The guests began to arrive the next day. The house came alive with trills of female voices, and the jangle of harnesses was almost constant. Cleo had marveled at the size of the castle when they arrived, but after a while she began to wonder where all these guests would stay. Surely even Kingstag Castle couldn’t hold them all.

Helen, of course, had to greet everyone, welcoming them at the duchess’s side. Cleo joined her, losing herself in the excitement of meeting new people, none of whom seemed to recoil at the sight of her, common merchant though she was. Perhaps that was because she said nothing at all about herself, speaking only of her sister and the wedding and how lovely the castle was.

“I’m starting to sound like Mama,” she whispered to her sister after a while. “All I can speak of is Kingstag!”

Helen sighed. “There is a great deal to say about it.”

“Well, it truly is magnificent.” Cleo craned her neck to admire the vaulted ceiling of the hall, which put her in mind of a cathedral. The house was full of modern improvements—there was indeed piping for water inside the house—but it retained much of its ancient air as well. “To think, you’ll be mistress of this in a few days! Do you remember when we used to dream of living in a castle?”

Her sister smiled. “Yes. But even then I never dreamt of one this enormous.”

“All the more to explore!” Cleo grinned, but finally realized how pale her sister had become. “Helen, are you well?” she asked in concern. “You should sit down.”

There was a distant rattle of wheels on gravel. Helen turned toward the open door. “I can’t. Someone else is arriving.”

“Let Her Grace greet them. Come,” she urged. “I’m sure the duke wouldn’t want his guests to first see you passed out on the floor.”

“No, indeed,” said a male voice behind them.

Cleo jerked around. The Duke of Wessex stood there, watching in his intent way. His wasn’t a merry, fond countenance, but she had the feeling that he paid closer attention than most people. Even in this trifling circumstance, she felt the force of his regard in every fiber of her being. No wonder he was such a powerful man. She could barely drag her eyes away from his.

“Your Grace.” Helen dipped a graceful curtsey. “We did not expect you.”

“I had some pressing business to attend to this morning; my apologies.” He barely glanced at her. “What makes you think your sister is about to faint, Mrs. Barrows?”

Cleo wet her lips and darted a wary glance at her sister. Helen might have been a statue, from all the emotion or energy she conveyed. “She looks pale to me, Your Grace, but perhaps I’m imagining things.”

“I would never discount the keen eye of a loving sister.” He turned the blast of his regard upon Helen, who seemed to waver on her feet under it. “I agree with Mrs. Barrows, my dear. You must sit down.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. Now that the mighty Wessex had given his approval, Helen would sit. Still, she wasn’t one to cast aside help, so she merely took her sister’s arm and helped her into the nearby morning parlor, where a pair of elegant settees stood in front of the windows. Helen sank onto one, and Cleo perched on the edge of the facing settee. In the bright sunlight, her sister’s face looked drawn and lined, as if she had aged since they arrived. It was distinctly odd, and Cleo frowned in worry. Her sister should be glowing with happiness, or at least contentment. Instead she looked like she had come down with some wasting disease.

Wessex followed. He rang the servants’ bell, then closed the door. He came and seated himself next to Cleo, opposite his bride. “Why are you unwell, my dear?”

“I’m only a little tired, Your Grace,” said Helen. “A few moments’ rest, and I shall return to greeting guests with Her Grace, your mother.”

“Nonsense,” said Cleo. “You need to eat something; you hardly ate a bite of breakfast. There is no color in your cheeks at all.”

Wessex glanced at her. “Is this true, Miss Grey? Was breakfast not to your liking?”

Helen’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, it was delicious, Your Grace—I simply couldn’t choose ...”

“Perhaps a tot of brandy will restore you,” he suggested.

Without thinking, Cleo snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! She’s hardly eaten. Brandy will make her faint dead away.”

Slowly he turned to her. “What?”

“Tea would be better. Tea and some muffins. Ladies don’t normally drink brandy, sir.”

“I see,” he murmured, still watching her. “A pity, that.”

Yes, it was a pity, in Cleo’s opinion. She liked a little nip of brandy now and then—never enough to make her head spin, just a small amount after dinner in the winter or perhaps a drop in her tea on especially trying days. Still, her mother would have an apoplexy if she admitted that to the duke, so she merely smiled. “I think the muffins are particularly important. There were some delicious ones at breakfast this morning. May I send for some for my sister?”

