be a good show,” she said mischievously.

“Indeed not, Cleo,” said her mother in an undertone. “Behave yourself!”

Gareth heard all this dimly, around the introduction. Mrs. Cleopatra Barrows, Sir William was saying, his eldest daughter. He thought he made the polite response but couldn’t be sure; once he took her gloved hand in his, he wasn’t quite sure what else went on in the world around him. It wouldn’t surprise him if his hair were standing on end, and he was most likely staring like an idiot. Mrs. Barrows put on a polite smile and curtseyed, but that excitement that sprang into her face at the crack of lightning stuck in his mind.

A soft noise behind him finally broke whatever spell he’d fallen under. He stepped back, remembering himself. “I’m delighted you’ve arrived at last. You remember Mr. Blair, of course?” Blair stepped forward and bowed.

“Capital to see you, sir,” said Sir William courteously, and Lady Grey gave him a benevolent smile.

“Mr. Blair,” murmured Miss Grey.

“Mrs. Barrows,” said the duchess, coming toward her. “What a delight to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Kingstag Castle.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She dropped a graceful curtsy.

“And you must meet Mr. Blair,” his mother continued, looking at Blair, who obediently stepped to her side. “He is Wessex’s secretary as well as our cousin.”

“How do you do, sir?” Mrs. Barrows gave Blair a sunny smile, and Gareth’s stomach clenched. He had to make himself turn away from her, unnerved by his reaction.

“Come, let us go inside,” he said, offering Lady Grey his arm. “The guests will begin arriving tomorrow. I thought you might like a day to explore the castle on your own before they lay siege to the place.”

Lady Grey gave her trilling little laugh again as she fell in step beside him. “How kind of you to arrange it so, sir! We are thoroughly delighted to be invited for such a stay, and to meet your mother and sisters! I vow, Kingstag Castle is every bit as lovely as I’d heard ...”

She chattered on as they walked inside. Gareth was aware of Mrs. Barrows walking behind him with Blair. In the doorway he stole a glance back, catching sight of his cousin’s smile at something she said. Miss Grey followed, listening soberly to his mother, but her sister chatted quite amiably with Blair.

He felt a strange stab of discontent in his chest. Logically, he should hope Mrs. Barrows could revive Blair from whatever melancholy he’d sunk into lately. He should hope his cousin took a great enough liking to Mrs. Barrows to entertain her for the next fortnight, leaving Miss Grey to him.

Somehow, he didn’t.

The housekeeper stepped forward to show the guests to their rooms to refresh themselves and rest. Although, as Mrs. Barrows passed him with a swish of her brilliant skirt, he couldn’t help but think that the Greys didn’t look in great need of refreshing. Gareth watched as they climbed the stairs, Lady Grey in the lead with the housekeeper and his mother, followed by Miss Grey and Mrs. Barrows.

“Just as lovely as you remembered?” asked Blair quietly, coming up beside him.

Gareth tore his gaze off Mrs. Barrows’s figure, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling of having been knocked sideways. “Yes.”

Blair exhaled. He still looked a little ill, his mouth tight and his eyes shadowed. “That is a great relief.”

Gareth breathed deeply. The ladies had reached the turn of the stairs, and he watched Mrs. Barrows trail one gloved hand along the banister appreciatively. “Yes. It is, isn’t it? I can hardly stop the marriage now.”

Blair shook his head slowly, still watching the women climb the stairs. “No. I don’t suppose you can.”

“Gracious, Helen, you never said he was so handsome!”

Cleo burst into her sister’s room, too full of energy to rest. Helen was lying obediently on the bed, but at Cleo’s entrance she sat up at once, just as she had since they were girls. Of course, this time their nurse wouldn’t come scold them for not resting like proper young ladies, thought Cleo with a grin, since she was a widowed lady and her sister was about to become a duchess.

“Do you really think so?” Helen’s face lit up with a luminous smile.

Cleo laughed. “Of course! Such broad shoulders! Such brooding eyes! Such a lovely home!” She laughed again. “Did Mama see Kingstag Castle before you accepted his offer, or after? I thought she would swoon with delight when the house came into view.”

Helen sighed, her glow fading. “After. You well know she would have liked him had the house been a fright. He’s a duke, Cleo, and very wealthy,” she said in perfect imitation of their mother’s voice. “What more does a girl want?”

“Mmm, and handsome, too,” Cleo added. “A mother might want a title and a fortune, but a girl wants a handsome face.”

Helen tried, and failed, to repress her grin. “Cleo, you’re wicked.”

“Of course I am,” she exclaimed. “That’s why you love to have me about. But hush—” She lowered her voice and glanced around. “I did promise to be on my best behavior this fortnight,” she whispered. “So you mustn’t let on when I’m my usual awful self, or Papa will send me packing.”

