Four Weddings and a Sixpence Read online

  A log broke in the fireplace, the crack and flare of light startling her. The dog, however, paid the sound no heed and nudged her once again.

  “You’re quite single-minded, aren’t you?” She resumed the slow stroke of her fingers, and the massive animal huffed with contentment. “But easily pleased. If only my uncle would accept a dog as a suitable companion for his only heir. You would be the perfect suitor.”

  A muffled laugh broke the quiet.

  Anne glanced quickly at the entry. The heavy oak paneled door remained closed, just as she’d left it.

  Under her hand, the dog didn’t stir or show any signs of concern. Nonetheless, she gazed once more down the length of the room. She caught a shift of movement at the edge of one of the wingback chairs that faced away from her. As she watched with dismay, a man rose and turned to stroll toward her.

  Tall and lean, he moved with easy, prowling strides. Light from the candles and fire burnished coal black hair above a handsome face graced with strong cheekbones and a determined jawline. Ice blue eyes, set in a frame of thick black lashes, gleamed with amusement as he watched her.

  Anne swallowed hard as he approached. She supposed some women would find him an excellent example of the male form. She swallowed a second time. Who was she attempting to fool? She found him the most excellent example of the male form she’d ever clapped eyes on, and he’d only been in her line of sight for mere seconds.

  Anne abruptly realized she was staring. She also realized that she knew the man’s name.

  Rhys Alexander Hamilton, Duke of Dorset, studied the young woman as she quickly stood. She was unusually pretty, with gold curls caught up in a topknot, moss green eyes, and a lush mouth. The pale pink gown draping her body was backlit by the fire and semitranslucent, revealing a curvaceous, compact form. A delicate gold chain encircled her throat, the lower links concealed beneath the neckline of her gown. Rhys wondered what hung from the end of the chain—and instantly envied its position.

  He knew the exact moment she recognized him because her eyes widened fractionally. Much to his surprise, she immediately frowned, her mouth firming.

  A beautiful mouth, to be sure. But still, one currently conveying displeasure.

  He was a duke. Young ladies didn’t frown at the sight of him. They gushed. They simpered. They often tittered nervously and gave him coy glances while fluttering their eyelashes—all behavior he’d come to find annoying of late. Until now.

  Intrigued, he halted several steps from her and bowed.

  “My apologies for intruding on your solitude,” he said smoothly.

  “It would seem it is I who have intruded on your peace, Your Grace,” she replied. “Had I known you were here, I would not have entered.”

  “Ah, but then I would have missed hearing your charming conversation with Jack,” he replied, unable to restrain a grin. “And your look of—what, exactly? Disappointment? Displeasure?”

  “None of the above—not exactly, that is.” A blush colored her cheeks, her fingers toying with the delicate links of the chain at her throat.

  “I apologize for not revealing myself sooner,” Rhys offered, regret that he’d embarrassed her assailing him. “I should not have listened without your knowledge.”

  She waved dismissively. “I should have known better than to entrust such secrets to a mastiff.” The heat faded from her face, the delicate skin once again clear and pale. “Everyone knows it’s a hound you need for personal matters.”

  Rhys smiled, warmed by the unexpected humor—and something else. Something entirely authentic. He stared at her for a moment too long, realizing belatedly it was his turn to reply. “Let us start again, then—properly, this time. We have not been introduced,” he said with feigned dismay. “I am—”

  “I know who you are, Your Grace,” she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him from reciting his pedigree.

  “Ah, then you have the better of me,” he replied, finding his easy cadence once again. “For I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Lady . . . ?”

  “Not Lady,” she corrected him. “Miss. Miss Anne Brabourne.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Brabourne.” He bowed.

  She sketched a curtsy and inclined her head with a graceful gesture that was perfectly polite. At the same time, she managed to imbue the acknowledgment with all the imperiousness of a queen greeting a subject.

  Delighted by the act despite his earlier irritation, he smiled. “I hesitate to point out, Miss Brabourne, but you risk what I am certain must be a pristine reputation by sharing this admittedly large but very private space with me. I cannot be trusted to behave.”

