Dukes and Devilry by Felicia Greene

Author:Felicia Greene [Greene, Felicia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-31T04:00:00+00:00

There were many ways of counting time; hourglasses, water-clocks, configurations of knotted string and beads. Henrietta had read about most of them, even attempting to construct one or two—but after six days in Rowhaven, overseeing the additions to the arboretum and the hothouse, time had become a hostile enemy instead of an interesting opportunity to experiment.

How was she meant to measure the passing seconds—the wasted hours? Was she to count the times she looked at Richard Westlake, trying to summon whatever mysterious potency she had possessed the night of the ball, only to watch his eyes slide away from hers? Perhaps she could attempt to calculate the amount of times she had engineered a half-hour alone, in a secluded place, informing everyone of her chosen location… only to join Olive, Oliver and Richard again after thirty angry, lonely minutes, silently demanding a smirking Lord Westlake why he had failed to take advantage of her sudden solitude.

The nights had been horrible. At least daylight was full of activities that were both useful and enriching; Olive’s company had turned to be as wise and witty as her letters had suggested, and Rowhaven’s library was as richly endowed as that of Longwater. But the nights; the long, cold, lonely nights, when there was nothing to study or plant… then time seemed to slow to a dull, wretched crawl, and all Henrietta wanted to hear were proud, arrogant footsteps stalking along the corridor.

All she wanted to feel were Richard’s hands on her face, her neck; his lips, on hers.

If the nights without the man were insupportable, the hours in Lord Westlake’s company during the day were worse still. Richard seemed determined to consult with, listen to or argue with the Whitstables on almost every point concerning the Rowhaven renovations; this meant that Henrietta was forced to appreciate the man’s ready wit, deep intelligence, and instinctive practicality. Forced to debate him, provoke him, speak to him on any number of subjects…

He was meant to be her tiger. A useful beast; a way of proving to herself that she could catch, and briefly tame, a man who seemed untameable. He was not, under any circumstances, meant to be a man she listened to, talked with, laughed with.

He wasn’t meant to be her friend. They were meant to part as friends; not exist as friends, caring for one another. And she wasn’t, at any cost, meant to miss him when he wasn’t nearby.

As the seventh day dawned, she took herself to the library with the intention of losing herself in literature for the best part of the day. The morning was agreeably lost to this pursuit, and luncheon consisted of bread and cheese with Olive as they both pored over a new volume of maps—but the afternoon, as Oliver Whitstable knocked on the library door, would prove to be different.

‘Miss Hereford! The ibex has performed admirably.’ He rubbed his hands with glee as Henrietta and Olive smiled politely. ‘I have an hour or two of liberty—perhaps you would appreciate seeing the wood? I believe the bluebells are particularly fine this year.

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