Once Upon A Dream (16 page)

“Thank you, Your Grace. Effie, come along. A lofty personage cannot be unnecessarily detained without serious consequences to the foolish woman
who’d linger in his presence.”

When Anne swept off at a brisk pace, the duke let her go, which was prudent of him. She was not above using her reticule as a weapon, and not even
Sedgemere would have managed loftiness had Anne’s copy of
The Mysteries of Udolpho
connected with the duke’s… knees.

“The Quality is daft,” Effie huffed at Anne’s side. “Dafter by the year, miss, though he seemed nice enough, for a dook.”

“Effie Carsdale! You were calling him icy not five minutes ago.”

Sedgemere was cold, but not… not as easily dismissed as Anne had wanted him to be. He noticed where others ignored, he ignored what others dwelled
upon—Anne’s bosom, for example.

“Nice in an icy way,” Effie clarified. “Been an age since anybody teased you, miss. Perhaps you’ve lost the habit of teasing
back.”

Anne’s steps slowed. Ducks went paddling by on the mirror-flat water to the left. In the tall trees, birds flitted, and across the Serpentine,
carriages tooled down Rotten Row. Another pretty day in the park, and yet…

“You think Sedgemere was
teasing
me?”

Effie was probably ten years Anne’s senior, by no means old. She studied the trees overhead, she studied her toes. She was a bright woman, full of
practical wisdom and pragmatism.

“I was teased by a duke and didn’t even know it,” Anne said, wishing she could run after Sedgemere and apologize. “I thought he was
ridiculing me, Effie. They all ridicule me, while they take Papa’s money to cover their inane bets.”

And they were all polite to Sedgemere, which he apparently found as trying as insults.

“You’ll have the last laugh, Miss Anne,” Effie said. “Mark me, that dook will lead you out, come the Little Season, but thank
goodness we’ll soon be away from the wretched city. A few weeks breathing the fresh air, enjoying the lovely scenery up in the Lake District will put
you to rights, see if it don’t.”

Part of the reason Sedgemere had agreed to join Hardcastle at the Duke of Veramoor’s “little gathering” was that Sedgemere House lay in
Nottinghamshire, partway between London and the Lakes, and thus Sedgemere could dragoon his friend into visiting the Sedgemere family seat.

Hardcastle was nearly impossible to pry away from his ancestral pile in Kent, but he was godfather to Sedgemere’s eldest, an imp of the devil named
Alasdair.

“I’ve left instructions the boy’s to use the courtesy title, having turned seven,” Sedgemere said as he and Hardcastle moved their
horses to the verge to make way for a passing coach. “The twins insist on thwarting my orders, of course, because it irritates their older
brother.”

A plume of dust hung in the morning air as the coach rattled by. The sun was so hot every sheep in the nearby pasture was panting, curled in the grass in
the shade of a lone oak.

“Perhaps,” Hardcastle replied, “the twins thwart your orders because they’re barely six years old and have always known their
brother by his name. My brother never referred to me by anything save my name when we were private.”

Hardcastle was a good traveling companion, offering an argument to nearly every comment, observation, or casual aside Sedgemere tossed out. The miles went
faster that way, and when traveling from London to Nottinghamshire, one endured many dusty, weary miles.

“You’re nervous of this house party,” Sedgemere said. “You needn’t be. Simply follow the rules, Hardcastle, and you’ll
get some rest, catch a few fish, read a few poems. Veramoor is a duke first, a matchmaker second.”

Or so Her Grace of Veramoor had assured Sedgemere, though one never entirely trusted a duchess with twelve happily married offspring. Thus Sedgemere had
rules for surviving house parties: safety in numbers, never be alone in one’s room without a chair wedged beneath the door, never over-imbibe, never
show marked favor to any female, always ride out in company.  

“You do recall the rules, Gerard?”

“Don’t be tedious.”

Sedgemere had used Hardcastle’s Christian name advisedly, there being no one else left to extend him that kindness when he clearly missed his late
brother. Hardcastle acknowledged Sedgemere’s consideration by keeping his gaze on the road ahead as they trotted into Hopewell-on-Lyft, the last
watering hole before the Sedgemere estate village. 

“Shall we have a pint?” Sedgemere asked. “The summer ale at The Duke’s Arms is exceptional, and tarrying here will give my staff a
few extra moments to flutter about before they must once again deal with me.”

