Chapter Ten

"Close the door!" the Hartley sisters shouted in unison.

Thankfully, Mosely had his wits about him and managed to haul the dogs back as Oscar nudged their wiry snouts free of the

door before shutting them firmly out.

Then Oscar stood and took in the scene.

Scanning past the harried trio of young men he'd have to deal with later, he saw downy yellow feathers everywhere, a pair

of angry flapping ducks on the two window ledges, an overturned sofa, a raised dais in the corner swathed by burgundy drapes,

and a wooden bathtub center stage with a half-dozen paddling chicks on the surface of the water.

As he heard the peeps that he'd mistaken for shrieks, part of him wondered if he was lost in some sort of strange dream. "What

the devil?"

In a blur of jonquil skirts, Honoria disappeared behind the curtains. "Found another!"

Althea lifted a fringed pillow from an upholstered chair and glanced at him over the puffed shoulder of her poppy-red dress.

"Well, don't just stand there, Vandemere."

"Rude," her sister scolded, coming out from behind the curtain to deposit another duckling into the water. Disheveled and

decidedly vexed, she set her hands on her hips and blew a hank of flaxen hair from her forehead. "This was, after all, your

fault. Again, I might add. And we'd just recovered from the piglet debacle. Though, one would think you'd have learned your

lesson after the chickens."

"I did. This time, I made certain to lock the doors so the Queen's Council couldn't get in. Then I levered the basket of ducklings through the window."

That would explain the length of discarded rope, Oscar thought. But he still had questions. So many questions.

"And hasn't that worked out splendidly," Honoria said wryly and went back to collecting fuzzy yellow ducklings.

In the next instant, one of the adult ducks flew into the room, squawking and angrily flapping at the tallest of the three

slender-necked Culpeppers. He backed away, raising an arm to shield his face.

Honoria expelled an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, Percy, just pick it up."

"But it will peck me."

Wondering why he'd thought that this llama-man might pose a threat, Oscar stepped forward and scooped up the creature, tucking

it under his arm while carefully holding its beak.

"Well done," Percy said with a blink of astonishment, lowering his arm.

Oscar shrugged. "This is nothing. Try separating two doves who want to scratch each other's eyes out because one of them saw

you first."

The trio chuckled.

"How did you manage that?" Althea asked, extracting a small ledger from her pocket and withdrawing the pencil tucked in her

dark hair.

When Honoria cleared her throat with obvious disapproval, he turned to find her glaring at him.

He shrugged, all innocence. "Fear not, I wasn't going to elaborate."

Although, in that particular instance, all he'd had to do was promise to satisfy them both at once. And he always kept his

promises.

"Well, you can just stop thinking about it, too," she muttered when he passed her on the way to the window.

He leaned in to whisper. "Surely, a woman I just found locked inside a room with three men isn't offended by the mention of a pair of birds."

"Are you certain it was just a pair and not an entire flock?" She narrowed her eyes.

There was something about the petulant frown on her lips that captured his interest and made him want to smooth it away with

his own mouth. "I never kiss and tell, Signore."

"Or perhaps you just forget."

He watched her stalk off to round up more ducklings and grinned, his dark mood abruptly lifting.

An hour later, the fowl were liberated from the drawing room.

Oscar volunteered himself and the Culpeppers to deliver the baskets of ducklings to the pond. Standing near the bank and bulrushes,

he exchanged a few words with the llamas. The three summarily left, having suddenly recalled a prior engagement.

As the dust settled on the lane after their hasty retreat, Oscar filled his lungs with a self-satisfied breath. For Vandemere's

sake, of course. Then he made ready to depart as well.

However, before he could grab his hat and gloves, Lady Hartley invited him to tea. As if on cue, his stomach growled. Even

so, he hesitated. There was the possibility that Warring or Cardew could have sent a letter with news about Ladrón. So he

should return to the abbey...

But then she said the three words that every man longs to hear: freshly baked biscuits .

He stayed.

Honoria was about as pleased at this turn of events as a cat dunked in a washtub. And he relished every murderous glower she

sent him when her mother wasn't looking.

Once his craving for biscuits was sated—well, for the moment—he was ready again to take his leave. In fact, he was just mounting his horse when the sound of a stampede drew his attention to the mouth of the narrow drive.

Perplexingly, the villagers seemed to be descending in droves. They started filing out of coaches, curricles and horse carts,

chatting animatedly. Stranger still, they were all in costume. Haymarket had nothing on this hullabaloo. They surged forth

in a boisterous stream that wrapped around the house and led to the back garden.

Curious, he followed, promising himself all the while that he would leave in short order.

But when he reached the garden, he found himself slack-jawed at the sight he beheld.

"Welcome to the pit , Oscar," Lady Hartley said from beside him, seemingly unsurprised by his reappearance. "Isn't it magnificent? My son Truman

designed it."

The pit was an amphitheater formed from a natural grassy hill giving way to a steep slope, exposing the rock beneath. But then nature

was shaped into a circular escarpment of tiered stone steps that looked as though they'd been there since the dawn of time.

And across from them stood an oblong stage made of the same stone but inlaid with a pattern that gave the appearance of a

wide eye staring up toward the heavens.

"It's quite something," he agreed, thoroughly awed.