  She eyed him dubiously. “Hardly, Your Grace.”

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise. She was something, all right. Something that fired Rhys’s blood in a way he’d not felt for some time. Did she really believe herself able to resist his advances? Was he losing his touch? All but three minutes in her presence and his body begged for the opportunity to find out. “And why not, pray tell?”

  “Because you are . . . well, you.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And I am me.”

  “Would you care to explain that rather cryptic comment?”

  “You”—she gestured, a pointed wave of her hand at him—“are Rhys Alexander Hamilton, a duke, and a gentleman notorious for avoiding matchmaking mamas and their hopeful daughters. It’s universally accepted that you have no wish to marry any time soon. I, on the other hand, am engaged in the expected occupation of a lady and industriously searching for a husband. That alone makes me a female you would wish to avoid at all costs.”

  She paused, eyeing Rhys as though she worried he could not keep up. “I am also the niece and sole heir to Lord William Armbruster—General Armbruster. While you are rumored to be a rake of the first order, you are not known to be heartless. You could have no logical reason to practice your wiles on me. You’ll keep to your widows and unhappily married women. To dally with an unwed young woman would lead to a scandal and disgrace for your family and ducal name.”

  “You seem to know much of me,” Rhys replied, taking a step toward her. She was honest—brutally so. Scandalously so, even. And she was right. He valued his time and independence far too much to take on a wife. Oh, he would acquiesce at some point, of course. There was no other choice for a man in his position. But he’d be damned if he didn’t live life to the fullest before being taken down by matrimony—at a ripe old age, if he could manage.

  Rhys resisted the urge to close the distance completely and trace the length of her necklace to where it ended. “And I know so little of you.”

  “My uncle is determined I shall marry a man who is a pillar of society. A man with an impeccable reputation,” she explained almost apologetically. “It is my business to know of you and your ilk, as well as the respectable eligible bachelors. How else am I to arrive at a suitable match? I have a list and you most certainly are not on it.”

  “Your enthusiasm for the undertaking threatens to overwhelm me,” he commented dryly, trying desperately not to feel slighted by her statement. It was true enough, after all. He cared deeply for his family and would no more harm their good name than he would Miss Brabourne’s. Still, did she have to make him sound so harmless?

  Her eyes twinkled with restrained amusement. “I should certainly reprimand you for that comment, Your Grace, but alas, you are correct. I do not wish to marry a pillar of society or any other eligible man. I do not wish to marry at all.”

  “I’m unsure if I should be relieved or aggrieved that I and all of mankind have been so summarily dismissed,” he commented, taking one more step toward her, purposefully cocking one eyebrow in the very manner that had been known to make multiple women swoon—at once.

  She laughed, a low, melodic sound that sang to his very senses.

  He took one last step and stood directly in front of her, realizing she’d grown more beautiful as he’d advanced.

  A low, guttural growl emanated from behind Mis
s Brabourne, and Rhys looked past her to the hearth where Jack reclined, eyeing him with wise, dark eyes.

  Rhys blinked hard. This was not how encounters proceeded between the Duke of Dorset and women. Somehow, the roles had been reversed. Clearly, he’d gone too long without a widow or unhappily married woman in his bed.

  Coming to his senses, Rhys realized he should insist Miss Brabourne leave immediately, despite her claim of safety.

  He looked again at Jack. He really ought to send her away at once. Rhys hadn’t been so entertained by a female in months, if not years. And the truth of it was, he wasn’t ready to let her go. He’d have to eventually, but not just yet.

  Jack rumbled again, a second throaty growl of warning.

  Rhys mentally pleaded with the mastiff, promising to behave—and willing himself to keep his word.

  At that moment, the library doors opened, the creaking of the oak allowing just enough time for Miss Brabourne to gain a safe distance from Rhys.

  “Anne, whatever are you doing here?” Lady Marguerite Stanley asked as she joined them. “And with Rhys? I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted.”