Sedgemere wasn’t particularly fond of ale, though he felt an obligation to give his custom to the inn when he passed through the area. The innkeeper
and his wife were good folk, and the service excellent for so small an establishment.

Though a delay here meant the boys would have to wait longer to see their father, and their lack of patience never boded well for the king’s
peace—or Sedgemere’s breakables.

“A pint and a plate here will do,” Hardcastle said. “I’m in no hurry to complete any part of this journey.”

 “One wonders how will you corrupt my firstborn if you never see the boy. A pint and a plate it is.”

“Mustn’t forget to corrupt the future duke, the present one having become such a ruddy bore,” Hardcastle said, brightening as much as he
ever brightened. “I must see to the boy’s education, and make a thorough job of it too. Several months should suffice.”

“As if you’d winter in the—what the deuce?”

An altercation was in progress in the coaching yard of The Duke’s Arms, between a sweating, liveried coachman and the head hostler, an estimable
fellow named Helton.

“Gentlemen,” Sedgemere said, swinging off his horse. “The day is too hot for incivilities. What is the problem?”

Hardcastle dismounted as well, though he—having only the one child in his nursery—knew little about sorting through disputes. The buffoonery of
the House of Lords didn’t signify compared to small boys in the throes of affronted honor.

“Your Grace.” Helton uncrossed beefy arms and tugged a graying forelock. “Welcome to The Duke’s Arms, Your Grace. My pardon for
speaking too loudly. John Coachman and I was simply having a discussion.”

John Coachman was another muscular individual of mature years, though in livery, the heat had turned him red as a Leicestershire squire’s hunting
pinks.

“Yon fellow refused me a fresh team,” John Coachman snapped, “and this a coaching inn. I never heard the like, and my lady having had to
make do with as sorry a foursome of mules as I ever cursed in my life for the past seven leagues.”

The coach horses were not mules, but they were on the small side, a bay, a chestnut, and two dingy grays, and every one was heaving with exhaustion, their
coats matted with dusty sweat.

    “John?” came a feminine voice from around the side of the coach. “What seems to be the problem?”

Sedgemere’s body comprehended the problem before his brain did, for he knew that voice. Brisk, feminine, and pitched a trifle lower than most
women’s, that was the voice of a few memorable dreams and one interesting encounter in Hyde Park nearly a week past.

“Miss Faraday,” Hardcastle said, bowing and tipping his hat.

“Madam,” Sedgemere said, doing likewise. “Your coach appears to be in need of a fresh team.”

She wasn’t wearing a bonnet, perhaps in deference to the heat, perhaps because she was indifferent to her complexion. Summer sunshine found red
highlights in her dark hair, and the midday breeze sent curls dancing away from her face.

Desire paid an unexpected call on Sedgemere, a novel experience in broad daylight. His waking hours were spent avoiding the notice of the ladies, and thus
he was usually safe from his own animal spirits. Miss Faraday, fortunately, was more interested in the horses than she was a pair of dukes idling in a
rural coach yard.

“These four beasts have gone ten miles past a reasonable distance,” she said. “I’ll not be responsible for abusing them with the
weather so miserable. If the inn hasn’t any teams to spare—”

“You’ll bide with me and Hardcastle for the space of a meal,” Sedgemere said, while in the back of his mind, Alasdair—the Marquess
of Ryland, rather—led his brothers on a shrieking nursery revolt. “By the time you’ve refreshed yourself, I’ll have a team on the
way from Sedgemere House.”

“A fine plan,” Hardcastle chorused on cue. “You must agree, Miss Faraday, it’s a pretty day for a quiet meal in the shade, and
Sedgemere has, in his inimitable style, solved every problem on every hand.”

Hardcastle was laying it on a bit thick, but such was his habitual sincerity, or so oppressive was the heat, that Miss Faraday sent a longing glance to the
oaks shading the inn.

“You’re suggesting we dine
al fresco
?” she asked.

Insects dined
al fresco
. Birds came dodging down from the boughs to interrupt outdoor meals. Stray bits of pine needle found their way into the
food. A father of three boys had firsthand experience with these and other gustatory delights.

