being that I’m now the sole heir of—to borrow from the Greek—that hypochondriac hiding in his bedchamber, and his sixtieth birthday is fast approaching.”
“So are we here to plan a party to mark the day or a funeral?”
“Neither. I received a note—no, a command—from Aunt Vivien, informing me of her return from America. I’m to meet her here because, God help me, she has a surprise for me.”
“Not a good thing, I take it?”
“That depends. Would you have liked to be, I’m fairly certain, the only child ever to have a stuffed lemur—grinning, mind you, and with beady glass eyes—in your nursery? I’ve also got, just to list a few, cowbells from Switzerland, a gondolier’s hat and pole from Venice, some sort of strange white coat—I refuse to call it a gown—from India. Oh, and a bull’s ears and tail from Spain. There was also a monkey, but, alas, the thing died on the voyage home. I would probably have liked the monkey.”
“I think I’d like to see the lemur before I give you an answer. So what do you think she’s brought you from the wilds of America? I’ve seen drawings of some fairly fantastical feathered bonnets their Indians seem to favor. Think of the stir you’d cause in London, going out on the strut wearing one of those.”
Gabriel looked at Rigby questioningly. “Remind me again exactly why I let you tag along with me? Clearly you’re not going to be at all helpful.”
“I’m to back you as you lie barefaced to the duchess when you say you can’t linger here because you’re in hot pursuit of a certain young lady in London and have promised her you’ll be there for the Little Season.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. But not one lady. Several. I’ve decided, as Uncle’s last and only heir, that I must marry, set up my nursery. Never say just one, for God’s sake, or Aunt Vivien will want to meet her. She’ll be happy enough I’ve taken her advice and set out to produce several heirs of my own.”
“You probably should try for something else while you’re at it,” his friend suggested.
“Such as?”
“Such as, since you say you’re not all hot to be the seventh duke anytime soon, making certain Uncle Basil wakes up hale and hearty, to greet the sun the day after his sixtieth birthday.”
“And how do you propose I manage that? According to him, there’s an erp out there somewhere just waiting for him between now and November.”
“True. But think on this for a moment, Gabe. If he does croak before his sixtieth, that would make five of the first six dukes of Cranbrook clearly carrying some sort of curse with their title.”
“Nobody’s noticed yet.”
Rigby grinned, his slightly pudgy face turning him into a red-haired cherub. “They will when I tell them. It’s the best story I’ve heard in years. You didn’t mention the first duke. Was he another erp?”
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