Helen’s smile disappeared. “It was dreadful that Papa said that to you,” she said in a low tone. “You are not awful.”

Cleo lifted one shoulder. “To them I am. The stench of trade, you know. I suppose someday I might give away all my money and take up embroidery or some other suitable pursuit and live out my days in respectable poverty.” She gave a theatrical sigh and collapsed backward on the chaise as if in a swoon, throwing up one arm over her head in a fit of drama. “Perhaps then I’ll be acceptable. Poor and dull, but acceptable.”

“You could never be dull,” said her sister. “I’m ever so glad you’ve come, because if you’re here, at least it won’t be dull.” She shuddered.

Cleo uncovered her face and looked at Helen curiously. “Do you think it will be? Why? You’re reunited at last with your betrothed husband, about to meet his family and become his wife.”

Helen rolled her lower lip between her teeth and plucked at the lace on her sleeve. “I don’t know him that well, Cleo,” she confessed. “I’ve only seen him a few times this year. And last year ... well, he didn’t distinguish himself from my other suitors in any real way. It seems odd, doesn’t it, that I’m to marry him in two weeks’ time and I barely know his name.”

“Gareth Anthony Michael Cavendish,” said Cleo. “How could you not know his name, when Mama’s been practicing saying it every day? ‘Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Wessex,’” she mimicked her mother, just as well as Helen had done. “‘Wessex of Kingstag Castle.’ ‘My son-in-law, the duke.’ ‘My daughter, the Duchess of Wessex.’”

Helen laughed again. “Stop! Perhaps I do know his name, but otherwise ...” She shook her head. “The wedding just seems so near, all of a sudden.”

This time Cleo looked more closely at her sister. It had been clear to her that Helen was nervous their entire journey, but she’d thought it was only bridal nerves. Helen wasn’t usually a nervous sort, though. “Don’t you want to marry him?”

Her sister’s face turned bright pink. “Of course. Who would not?”

Cleo couldn’t argue with that, and yet ... “Perhaps he invited us early to get to know you better,” she suggested. “To steal away into the garden with you and kiss you senseless.” Helen’s eyes went wide. Cleo grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not at all a trial to be whisked into the shrubbery for a clandestine kiss from a handsome man.”

Helen’s smile was a trifle wistful. “Isn’t it?”

“No doubt you’ll soon find out.” Cleo leaned forward, unable to resist prying a little. She didn’t see her sister very much anymore, and she missed her. She and Helen had never had secrets from each other, once upon a time, before Cleo’s marriage and subsequent widowhood had horrified her parents and made visits to the family home uncomfortable. “Don’t you want him to?”

Before Helen could answer, there was a tap on the door, closely followed by the entrance of their mother. “Oh, girls,” she whispered in ecstasy. “Isn’t this the loveliest house? Isn’t His Grace the handsomest gentleman? Oh, Helen, my darling, you are a very, very lucky girl!” She bustled over to kiss Helen’s forehead. Watching her sister, Cleo thought there was a flicker of panic in Helen’s eyes before she smiled at their mother.

“Thank you, Mama. I thought you were resting.”

Millicent Grey waved a hand. “Pooh! As if I could sleep away my first hours at Kingstag Castle. It’s one of the most beautiful estates in all of England! And my daughter will be mistress of it in just a few days’ time!” She swept Helen into another embrace. Cleo draped her arms over the end of the chaise and rested her chin on her arms, watching. It had been a long time since she’d seen such an outpouring of maternal affection.

“Now, are you feeling well?” Millicent placed her hand on Helen’s forehead. “Shall I send for a tonic? Luckily we’ve brought our own Rivers, I can have her prepare my special tonic at once.”

Helen clasped her mother’s wrist and smiled. “I’m fine, Mama. I don’t need a tonic.”

“A bath?” pressed Millicent. “I wager the duke’s staff can have one ready in no time. I hear he even had pipes installed to bring in the water! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Let’s send for a bath and find out.”

Cleo couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. Hadn’t they just stopped at an inn barely three miles distant so Helen could wash and change her dress? Of course she must look lovely for her future husband—Cleo didn’t argue with that—but this was silly, pretending to rest when none of them could close their eyes and wanting a bath just to discover if there really were pipes for the water.

“I’m fine, Mama.” Helen pushed her mother’s hand away and dodged it when Millicent would have reached out to smooth her hair. “Really, I’m quite recovered from the trip. Cleo and I were just talking about the duke.”

Millicent paused, clearly caught between the excitement of gossiping about their host and wariness of whatever Cleo might have said. “Indeed?” she asked with a too-bright smile. “What did you decide?”