“Of course.” As if on cue, a servant slipped into the room. Wessex arched one brow at Cleo. “What shall we send for?”

“Tea, please, with milk and muffins. And if there is any of that superb gooseberry jam, that would be lovely.” Cleo smiled at the servant, who bowed and hurried off. “Are the guests to arrive all day, Your Grace?”

“I’ve no idea,” he said without a trace of concern. “My mother will know, but she’s also quite capable of greeting them herself. I believe the first arrivals were to be family, in any event.”

She had to purse her lips to keep from grinning. “And you’ve no desire to see your family?”

“They will be here for a fortnight at the least.” He sounded resigned. “I will see them quite enough.”

“Perhaps some of the other guests will prove more diverting.” She couldn’t resist a naughty smile at his measuring look. “What are guests for, if not to provide entertainment?”

For the first time, his mouth curved. With his head tipped thoughtfully to one side, and that slow, slight grin, he looked sly and devastatingly attractive. “I devoutly hope you are correct.”

“I have great expectations,” she told him. “Your cousin in particular has promise.”

“Ah—you must mean Jack.” The duke’s grin grew wider. “I believe he inspired a formulation of smelling salts. I would suggest that you tease him about it, but he cannot be teased; on the contrary, he is quite proud of it.”

“Yes, very promising,” repeated Cleo with enthusiasm. “Dare I ask what he did to inspire smelling salts?”

“I don’t recall all the details.” The duke made a bored grimace even though his eyes shone with amusement. “It began with a wager, naturally, and took place during one of the most elegant balls of the season, but I never knew why there was a bow and arrow involved. And as for the monkey ... well, the less said about the monkey, the better.”

“A real monkey?” she asked, trying not to laugh.

“Pungently real,” he confirmed. “Lady Hartington swore it took a month to get the smell out of her house.”

Cleo laughed. She had a strong feeling Wessex almost envied his cousin. Goodness, he was far from the stuffy duke she had thought him yesterday. He had a dry wit that charmed her, and he was devilishly appealing when he grinned. “No wonder he’s famous!”

“Infamous,” said the duke, though that slight grin still curved his mouth. “But even Lady Hartington forgave him. Apparently he has this way of smiling at ladies that makes them forgive and forget, even when he looses a monkey in their homes. It prompted some wit to declare that there ought to be a smelling salt to combat the effects of that smile, and thus a legend was born.”

Opposite her, Helen sighed, and she abruptly remembered herself. “Not that I think Lord Willoughby will upset the wedding! Indeed, he had better not, or I shall take measures—and I will neither forgive nor forget,” she added with a quick laugh. “Never fear, Helen, nothing shall mar your wedding day.”

Her sister smiled wanly, glancing at the duke. “I never thought it would.”

“Jack is a bit of a rogue, but he’s to stand up with me,” Wessex assured them. “I would never have asked him if I couldn’t rely on him.”

“I would never question your judgment, Your Grace,” Helen murmured. “See, Cleo, there is nothing to fear.”

The duke’s grin faded. “No. Nothing at all.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. Cleo looked down at her hands, shaken to realize she really liked Wessex’s smile. Not merely in the manner of a woman gratified to see some warmth and humor in her sister’s future husband. No, her thoughts had not touched on Helen at all. For a moment, she had quite forgotten why they were there, and her appreciation had been purely female. Which was wrong in so many ways.

It was a relief when the servant returned with a tray. Cleo busied herself with fixing a cup for Helen, keeping her attention firmly on the tea and her sister. Wessex said nothing, but she could feel him watching her. She steadfastly resisted the urge to watch him back. She had a terrible feeling it would be hard to look away again. After a few moments, the duke wished Helen well again and excused himself. When the door clicked closed behind him, she almost wilted.

“Thank you, Cleo,” said Helen before she could speak. “I don’t know what I would do without you here.”

She smiled uneasily. “Live in less anxiety that I’ll offend the duke?”

“He didn’t appear offended by anything you said.” Helen sipped the tea. Some color was already coming back into her cheeks. “He didn’t appear bored, either, as he always does when I speak to him.”

“Nonsense!”

“If not bored, then he looks as though his mind is elsewhere.”

“You mustn’t let him do that ...”

“How can I stop him?” Helen sighed. “He finds me dull.”