  Rhys eyed his aunt’s best friend. “Miss Brabourne did not know of my presence in the room, Lady Marguerite. She was just leaving.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Miss Brabourne began as Marguerite frowned at Rhys.

  “Your Grace, I assume your discretion is guaranteed?” Marguerite demanded, interrupting Miss Brabourne.

  Rhys bowed to the two women. “You have my word. Go, return to the ball. I will wait here until a suitable amount of time has passed.”

  “Are either of you remotely interested in what I have to say?” Miss Brabourne asked, accepting Marguerite’s arm.

  “No, my dear, now come or your uncle will have my head,” the older woman answered, tugging Miss Brabourne about and urging her toward the door.

  But Anne stopped abruptly and turned back, offering him a charming smile. “You’re far less frightening than everyone makes you out to be, Your Grace,” she began, adding, “but I will keep your secret.”

  Rhys returned her warm smile, only this time without the cocking of his eyebrow. Or the lopsided smirk that showed his dimple so well. Not even the raking of his hand through his hair. No, Rhys simply smiled for the pure joy of it—for the pure joy of her.

  He watched as the two women left the room. He waited a quarter of an hour, then returned to the ballroom, only to find the evening entertainment had lost its enticement. He searched out his aunt, promised to see her soon, and instead of joining friends at his club, went home. Settling in the library with a glass of brandy before bed, he realized he’d enjoyed his aunt’s annual gala much more than usual.

  And he wondered if Miss Brabourne always accompanied Lady Marguerite on her visits with his aunt.

  Chapter 2

  Anne smothered a yawn as the door closed behind her maid. The gold chain with the simple locket attached lay next to her brush and comb atop her dressing table. She gathered the necklace up in her palm and opened the locket, pausing to contemplate the silver sixpence inside.

  “You haven’t brought me a husband yet,” she murmured, smoothing her thumb over the cool metal of the coin. “Lucky charm, indeed. I don’t know why Cordelia, Bea, and Ellie thought you were anything more than an old coin.”

  Anne smiled at the thought of her three dearest friends as she closed the locket and laid it atop the dresser. They’d been young girls together at boarding school when the sixpence had been discovered, hidden within a mattress. She couldn’t remember who, precisely, had decided it was a lucky coin that would bring them all true love, and it didn’t really matter. In truth, they were more sisters than mere friends, and Anne would willingly do whatever was needed to make them happy. Even if it meant pretending to believe in the power of a random coin. Yawning once again, she climbed into the turned-down bed and snuggled into her pillow.

  She was far too practical to truly believe the sixpence would bring her a husband and true love. Not that she wanted true love, she thought with a sleepy snort. Observing her parents’ passionate, emotionally explosive marriage for the first twelve years of her life had taught Anne that love brought intermittent and all too few bouts of pure joy along with misery and pain.

  No, she reflected, she did not want a love match. But she did want, or rather required, a husband. And the undiscovered gentleman was proving extremely difficult to find.

  “I’ll write to Cordelia, Bea, and Ellie in the morning and solicit their advice,” she decided out loud. Surely, one of the three would offer some bit of wisdom that would lead Anne to the right man.

  The instant mental image of firelight highlighting Rhys Hamilton’s face as he laughed made her shiver.

  “He is not a possible suitor,” she muttered. “I need a biddable husband. Easily controlled and one that will satisfy Uncle’s requests. The duke is none of those things.”

  Anne closed her tired eyes. On their way home in the carriage that night, Marguerite had asked how long she’d been alone with the duke in the library. Of course she’d assured her chaperone it had been a short time at best, but she’d bit her tongue to keep from adding, Not nearly long enough.

  She’d been sure the duke was about to kiss her when Marguerite had walked in. She could still feel the heat from his body on her skin. The smell of him continued to tease her nostrils still, long after they’d departed the ball. And his lips. The man’s lips were made for kissing. She’d all but willed the duke to take her in his arms. Some sort of subtle yet feverish madness had taken her over, and it continued still. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him? Had he meant to add unwed young women to his list of accomplishments?