“That he’s a very handsome gentleman,” said Cleo dutifully.

“Of course he is!” Their mother beamed, relieved.

“But Helen doesn’t know him all that well, does she?” Cleo went on, unable to ignore the devil inside her. “How long was his courtship?”

Millicent glared daggers at her. “It was all very proper,” she said sternly. “He contacted your father, most properly, and made a very pretty proposal—”

“Before he’d spoken to Helen?” Cleo was genuinely shocked—she hadn’t known that—and looked to Helen for confirmation. Her sister frowned and looked down, picking at her sleeve again.

“And his secretary—no, his cousin, Mr. Blair, came every week to pay his respects and make the arrangements!” Millicent lifted her chin.

“Didn’t His Grace call on you, Helen?” Cleo asked, ignoring her mother.

Helen said nothing.

“Of course he did!” said Millicent indignantly. “Last Season! Several times! And twice this year!”

This was all news to Cleo. When Helen had said she didn’t know the Duke of Wessex well, Cleo had thought it was due to a short but typical courtship, not one conducted by proxy. “And he sent his cousin to propose?”

“He did—That is—Not everyone must run wild and elope like you did, miss!” Millicent’s temper got away from her, and Cleo could almost see smoke coming from her mother’s ears. Behind Millicent, her sister was ripping the lace from her sleeve, her head bent.

She relented. Helen had accepted Wessex’s marriage proposal, and it was her choice. She said she was happy to be marrying him. Cleo had no right to make her sister more nervous than she already was.

“No, Mama,” she said soothingly. “They mustn’t. And I am very happy for Helen.”

Millicent opened her mouth, then closed it, as if she’d been ready for more argument. “Of course you are,” she finally said, accepting the truce. “We all are. But Helen! You must rest!” Cleo watched her mother press Helen back down, fluttering around her like an excited bird. This must be a dream come to life for Millicent, marrying her most beautiful daughter to a duke, especially after the disappointment Cleo had been.

She wondered if her mother had ever had the same hopes for her, before she proved herself difficult and rebellious. She wasn’t completely unlike Helen. She was pretty enough, though not beautiful like her sister. She’d been told she was intelligent and clever, but with an appalling tendency to speak too strongly and be too opinionated. Her great failing, though, had been her willingness to marry a man in trade, thereby drawing shame and discredit upon all her family. Millicent, the daughter of a squire and wife of a baronet, had dreamt of having a titled son-in-law her whole life. For Cleo to saddle her with a merchant son-in-law was intolerable.

Of course, her mother’s reaction to her marriage had been kind and warm compared to her father’s response.

From across the room, Helen’s eyes met hers, reluctantly amused and resigned. She’d always been the obedient daughter, and today was no different. Cleo would have wagered a guinea Helen would end up taking both a nap and a bath to please their mother.

She jumped to her feet. “I’m going to take a walk in the garden.” It might not be the nicest thing to leave Helen at their mother’s mercy, but she didn’t think she could take all the smothering maternal affection. She whisked out the door and back to her own room for a shawl, then went in search of the outdoors.

Despite the lightning, the storm was mild. Only a light mist was falling when a servant directed her to the gardens behind the house. She let her skirt drag in the wet grass, lifting her face to the sky. It felt good to be outside after two entire days in the carriage with her parents. If she could have managed it, Cleo would have hired her own carriage just for herself and Helen, leaving the elder Greys to congratulate themselves on Helen’s triumph all the way to Dorset. Their mother, of course, had wanted Helen nearby in case a spasm of delight overcame her again and she needed to smother her daughter in an embrace. Their father hadn’t trusted Cleo not to put “radical and absurd” ideas into Helen’s head. He’d watched her warily the entire trip, and Cleo had nearly bitten her tongue off a dozen times keeping her silence. And his final warning, delivered even as they drove up the sweeping drive of Kingstag, had almost been too much. She’d had to sit in the carriage a minute and compose herself before getting out.

But she would keep her composure, come what may. It was only for a fortnight, and it was for Helen and her wedding. She was aware that her parents had invited her only because Helen wanted her to come. Her father might be ashamed of her and her mother might think her unnatural, but her sister still loved her, and she wouldn’t repay that by causing strife and discord.

She slowed down as she reached the gravel paths of the garden. The Duke of Wessex, no matter that he might be remote and cool when it came to courting a wife, had a lovely garden. She stopped to examine all the plants, marveling at the profusion of greenery and blooms. How on earth did they get them to grow so thickly? Her own house had only a small garden, and nothing seemed to thrive. But these roses! They were everywhere, lush globes of pink and yellow petals that smelled divine. Cleo stuck her face into the flowery bower and sniffed, in paradise. What she wouldn’t give for her garden to look like this ...