Cleo sat in tense silence for a moment. She had a terrible feeling it was the truth. Wessex had barely looked at Helen while he sat with them; he had looked at her, and she had liked it. That must be corrected at once. “He had better begin to pay you more attention. Then he’ll see how sweet and charming and lovely you are.”

“Oh, Cleo.” Her sister smiled wistfully. “Not everyone sees me as you do. I’m not vivacious and capable of speaking to anyone, as you are.”

“Which makes you a far better companion, since you never say anything hurtful or rash, as I do.”

Helen stared into her tea. “I am sure, after a few years, the duke and I will have learnt how to get on with each other. I will learn what pleases him, and he has already been so solicitous of me. We will learn.”

“Er ... yes.” She worked to keep the frown from her face. Every time she talked with her sister, it became less and less clear why Helen had accepted his proposal. Did her sister merely want to be a duchess? Was he simply too eligible, too handsome, too wealthy to refuse? Had Papa forced her to accept? Cleo wasn’t sure she even wanted to know if the last was true. Her father would never forgive her if she stirred up trouble, and yet ... “Are—are you pleased with this marriage, Helen?” Her sister looked up warily. Cleo wet her lips. “I presumed you were, when you accepted His Grace’s proposal, but ... I cannot help but notice how listless you are. It’s as if something you dread is approaching, rather than something joyful.”

For a long moment Helen said nothing. “My marriage won’t be like yours,” she finally whispered. “His Grace doesn’t love me as Matthew loved you. I don’t expect him to—I daresay most men of his rank don’t love their wives—and I knew that when I accepted his proposal. I suppose it’s just becoming real to me now, that he and I will be married in a few days.”

“You don’t have to marry him.” It popped out of her mouth before Cleo could stop it.

Helen’s dark eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t say such a thing! Of course I do. The guests are arriving! I couldn’t possibly jilt His Grace.”

You could if you really didn’t want to marry him, thought Cleo. She bit her lip, hard, to keep the thought unspoken.

“It’s just nerves,” went on Helen, a bit more firmly. She took a sip of tea. “Becoming mistress of this house, part of this family, a duchess ... It’s very overwhelming, but I shall do my best. Please don’t tell Papa anything.”

“No,” Cleo said after a pause. “I wouldn’t.” She hardly wanted to speak to her father at all, especially with this new suspicion in her mind that he had browbeaten Helen into accepting Wessex. She took a deep breath and shook off her worries. Perhaps it was just bridal nerves. Helen was reserved, but she was no shrinking violet. She would find her way; the Cavendish family was warm and welcoming, and he wasn’t unkind or cold at all. Cleo thought it would be very easy to fall in love with the duke. And surely once Wessex spent more time with Helen, he would see what a lovely person she was and fall deeply in love with her. It was impossible not to love Helen, once one knew her.

And if an opportunity presented itself to nudge His Grace a little closer to that happy state, Cleo would be prepared to take it.

Gareth left the house, avoiding the front of the castle where yet another carriage was arriving. His mother had planned the wedding and guest list, and as far as he was concerned, she could welcome every distant cousin and acquaintance who came. Normally he would be busy as usual, off in his study or out riding the estate. If he had any discipline, he’d return to his study now. Or more accurately, if he had any discipline, he never would have left it and gone down to the hall where he knew his bride and her sister were greeting guests. He knew because Blair had mentioned it as they sat down to work. And if his cousin had deliberately set out to destroy Gareth’s peace of mind, he couldn’t have done a better job. Within an hour Gareth had admitted defeat and gone to see for himself.

He didn’t want to think about why.

The contrast between the two sisters couldn’t have been sharper. Helen, his future wife, held herself with perfect poise, her hands clasped in front of her. Her smile was polite, her manner reserved. She was lovely, from the top of her glossy dark curls to the tips of her pink slippers peeking out from beneath her snow-white skirts. She was every inch the perfect duchess.

Mrs. Barrows, on the other hand, was like a bolt of light in the dark expanse of the hall. Her dress was blue, with bold embroidery on the skirt and—God help him for noticing—all over the bodice. Her smile was wide and warm. She greeted the arriving guests as though she were truly delighted to meet them, her hands as animated as her face. He lurked at the back of the hall and watched her laugh with his cousin Jack Willoughby, and a tendril of something like jealousy circled his gut.

