By rights they should be living there, but they were comfortable enough in the smaller cottage that had remained in the family. The larger residence, set back among the sycamores, seemed rather gloomy to Glory when they had visited on previous occasions at the invitation of the current owner.
Mr Pettit seemed to be a staunch supporter of Queen’s Well, but now Glory wondered about him, considering his guests. The duke and his mother must have made themselves at home, despite Mr Pettit’s illness, because it was from the dowager that the invitation had come.
Normally, Glory would have been eager to gain noble approval of her plans, for a nod from a duchess would certainly be a boon to any enterprise. But her dealings with Westfield made her leery of a conversation with either of them, especially if they shared Dr Tibold’s views upon the waters.
Glory might even have refused to go, if given a choice, but it was made clear that she had none. Phillida had practically swooned, with joy this time, when she received the missive. Preening over the correspondence, Glory’s aunt had spent the rest of the day determining what to wear and planning detailed reports to all her London acquaintances of her new ‘friendship’ with the noblewoman.
Thad, too, had been eager for the outing, and since little in Philtwell interested him, Glory had kept her objections to herself, though she was determined to be on her guard. The others might be blinded by titles, but Glory knew that, beneath Westfield’s elegant exterior, there was something dangerous that went beyond the power of wealth and rank.
Westfield handled himself too well. And he had handled her too well, Glory thought, flushing at the recollection. What other man of his position would disarm a pistol-wielding opponent, and so easily? Glory realised that she had not been a formidable foe, but, then, what gentleman would act as he had towards a woman? Westfield had no compunction against pulling her to him, twisting her arm, whispering in her ear …
Glory drew in a sharp breath. She liked to think of herself as capable, for she had held her family together since the untimely death of her father, raising her brother and making the decisions that Phillida was unwilling or unable to bother about. She managed the finances, ran the household and had chosen to revive Queen’s Well, despite opposition. There was little that unnerved her.
But Westfield made her uneasy in ways that she couldn’t even define. He was a threat, if nothing else, to her peace of mind, so Glory looked about warily as they entered Sutton House. But when the butler showed them into the parlour, the room was empty except for a regal-looking woman who could be none other than the dowager duchess. Approaching them with a smile, she apologised for the lack of proper introduction since Mr Pettit was indisposed.
It was not what Glory had been expecting. She had imagined a female version of Westfield—dark, aloof and threatening—and this woman seemed to be none of those things. Although Glory rarely chanced upon members of the ton, the social elite, she knew that often the women were spoiled, shrill and demanding, with contempt for anyone beneath them.
Yet the dowager graciously greeted each of the Suttons in turn, lastly settling her attention upon Glory. Although her eyes were blue, they held the same sharp intelligence as her son’s, and she cocked her head slightly, as though to examine Glory in earnest.
‘Ah, Miss Sutton,’ she said. ‘So you are the one.’
‘The one?’ Glory repeated, uncertain of the woman’s mean ing.
‘Who would re-open Queen’s Well.’
‘Yes,’ Glory said, lifting her chin. Having failed in their earlier intimidations, perhaps Dr Tibold and Westfield hoped to use the gentle arts of persuasion in the form of this woman. But Glory had no intention of giving in—to anyone. The more she was pushed, the more she held fast, determined to make her family’s heritage a success.
Expecting her show of stubbornness to draw the duchess’s displeasure, Glory was surprised at the woman’s slow smile. ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ the older woman murmured. Nodding, as if in approval, she left Glory even more puzzled when she turned towards Phillida, who was asking about Mr Pettit.
‘He is doing better, though he won’t be able to join us tonight,’ the duchess said. As she chatted with Phillida, Glory took the opportunity to study her more closely. The duchess did not much resemble her son, for she was not tall and lean, but there was something about the way she held herself that reminded Glory of the duke. And they shared the same bone structure, which made the dowager a handsome woman, if not quite as breathtaking as her son.
While Glory watched, a light came into the older woman’s eyes that made her look far younger. Turning to follow her gaze, Glory was brought up short by the sight of a figure in the shadows at the end of the room. Someone had entered silently and unannounced, but there was no mistaking the tall form. It was Westfield, and Glory automatically took a step back.
Surely he would be on his best behaviour in front of his mother, Glory thought, yet she still felt a frisson of unease. Thus far, her dealings with the man had been unpredictable, untenable, unsavoury …
‘Ah, there you are. Come join us,’ the duchess said, and Glory’s heart pounded far more than was reasonable as he stepped into the light. He moved with the quiet grace of a cat, and not an ordinary pet, but one like those found in menageries … one that was stalking its prey.
Glory held her ground, but glanced away to still her racing pulse. She had learned through experiences with some of the villagers and the workmen not to let her weaknesses show, for surely her opponent, be it a vendor or an enemy, would take advantage. Unfortunately, the thought of Westfield taking advantage of her only fuelled her agitation. All too well, she recalled the feel of him pressed against her back, the warmth of his breath upon her ear …
‘Miss Sutton.’
The sound of the deep voice made her jump, and Glory realised he was speaking to her. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to look into his handsome face. His dark eyes revealed little, and yet Glory suspected that there was nothing that escaped him, including the fact that she was hanging back, as far from him as possible. No doubt that’s why he was making a point of offering her his arm to take her into supper.
Glory was tempted to refuse, but she did not want him to see how easily he had unnerved her. With a curt nod, she assented, but as he led her into the dining hall, she had never been so aware of another person. Her skin tingled where her fingers rested against his sleeve, and she nearly pulled away. When she took her seat, glad to be free of his touch at last, Glory felt his fingers brush against her back.
She was certain the movement had been no accident and wondered if he took liberties because of what had happened the previous night. If so, Glory had more to worry about than his designs upon the spa, and a shiver ran up her spine. She was in no position to protect herself from a powerful lord, and poor Thad had proven himself no match for Westfield. As the implications struck her, Glory was hard pressed not to leap from her chair and flee into the night.
Although she remained where she was, all the Gothic novels Glory had read came back to haunt her in the dimly lit, old-fashioned room. She told herself that even a duke could do nothing while lodged in a gentleman’s home, with her family around her and his mother in attendance. And yet Glory felt as though no one else was present, the two of them existing in some kind of netherworld.
Vaguely, she heard Phillida launch into a lengthy explanation for her earlier fainting spell, including abundant praise for Westfield’s fast action in coming to her rescue. Mention of the incident restored Glory to herself, and she braced herself for Westfield’s comments. But he demurred, saying little and appearing uninterested, though Glory sensed that he was paying more attention than he pretended to.
‘We may have arrived only recently, but I have already heard of this physician,’ the duchess said. ‘It seems he is a most unpleasant sort. What on earth were you doing with him, Westfield?’
Glory looked towards the duke with no little curiosity. Whatever the man was