Page 6 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

T his is a lovely inn,” Winifred said as the servants set out the second course. “I do not recall ever staying here when I traveled between Torrance Park and London in the past.”

“It opened for business five or six years ago,” Plimpton said, lifting the bottle of wine and refilling both their glasses.

Her full mouth tightened and thinned at Plimpton’s gesture. Whether she was displeased because she thought him high-handed or because she disapproved of drinking more than one glass, he did not know.

They spoke of only inconsequential matters while the room buzzed with servants. But he could sense a certain tension beneath her lovely surface and knew she had questions for him. Plimpton had some for her, too.

In the meantime, he relaxed and savored the sight of her. Although she always looked elegant, he had noticed there was a certain shabby quality about her clothing which had surprised him as he’d assumed launching young women into society would be a fairly lucrative endeavor.

The gown she wore tonight was new—or at least he had never seen it before. The dress had obviously been designed by a modiste with considerable skill. The rich silk was such a pale green that it should have reduced her fair hair, skin, and eyes to insipidity, but instead, she looked vibrant and alive, like spring, personified. Indeed, she positively glowed , her silvery-gray eyes exhibiting those hints of pale brown that seemed to become more pronounced depending on what color she wore.

She was the most exquisite woman he had seen in years. Possibly ever. And there was a depth to her that transcended mere physical perfection.

Plimpton had his own secrets and plenty of past disappointments and usually had no interest in probing beyond the polite masks of others—either women or men. But the lightning-fast flashes of sorrow that sometimes slipped past Winifred’s beautiful veneer fascinated and drew him. What had happened to her during her marriage to Sedgewick? The man had been a rake—no, worse: a debauchee—and Plimpton had been horrified when Wareham had sanctioned the match. Of course, Sedgewick had been Wareham’s wife’s cousin, so it would have been difficult for him to reject a member of her family.

But he should have.

That sadness he saw in those occasional flashes had come from her time with Sedgewick; Plimpton was sure of it.

And it sickened him to think of what she might have endured.

***

Freddie should never have drunk that third glass of wine. Just because the duke kept pouring it, did not mean she had to keep swallowing it. But she had, her hand seemingly moving of its own accord and her mouth its willing accomplice. And now, somehow, the third glass was empty. She didn’t usually have a second glass. While her wits were not befuddled, her tongue had loosened as the delicious meal wore on.

For a man who had always seemed reserved to the point of taciturnity, the Duke of Plimpton was an excellent host and dinner companion. He kept the conversation moving smoothly, avoiding subjects that were too uncomfortable or personal while the servants hovered.

Most surprisingly, he spoke warmly about his home, Whitcombe, and it was obvious that he enjoyed ruralizing. And yet she knew he was scrupulous when it came to his parliamentary duties and came to London whenever Lords was in session.

It was also clear—from the way he talked about his daughter, mother, brother, Honoria, and his new nephew—that he cared deeply for his family. He was especially voluble on the subject of Honey’s baby, whom Freddie had not yet met.

“Robert is a very healthy baby,” he said, the words reminding Freddie that Plimpton had lost several children of his own.

Indeed, the change in the duke at the mention of his brother’s child was electric. His features, usually so stern, lightened with something that was almost a smile.

“Have you met him yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Freddie admitted. She had wanted to be there when the child was born, but she had not been able to leave her client at the time. “Honey says she will bring him to London in the spring.”

He frowned at that, clearly not pleased at the thought of the baby traveling. Freddie would like to be a fly on the wall if he ever thought to tell Honey how to raise her son.

“I was pleased that Honoria enjoys the country so much,” he said, evidently deciding to leave the matter of the spring trip until some other time. “I know she spent most of her life in London so I thought she would yearn for city life.”

“Her love for country living has surprised me, as well,” Freddie admitted. “Her letters are bursting with descriptions of Everley’s home farm, the new succession house Lord Simon is building, the new stables, and, of course, Robert.” Freddie finished the last of her raspberries and cream and the duke gestured for the servant to clear the dishes away.

“Would you care for anything else, my lady?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I have already eaten too much.”

The duke nodded his dismissal and the servants noiselessly departed.

Finally, they were alone and could talk freely.

“You said you talked to Wareham about my future.”

He nodded slowly, clearly weighing his next words. “Wareham was in a great deal of pain at the time, so his thinking was not quite clear. But one thing was evident, and that was his concern for your future.”

“I have not seen my brother in more than eight years. The last time we spoke he told me he would wash his hands of me if I chose to teach school.” Her eyes narrowed. “And for the last eight years he has held to that promise. So, why is he worried about my future now ?”

The duke gave a slight shrug. “That is something you will have to ask Wareham.”

“Wareham should be more concerned about his children than me. Especially his daughters. The only woman more manipulative and controlling than Sophia was her mother.” Now that was something Freddie never would have said without the prompting of three glasses of wine.

“I believe Wareham shares that opinion.”

Freddie raised her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her disbelief.

The duke accurately interpreted her look. “Your brother has changed, Winifred. As for the children, Viscount Telford would be their guardian if the worst happened. Naturally, Wareham’s oldest boy—who is almost eighteen—would take up his duties as earl if his father were to die. But the rest are still in the schoolroom and would live with Telford.”

Freddie shivered, the thought of her brother’s death for the first time feeling like a possibility. She had been at odds with Wareham for so many, many years that it was hard to remember the funny, caring brother he had once been.

“Are you cold?” the duke asked, mistaking her shiver. “Shall I have a servant fetch a wrap?”