And this would be her sister’s home. She touched another fragrant rose, spilling a cascade of raindrops onto her skirt. The Duke of Wessex wasn’t at all what she had expected. From Helen’s description of him, she’d imagined an older man, very elegant and urbane. The man she’d met today was far more masculine. Thick waves of dark hair threatened to tumble over his high forehead, which gave him a somewhat wild look that was at odds with his surprisingly sensual mouth. He was undeniably handsome, but there was an implacable strength in his face as well. Cleo fancied he was a man of strong passions and great control, the sort of man who wouldn’t be denied anything he set his heart on.

Then she shook her head at how ridiculous she was, imputing an entire personality to a man she’d only just met. No doubt he’d turn out to be much as Helen described him, once she got to know him a little better. Dukes were far out of her ordinary acquaintance.

She bent down to sniff a peony, trying to squash the seed of worry that had sprouted when Helen confessed to nerves. Her sister was gentle and kind-hearted, and Cleo wasn’t at all certain Helen would be able to stand up to a man as intimidating as the duke.

It worried her that Wessex had only called on Helen a few times. How could one marry on such short acquaintance? She could forgive her sister, who had, no doubt, been dazzled by his rank and broad shoulders and very handsome face, but she hoped the duke hadn’t chosen Helen because she was beautiful, demure, and dutiful. He must be a very busy man, and if he didn’t spend time with his bride, he would never know how wonderful Helen was. And if he made Helen miserable ...

She sighed and walked on toward the irises. As strong as her instinct was to protect Helen, this was not her battle. Helen had chosen him, and she must have had her reasons. Again her father’s warning echoed in her mind: Hold your tongue or you will be dead to all of us.

The rain grew a little harder, and she shook out her shawl, intending to drape it over her head. She had two weeks to take the duke’s measure. The duke had two weeks to recognize what a jewel Helen was.

“Are you well?”

She jumped at the sound of the voice, dropping her shawl in the process. The man she had just been thinking of stood behind her. “No, no,” she said, flustered, then corrected herself. “That is, I’m quite well, thank you. I was just admiring the roses.”

The Duke of Wessex stooped to retrieve her shawl. “My mother is a passionate gardener. She’ll be pleased you admire her work.”

“Very much so,” she said with enthusiasm. “They’re superb!”

“She does dote upon them,” he agreed.

“Everything beautiful must be nurtured and loved.” Cleo reached toward a pink rose that climbed up a nearby wall. “Nothing could bloom this profusely without a great deal of care.”

He cleared his throat. “And a large contingent of gardeners.”

She laughed. “I am sure they help as well, but this is a garden of love. Don’t you agree?”

The duke didn’t move. “Love?”

Cleo vaguely knew she ought to mention her sister, but the intensity in his dark eyes jangled her thoughts. “Yes. Love for the plants … although also a place where one might be moved to steal a kiss in the shrubbery.”

She had shocked him. His eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. Oh dear; she’d let her mouth run away from her already.

“Indeed. You may be correct,” said the duke before she could apologize. “Forgive me if I interrupted your study of the roses and the—er—shrubbery. I was on my way to see a tree.”

“A tree?” she echoed, grasping at a new topic gratefully.

“It was struck by lightning, or so I was told.”

Cleo remembered the tremendous crack of lightning when they first arrived. “Oh, yes! I almost fell off the carriage step, it startled me so. I hope the tree didn’t damage anything.”

His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes were piercing as he looked at her. “Likely not. We are positively overrun with oaks at Kingstag. I expect we’ll all be glad of the lightning when the tree is fueling our fires.”

She grinned in surprise, not having expected a duke to pay attention to what went into his fireplaces. “How very practical.”

For a moment his gaze seemed to snag on her smile. Cleo wiped it away at once. Oh dear, had her impulsive nature already managed to offend? But all he said was, “Quite.”

She wet her lips. The rain was growing harder now, although the duke didn’t seem to mind. “I think I ought to go back to the house now. The rain …” She held up one hand as if to catch the drops falling around them.

He looked up as if just noticing the rain. “Of course. And here I am, holding your shawl.” He handed it back to her.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Until dinner?”

He thrust one hand through his hair, sweeping the wild locks back over his forehead. It exposed his sharp cheekbones and firm jaw more starkly. Cleo was impressed in spite of herself. Gracious, how could Helen not want him to whisk her into the shrubbery? “Until dinner, Mrs. Barrows.” He bowed and walked on, his boots crunching on the gravel.

Cleo flung the tail of her shawl over her head and hurried toward the house. Suddenly, two weeks didn’t seem so long after all.