“The breeze is lovely,” Sedgemere said, drawing the lady away from the horses by virtue of tugging on her wrist. “The Duke’s Arms
has a pretty garden around to the side, and Hardcastle will be happy to place our order with the kitchen.”

“I shall be ecstatic, of course,” Hardcastle muttered, passing the reins of his horse to a stable boy. “You see before you a duke in
raptures.”

Sedgemere saw before him a duke half in love, which would not do. “Come along, Miss Faraday. Mr. Helton can send to Sedgemere House, and you’ll
be on your way in no time.”

Helton bustled off, John Coachman bowed his overheated thanks, and Sedgemere led the only woman with whom he felt comfortable being private to the
seclusion and sweet scents of the coaching inn’s garden.

“My maid,” Miss Faraday said, slipping her hand from Sedgemere’s. “Carsdale has gone around to the—”  

“The inn’s goodwife will doubtless inform your maid of your location,” Sedgemere said. “Many patrons avail themselves of the
garden, if you’re concerned for the appearances.”

Miss Faraday was a beautiful woman, though contrary to current fashion, her hair was dark, her eyes were green, and her features were on the bold side. Her
brows were particularly expressive, and Sedgemere happened to be studying them—mentally tracing them with his tongue, in fact—so he noticed
when unexpected emotion flitted across Miss Faraday’s features.

“I ought to be concerned for the appearances,” she retorted. “You should know, Your Grace, I’m considering getting myself
ruined.”

“Lucky you,” Sedgemere said, batting aside his ungentlemanly imaginings. “You
can
be ruined, while I am hopelessly ensnared in
respectability, even if I wager irresponsibly, waste my days in opium dreams, and neglect my estates and my children.”

Sedgemere had no experience with damsels in distress, but he suspected making them smile might be a good step toward slaying their dragons.

Miss Faraday refused to oblige him.

“I am half in earnest, Your Grace. Do not jest when I face days more travel. The last coaching inn gave us the same story. The Quality is off to the
house parties, leaving London for the shires, and for me, no fresh team is available. If I didn’t know better, I’d think somebody was traveling
ahead, warning the inns not to spare me a single decent horse.”

Sedgemere led the lady to the shade of the venerable oaks at the side of the inn. His attraction to her was inconvenient, but understandable. Her testiness
around him made her safe. She was comely, and he was in the midst of one of his increasingly frequent periods of sexual inactivity.

Frequent and bothersome.  

“You are tired,” Sedgemere said. “You are vexed by the heat, your lady’s maid has likely been complaining the entire distance from
London, and you haven’t had a decent meal for three days. Let’s find a shady seat, Miss Faraday, and you can curse me, the Great North Road,
and the summer heat, not in that order.”

The scowl Miss Faraday turned on Sedgemere was magnificent. “Don’t patronize me, Your Grace. I much prefer the disdain of my betters to
anybody’s condescension.”

She reminded him of his cat, Sophocles, a temperamental soul who hissed first and apologized never. And yet, Sedgemere was always unaccountably pleased to
be reunited with his cat, just as he was pleased to find himself thrown into company with Miss Faraday.

“Oh, very well,” he said, opening a tall door in a taller stone wall. “
I
am vexed by the heat,
I
haven’t had a
decent meal for three days, and Hardcastle’s whining and arguing have about driven
me
to Bedlam. Are you happy now, Miss Faraday?”

The daft woman was smiling at him, beaming at him as if he were Alasdair—Ryland, rather—and had just recited the entire royal succession
perfectly.  

“Effie was right,” she said, which made no sense. “Come along, Your Grace. A hungry duke is not a patient creature.”

She took him by the wrist and led him into the cooler confines of the shaded garden, where, as fate or a lucky duke would have it, not another soul was to
be seen.

Sedgemere was a tease.

Anne marveled to reach this conclusion, but what else explained that slight warmth in his eyes, the affection with which he complained about His Grace of
Hardcastle, or the way he’d invited her to curse him?

She preceded the duke into a garden redolent of honeysuckle and lush grass, for this was a cottage garden, not the manicured miniature park found behind
the town houses in London’s wealthy neighborhoods.

“I’ve never seen heartsease in such abundance,” she said, as the duke closed the garden door. “And the lavender is
exquisite.” The border along the garden’s south-facing wall was thick with silvery
-
green leaves
and vibrantly
-
purple flowers.