Page 17 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)

Chapter

Seventeen

T he following day, the house party guests, escorted by the Duke of Walpole, rode out across the estate toward the new hunting lodge he had recently completed.

Cordelia had seen such buildings before, their own estate in Hampshire possessed one, but Christian’s was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The structure looked less like a lodge and more like a sweet manor house, its sandstone facade catching the sunlight until it gleamed pale gold against the backdrop of green parkland that surrounded it.

It was easy to imagine it in winter, smoke curling from the chimneys, fires roaring inside, the stone walls keeping out the bitter cold while guests warmed themselves with brandy.

After leaving their horses at the stables, Rosalind walked ahead, arm-in-arm with her husband while Cordelia and Isabella followed close behind.

She was glad Isabella had traveled from Hampshire to attend, and for the first time in weeks, Isabella seemed at least mildly engaged, perhaps even impressed by the ducal estate.

"It is quite marvelous," Ravensmere declared, surveying the building as they came up to the front entrance.

"Thank you," Walpole replied. "It’s grander than I first envisioned, but I expect it will do very well. After a long day’s hunt, one wants to return to a place where it is possible to converse—and to be comfortable."

"Indeed," Rosalind said, glancing at Cordelia with a look that held some unspoken meaning.

Cordelia felt the weight of it. She was acutely aware of the duke’s presence.

He had chosen to ride with her during their journey out to his new lodge, close enough that their boots had almost touched in the stirrups several times.

She could not help wondering whether Rosalind had noticed the way he looked at her.

For she had certainly noticed that his interest had spiked.

Guests wandered the grounds, some peering out toward the dark line of the forest beyond, where the hunts would transpire, others lingering in conversation. But Cordelia found herself anchored to Christian’s side.

Something had shifted between them. Though their beginning had been awkward—unpleasant, even—the awareness between them now was undeniable. Whenever they were together, it seemed to hum in the air, stealing their attention until they scarcely heard the conversations or happenings about them.

Christian’s voice carried easily as he addressed the party. "Feel free to walk about the grounds and look through the house. I have had the staff prepare luncheon. It will be served shortly in the dining room."

At his direction, the guests dispersed, some wandering indoors, some walking off toward the trees, while others were content to remain outside, seated on chairs that overlooked the property.

Cordelia entered the lodge. It truly did resemble a small country seat, though far simpler than Walpole Hall.

She wandered through the airy front rooms, each well-lit by tall windows and an abundance of sconces.

There was a small but serviceable kitchen at the rear, which hummed with activity since the duke was hosting luncheon.

Near the rear of the building, she discovered several sleeping chambers and quickly withdrew, unwilling to be discovered lingering alone in such a space.

"What do you think?" Christian’s voice came from just behind her, his hand brushing lightly against her back in passing. The warmth of that touch spread swiftly through her blood and she closed her eyes, reveling in his nearness.

That they were reasonably alone…

"It is delightful," she said honestly. "You must be pleased to see it completed."

"I am." He glanced along the passageway. They stood but a few steps from the private bedchambers and some distance from the front of the house where most of the guests were mingling. "I wanted something sturdy, able to withstand the worst weather—and not solely for hunting."

"You will not use it only for the sport?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. I thought it might be a place to think. To retreat from the obligations of Walpole Hall. This is still, of course, a working building, but it offers a certain respite."

She leaned back against the wall, and he mirrored her on the other side of the passage. Their eyes met and held.

"I am glad we have a moment alone," he continued. "I apologize for coming to your room. It was reckless of me.” He paused. “I saw so little of you at dinner that I was not thinking clearly."

She certainly did not regret his coming to her room. In fact, she wished he would do so more often. "Playing host keeps one very occupied."

"It does, unfortunately. It leaves me with less time than I would like for those with whom I wish to spend it most."

Cordelia was acutely aware that no one else stood within earshot. She could hear the voices and laughter of the others from outside, the clink of glasses, the rumble of masculine amusement, but here, in this part of the lodge, they were entirely unaccompanied.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"It took me some time to fall asleep. I was a little restless.” She paused. “What about you?" she returned.

"I slept not at all. I was too distracted, and I suspect you will not be surprised to hear that the distraction lies under my own roof—only a few doors from my chamber."

She sucked in a startled breath at his candor. He was utterly scandalous, and yet his admission thrilled her in more ways than she should allow.

"You are being very wicked, Your Grace." A smile tugged at her lips. "You are hardly playing fair."

He grinned, and the effect on her was instant, her stomach fluttered, her heart quickened.

For a moment, neither moved. The air between them seemed to draw tight, like a bowstring.

He shifted closer, not enough to touch her, yet near enough that the faint scent of his cologne, a subtle, masculine blend of sandalwood and something darker, warmer filled her senses.

"Perhaps we should return to the others," he suggested, "before I drag you into that room and kiss you senseless."

The idea sent a rush of heat through her. She had no desire to be among the others. What she wanted—what she ached for—was to be here, alone with him. To feel the weight of his embrace, the strength of his arms about her.

"You would not dare, Christian."

"Wouldn’t I?" His brows rose, the question heavy with challenge. "You put too much faith in my sense of honor."

"Perhaps I do," she murmured, stepping across the passage to place her hand against his chest. She let her fingers trail slowly downward, feeling the hard plane of muscle beneath his coat.

His gaze dropped briefly to where her hand lay, then returned to her face. There was a flicker in his eyes, something she could not quite name, but which made her pulse thrum all the faster. She thought he might speak, but he did not. Instead, the silence stretched, weighted with everything unsaid.

Footsteps nearby broke the spell, just as a pair of guests passed the far end of the passage, their conversation carrying faintly to them. Cordelia stepped back, her hand dropping to her side. "But we cannot," she said at last, her voice low.

"No?" His tone was unreadable.

"Let us return,” she suggested, wanting to change the subject so she didn’t do anything so foolish. “I think a cooling glass of champagne is precisely what we both require."

"Is that so?"

She stepped away, his words following her. "Yes, that is so."