Gabe was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and Rigby’s good humor wasn’t helping him. “He was competing in a steeplechase, his always reliable mount balked at a five-barred gate and the duke went flying over it.”
“Maybe the horse heard an erp, and that’s what stopped him. And…? I can see by your expression that there’s more.”
“And the first duke, Bryam by name, was only a few days shy of his sixtieth birthday.”
Rigby spread his arms wide. “And there you have it. The Cranbrook Curse. Destined to cock up your toes, almost like clockwork, before truly hitting your stride, and cursing your offspring to the same sad fate. Nobody would marry you, Gabe. I wouldn’t wish to bear your children.”
“Well, thank the gods for that, at least,” Gabe responded sarcastically, cocking his head at what he believed was the sound of a carriage coming up the drive. “Come on. I think my aunt may be arriving. And if you repeat a word to her of what we’ve said in the past half hour, I will personally stuff and mount you beside Lord Lemur.”
“You’ve really still got the thing? You even named it? And you don’t think that’s at least passing strange? May I see it?” Rigby picked up his pace in an effort to keep up with the long-legged Gabriel as they headed toward the massive stone edifice that was Cranbrook Chase. “In any event, there’s nothing else for it, old son. Somehow, someway, you have to keep Uncle Basil alive and kicking for at least another year. If I may remind you again, you already said you’re in no hurry to be duke.”
Gabriel stopped so quickly, his friend nearly ran into him. “All right, you’ve made your point. I don’t believe in this curse because there is no curse. All of the Cranbrook dukes drank and caroused like Roman emperors of old, and probably were lucky to survive as long as they did. My uncle’s only problem is that he’s probably worrying himself to death—but I, according to you, with no idea how to do it—am now charged with single-handedly saving him from—”
“Not single-handedly. I’m more than happy to lend you my assistance. It seems only fair, as I’m the one who’s going to spread the rumor of the be-cursed Bs the moment we’re back in town. Now come on—I’m anxious to see what the duchess brought you this time.”
“Whatever it is, you can have it,” Gabriel told him as they rounded the edge of the building and approached the traveling coach.
Even from this distance, he quickly recognized his aunt’s petite, pillowy form as a footman assisted her down the folding steps to the ground. Her masses of silver hair were coiled into long girlish curls, which reminded him of sausages hanging in a shop window, and were topped by an enormous floppy hat seemingly fashioned out of a dozen circular layers of lavender silk. Her gown, similarly colored and even more embellished with thin silken layers that blew about in the breeze, was curiously abbreviated, exposing her ankles and the dark purple-heeled shoes on her small dimpled feet, the purple an exact match to the tiny bunches of artificial grapes tucked here and there on her skirt.
“The duchess?” Rigby whispered. “She puts me in mind of a—hmm, I don’t know what, but some sort of confection.”
But Gabriel wasn’t listening. He was too engrossed in watching as another leg appeared, a female leg supported by a slim foot and the most perfect ankle he’d ever seen…and he considered himself a good judge, as he’d seen his share.
A yellow straw bonnet exited next, to be neatly caught by the footman.
Only then did a young woman put out her second leg and completely show herself, posing on the top step in a butter-yellow gown while steadying her hands against either side of the door as she slowly observed her surroundings.
Her hair was black, without a hint of red or gold as the sun hit it; unbound, gently caressed by the breeze. In profile, she was perfection, from the straight yet intriguingly flared nose, to the clean line of her chin…to the lush curve of her bosom.
And then she turned to look in his direction, and he saw the fullness of her pink lips as they slowly curved in a smile. She had freckles dancing on her slightly golden skin. Her eyes were nearly as black as her hair. And her brows.? How to describe those brows? They were thick, beginning just above the inside edge of her eyes and very nearly straight, only arching down as they met the edges of her brow bone. Dark wings, that’s what they were, and uniquely fascinating.
She could have been a warrior queen. Lord knows in his salad days he would have followed her anywhere, probably spouting an ode to her eyebrows. Good thing he was older now, and wiser.
“Ah, Gabriel, there you are!” his aunt called out, waving a lace-edged handkerchief in his direction. “Come here, come here. Don’t dawdle, Sunny! Look at the surprise I promised you. Thea—wave to Gabriel!”
“That’s it? That’s your surprise? She’s your surprise? The one you said I could have?” Rigby clapped Gabriel on the back hard enough to stagger him. “You’re a true sport, sonny boy—that’s what you are.”
DOROTHEA NEVILLE QUICKLY turned her head and lowered her chin, knowing it wouldn’t be polite to laugh at either the stunned-ox man or the grinning one. Nor should she wonder what words had been exchanged between them as they approached, although she was certain they concerned her.
She shouldn’t have removed her bonnet and taken down her hair. But with the off-window pulled down, the breeze had been too enticing to miss for the sake of propriety.
It was one of her greatest failings—among many, according to her mother—that had ended badly, also always the warning from her mother.
She looked unkempt, windblown, and tossing her bonnet at the footman while calling out, “Catch!” couldn’t be listed among her best ideas.
But who would know there would be witnesses?
And wasn’t it a good thing the duchess had spoken up before Dorothea had leaped down the two remaining folding stairs, just happy to be moving again, rather than sitting confined in the traveling coach, her knees practically glued to her chin.
She stepped down carefully, holding up her gown just enough to see her way on the steps, and stood beside the duchess for a moment before moving a few feet away, as she always felt like a giant when in the woman’s proximity.
That was because the duchess was, although wide, quite small.
No, that wasn’t true. It was because Dorothea knew herself to be that tall. She towered over her own mother, her stepfather and her two half sisters, stuck out (or up) like a towering oak surrounded by saplings.
Not that she rolled her shoulders forward or attempted to stoop when in company, because she was proud of her height. She was her father’s child, and he had been tall, was still tall, curse him…quite possibly as tall as one of the gentlemen now approaching, hats in hand, with the taller one quick to bend over the duchess’s offered hand.
“Aunt,” he said now, “welcome home. The duke is upstairs, dying.”
The woman frowned. “Again? He promised not to do that while I was gone. What is it this time? Is he seeing spots? He hasn’t done that in a while.”
“He hasn’t mentioned spots, no, although I recall hearing something about ill-humors. I’m afraid I wasn’t attending his words all that closely.”
The duchess nodded, the many silken tiers of her bonnet nodding with her. “Don’t apologize, Sunny, we none of us do.”
Dorothea exchanged looks with the second gentleman, obviously not the grandnephew and heir, who was looking as perplexed as she at this lighthearted exchange. But