Freddie shook her head. “I am surprised that Wareham’s brother-and sister-in-law are willing to take charge of all five of the younger children.”

“The Telfords have none of their own.”

“Even so,” Freddie said, “that is a great deal of responsibility. Wareham was not close with his brother-in-law back when I lived with him.

“No, I believe he and Telford have only become better acquainted in the last year or so.” He cleared his throat. “For a long time, Lady Wareham and Lady Telford were…estranged.”

Freddie gave an inelegant snort—something else that never would have happened if she had not drunk so much—and barely managed to bite back some truly ungenerous words about her deceased sister-in-law.

The way the duke eyed her told Freddie that he could guess what she had suppressed. “Do you know the younger Lady Telford?” he asked.

“I only met her a handful of times.” She hesitated, and then threw restraint to the wind. “Sophia did not get along with any of her siblings or their spouses. I saw most of them only at my brother’s wedding.”

The duke nodded, looking unsurprised.

Sophia’s manipulative, outspoken tendencies had alienated her siblings and Freddie imagined the entire family had exhaled a sigh of relief when Sophia had married Wareham and moved to Torrance Park.

And then Sophia had become Freddie’s problem.

She looked up from her unpleasant memories to find the duke’s knowing eyes on her.

“You continued visiting Wareham even after his marriage?” she asked.

“I did.”

She was amazed anyone would expose themselves to Sophia’s company on purpose. “Of course, Sophia would have adored you. Or at least she would have adored your rank.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She could not even fairly blame the nasty comment on the three glasses of wine. Her anger toward her dead sister-in-law had dimmed since the other woman’s death, but thinking about Sophia always fanned the glowing coals and brought her hatred roaring back to life. “I apologize, that was—”

“Accurate,” he broke in, subtle humor glinting in his eyes. “The Countess of Wareham could be a difficult woman.” The words were so ridiculously understated that Freddie felt like rolling on the floor with laughter. Thankfully, she was able to restrain that impulse. Perhaps the rolling on the floor with laughter stage only started after one had consumed four glasses of wine?

“I don’t know if you are aware, but Wareham has long regretted that he did not curb his wife’s behavior where you were concerned.”

“No, I was not aware of that.”

“Perhaps if you had opened any of his letters, you might have been.”

His quietly chiding words were like dry tinder on the flames of her anger. She gave an unamused laugh. “I always knew the purview of a duke was extensive, but I never dreamed it included the private affairs of people who are neither related to you nor dependent on your bounty.”

The duke’s expression did not so much as flicker. “Wareham is especially riddled with guilt when it comes to your marriage to Sedgewick. He fears there were reasons behind your decision to marry the earl that he was not aware of. He blames himself for not noticing at the time.”

“He should feel guilty. He allowed his wife to rule his household without ever bothering to question her behavior—especially when it came to me .” Freddie retorted, unwanted memories of life with Wareham’s harpy of a wife resurfacing in her memory like bloated corpses floating to the surface of a lake. “Sophia made my life hell from the day she married my brother. No, even before then,” she amended.

The cozy parlor pulsed with an uncomfortable silence and Freddie regretted sharing such an intimate detail of her past with this quietly judging stranger.

Oh, what does any of that matter anymore? It happened more than a decade ago. And you did nothing to be ashamed of, in any case.

Emboldened by those thoughts, Freddie forced herself to meet his gaze.

To her astonishment, she did not see censure in his dark gray eyes, but something that looked remarkably like sympathy.

Unhappily, she saw even more in his knowing gaze: The duke did not just suspect that Sedgewick had been cruel, he also knew how depraved her husband had been.

Freddie squirmed at the knowledge in the duke’s eyes, ashamed that the world—or at least a man like Plimpton—knew the truth about her dead husband.

She was terrified he was going to ask her something about Sedgewick or her marriage, but she should have known better; he was far too polite and circumspect to delve into that subject.

Instead, he turned the lens on himself. “When a man is as ill as your brother is now, the transgressions of his past weigh heavily.” His lips twisted slightly. “I was very sick a few years ago, so I remember well how one’s failures can haunt one.”

Her friend Honey had told her about the duke’s illness, although she had not shared many details, just the fact that he had been close to death. Honey had also mentioned that Lord Simon and Plimpton had been estranged at the time. Freddie supposed that was the failure he had just referred to.

Plimpton was not the sort of man to share such a private matter lightly and Freddie appreciated him confiding in her. In his stiff, autocratic way, the duke was trying to be helpful, and it was unfair of her to be constantly ripping up at him. It was also unlike her. If her friends could see the way she had behaved earlier today…

Freddie shuddered. Do better, Winifred. She met his inscrutable gaze. “Whitcombe is a great distance from Torrance Park, Your Grace. I know you are putting yourself to considerable inconvenience by bringing me all this way. I—I appreciate it.”

Lord. That had been painful.

“I am honored that I can help,” he said. “I must tell you that many of Wareham’s other friendships have fallen away over the years, Winifred. Your brother is quite isolated, so your presence at Torrance will matter a great deal to him.”

Fury rose inside her—the emotion so bitter and powerful she had to clench her jaws to stop it from spewing out of her. She wanted to shout at the duke that Wareham’s isolation was his own fault. That her brother had, year after year, chosen his wife over his sister, his family, and his friends.

But the man across from her had done nothing to deserve her rancor. Indeed, his loyalty to Wareham was commendable.

“You have been a good friend to Wareham, Your Grace.”

“And he has been a good friend to me.”

Freddie believed that.

Too bad Wareham had not been even half as good a brother.