Speaking to her, though, hadn’t helped at all. He’d been spurred forward by an apparent argument between the sisters, and he’d told himself he was being a solicitous fiancé, urging his bride to sit down and rest, as she did look rather pale. But then her sister spoke to him, and he’d almost forgotten his future wife was in the room.

Cleopatra. She was well named. Gareth could easily see men being willing to fight and die for her. How could two sisters be so unlike? And why, by all that was sane and reasonable, was he so mesmerized by the wrong one?

He had to stop this. He must think of Miss Grey—Helen. Perhaps if he called her by name, he would feel closer to her. Helen, Helen, Helen.

He walked down the gravel path that led to the stables. One of the ancient oaks that grew along the path had been felled, split right to the roots by lightning in the recent storm. It had fallen away from the carriage lane, but it would take weeks to clear the debris. There would be firewood for a year from that tree. Several men were working on it and doffed their caps as he walked by. Gareth nodded at them and walked on.

The Kingstag stables were spacious, laid out with a small courtyard in the center. The stalls could house almost eighty horses at a time, although in recent years they had rarely done so. Since Gareth’s father’s death, his mother had chosen to remain quietly in the country while raising her young daughters. Now he supposed there would be more entertaining at Kingstag; not only would he have a wife but his sisters would be making their debuts soon, which would necessitate balls and parties and all manner of visitors. He suspected his mother was looking forward to it, given her enthusiasm for the wedding plans. He remembered how much she had loved hosting parties and soirees when he was young. It was the only reason he had agreed to a large wedding celebration. Left to his own devices, he would have been happy to wed in the bishop’s private quarters.

He wondered what Helen wanted. He hoped his mother had consulted her.

A shiny black phaeton with startling yellow wheels currently stood in the stable courtyard. Grooms were unhitching a pair of large black stallions, although their actions were slowed by the awestruck glances they kept bestowing on the carriage. It must be Jack’s. If it wasn’t, Gareth would wager half his estate it would be Jack’s by the end of the week. His cousin was drawn to beauty like a bee to a flower, and this phaeton cast all others into the shade.

“Did you win it, steal it, or borrow it?” he asked loudly.

Jack Willoughby stepped out from behind his carriage. “I’m wounded. Naturally I bought her. Had to borrow a bit, but she’s mine.”

“She?”

“Hippolyta.” Jack whispered the name with the reverence of a lover. He reached out and rubbed a spot of dirt from the gleaming wheels. “Hippolyta, my beauty.”

“You named your phaeton.” Gareth shook his head. “Of course you did.”

“Just look at her, Wessex! Such curves, such elegance! Have you ever seen a female finer than this?”

Cleo Barrows’s laughing face flashed into his mind. Gareth exhaled. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

His cousin grimaced. “You always did do things the right way. Besotted with your bride already!”

He closed his eyes. God, he needed a drink—and it wasn’t even noon. “You brought the ring?”

“Of course.” Jack had gone back to gazing lovingly at Hippolyta. “Got it from the jeweler yesterday.”

For a moment there, he’d been almost hopeful Jack would have forgotten it. Lost it. Wagered it away in a card game. The ring was a family heirloom, sent off to a London jeweler to be sized and cleaned. If Jack had forgotten it ... But the ring was here, so the wedding wouldn’t be delayed by the need to procure another one.

“Excellent,” Gareth murmured. “Are you headed up to the house?”

“Not yet.” Jack took out his handkerchief and reached up to polish another spot on the carriage. “Too many girls in white dresses, giggling like mad. I may spend the next week here in your stables.”

“I’ll send Withers out with some port and a blanket.”

Jack grinned. “Very sporting of you, Wessex.”

Gareth nodded and left. He turned away from the house; if Jack wasn’t going back, neither was he. There was nothing at the house but trial and temptation right now, as long as Helen and Cleo would be standing in the hall, the contrast between them sharpened by their proximity. He had to cure himself of this unwanted fascination. He was the Duke of Wessex. He’d had his pick of women in England and he’d chosen Helen. He wished he could return to that certainty that she was the one. He wished he could feel any sort of contentment about his rapidly approaching marriage to her. He would even be glad just to be less attracted to Cleo; then he would be able to persuade himself that all would work out right in the end, that he would come to care for Helen, that they would all be happy eventually.

Instead ... all he felt was dread, growing stronger by the hour.