  Anne drew the covers up to her chin and squeezed her eyes tightly. The Duke of Dorset would not make for suitable dreams. She needed to think on something else. A pastoral scene perhaps?

  “No, he would not make for suitable dreams,” she agreed with herself aloud. “But delicious dreams?” Anne groaned at the very suggestion and pictured cows. Lots and lots of slow, simple cows.

  Anne’s usual social schedule kept her busy over the next two days—so busy, in fact, she convinced herself she’d forgotten the interlude with the duke in the library.

  On the third morning, she followed Marguerite into Lady Sylvia Lipscombe’s drawing room. A wash of genuine pleasure swept over her when she realized the duke stood near his aunt Sylvia, sipping tea, but Anne only smiled politely, the sense that she had something to hide nibbling at the back of her mind.

  The two older women, bosom friends since the cradle, greeted each other warmly. Rhys bent to kiss Marguerite’s cheek.

  “It’s a lovely surprise to see you here, Rhys,” she commented with a genuine smile.

  Marguerite lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Sylvia.

  Anne saw the significant look but didn’t have time to wonder what it meant before Sylvia abruptly turned to Rhys and began to talk.

  “I assume you know Miss Brabourne?” She didn’t allow Rhys to reply, only nod, before she continued. “Excellent. Now, if you’ll be so good as to take Anne for a walk in my garden, I have a matter of some urgency to discuss with Marguerite, in private. I believe the roses are quite lovely at the moment.”

  She made a shooing motion, her lace handkerchief fluttering.

  Anne’s eyes widened at the abrupt command but Rhys smiled wryly as he bowed. “Miss Brabourne, I believe we have our orders. Shall we?” He gestured to the French doors leading out onto a terrace overlooking the garden.

  She nodded and moved past him. He leaned close to open the door and his arm brushed hers. She shifted quickly, startled by the shiver of awareness at the brief touch.

  “Watch your step,” he murmured, taking her arm as they left the terrace for the garden path.

  Anne glanced up at him through the screen of her lashes. He walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze on the flowers lining the path.

  It seemed r
ather unfair that he appeared completely unaffected by her presence while she . . . Anne wondered where the thought was going and decided not to follow.

  “Not very subtle,” Anne commented astutely, aiming the subject of the conversation purposefully away from herself and the duke.

  A smile curved his mouth. “No, but that’s hardly unusual for those two. Machinations will wait for no man—or woman, as the case may be. From what I am told, Lady Marguerite can quite often be found here with my aunt in the mornings.”

  Anne met his gaze and laughed, pausing on the path. “Did you purposely visit your aunt today to see Marguerite?”

  “No. I came hoping to see you.” He glanced at the windows overlooking the garden. “Perhaps we should find the rose my aunt suggested?”

  He gestured to a curve in the walkway. “I believe the rosebush lies just beyond the bend.” He bent toward her and whispered. “Where we shall thankfully be out of sight of my aunt Sylvia’s keen eyes.”

  Anne breathed in the irresistible scent of the duke, the sensation of tiny butterflies winging their way about her stomach. “Should I fear being unobserved, sir?”

  “My dear Miss Brabourne,” he said dolefully, shaking his head. “I thought we addressed this subject at my aunt’s ball. You are in dire need of a husband, while I”—he pressed his palm to his chest—“am assiduously avoiding all things matrimonial. You are as safe as the crown jewels, my dear Anne.”

  She was flirting and enjoying the act far, far too much.

  He is unsuitable. And even if he was not, the duke wants nothing to do with marriage, Anne mentally repeated twice, then once more for good measure.

  Pastoral cows were clearly in order. Anne attempted to focus her mind.

  They wandered down the path, the strengthening breeze teasing a tendril from her pinned hair.

  The duke touched her arm, turning her to face him. “You’ve come undone,” he teased, reaching out to tuck the loose curl behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek and lingering.