She beamed at him and patted his arm. "Why don't you walk me down? You'll have a much better view from there."

"Actually, I wasn't planning to sta—" He stopped as she hooked an arm through his. "It would be my honor."

As they descended, Oscar mused that he'd been to many places in his life. He'd lived in squalor. Caroused in bordellos. Gambled

in palaces. And yet he'd never witnessed anything like this.

Before his eyes, makeshift set dressing was being erected while people dug into crates for brightly colored costumes and props. Within minutes, the stage was a sea of floppy hats and windowpane pantaloons, gilded scepters and wooden swords, accompanied by strumming lutes and vocal scales.

Even though Rowan Warring had told him about the eccentricities of this family, it still took Oscar by surprise.

The villagers of Addlewick seemed to have no trouble accepting this thespian family, but he knew it wasn't common practice.

After all, Vandemere's father had been disowned after he'd married an actress. Even his own father's family had not accepted

Oscar's mother because she'd once been an opera singer.

How had the Hartleys managed to avoid such stigma?

While he mused over this, he watched Roxana Hartley bring the large personalities of the villagers to order. They likely didn't

even realize they were being managed. Her command of the stage was effortless and graceful, while letting others believe they

were in charge.

She was even craftier than Cardew. She'd definitely passed on her skills to a certain daughter who likely led a parade of

men by the nose. Not him, of course. But men less worldly than he.

As for the youngest daughter, Althea appeared to run on gears that were constantly wound. If she wasn't moving from one side

of the stage to the next, she was scribbling something in one of her pocket ledgers.

But as the day progressed, his attention kept returning to Honoria, time and again. It was impossible not to gaze upon her.

And it wasn't because of her beauty but rather in spite of it.

She was truly magnificent to behold. With a simple shift in posture or an inflection in her tone, she embodied every character

she played, whether male or female. It was... mesmerizing.

He had little doubt that if she had decided to play the part of Vandemere, the widows never would have doubted her claim.

"Come here, Vandemere," Honoria called down from the stage. "I require a victim to stab."

Oscar began to lift a hand in refusal. She was only looking to make a fool of him.

So then, why did he find himself vaulting up to the stage instead?

Yet, as he neared, he had his answer. He felt it—an irresistible pull, a force so tangible that it prickled over his skin,

lifting the hairs along his nape and arms. And when he stood in front of her, looking down into her upturned face, he saw

a flash of that same awareness in her eyes.

"I am yours to command, Miss Hartley," he said, his voice low.

A slow saturation of pink climbed to the crests of her cheeks, and her lips parted as if... as if...

He would never know. Because then she blinked, and it was as though she became someone else. Her mask of control fell into

place so easily that he wanted to take a moment to marvel at her skill.

But then she slapped a wooden sword against his chest and backed away.

"For today's lesson in choreography, Vandemere will die," she announced brightly to the eager cast.

Describing the scene in detail, she demonstrated every move of the sword fight—parry, feint, thrust, kill. He had to admit

she was good. During his years of enduring stuffy private tutors, which his mother had demanded Cardew pay for, he'd also

taken fencing lessons. And he matched her fluidly, step for step, as if they were in a dance.

A fatal dance. At least, for him.

Honoria truly put her heart into it. Every time she struck the fatal blow, he fell onto the stage with a groan. Which, after

the eighth time, was not an act. Then, standing over him, she'd slap his thigh with the flat of her sword and command, "Again."

Through the mask of choreographer, he could see that the little sadist was enjoying herself. She liked having this power over him. And while the vision of her standing over him with her hair disheveled and her color high would fuel his fantasies for nights to come, she was having a bit too much fun as far as he was concerned.

So naturally, he had to take her down with him.

With her final lunge, her sword hit the mark, sinking neatly between his arm and rib cage. But instead of staggering back

with the blade pinned to his side, he reached out and clutched at her hand over the hilt. Then, when he went down, sagging

back against the stage to die, she went down with him.

Kneeling over his body, a heady laugh erupted from her lips. "You are such a cad."

Her fingers splayed over his chest to push away from him. But before she could, he reached up to tuck a fallen flaxen curl

behind her ear, lingering in the silky strands.

"But you like me this way. Admit it."

A brief instant of confusion stitched her brows as she searched his gaze. Though, whatever question was in her mind, she shook

her head in answer to it.

"‘Not till God make men of some other metal than earth,'" she said, haughtily quoting the Bard's Much Ado about Nothing .

Applause swiftly followed.

It was only in that moment that Oscar recalled they were on a stage. Not alone but in front of half of Addlewick and her mother and sister. She had done it again, distracting him so thoroughly that he'd lost all sense.

He lowered his hand. She pushed to her feet.

"Splendid, my dear. Wrong play, but absolutely splendid," Lady Hartley said, gliding to center stage. Then she faced the villagers.

"I think that will be all for today. We'll meet again Wednesday next, and by that time, Lord Hartley will be home again."

A chorus of Huzzahs! went through the crowd as they began to disperse in chatting clusters.

As the villagers departed, Oscar lagged behind to load costumes and props into the trunks that the footmen eventually hauled

away. When that was done, he knew it was time to go. He wasn't one to linger, after all. Always ready to put a place behind

him. Yes, that was his life.

And yet, when Lady Hartley prevailed upon him to stay and dine with them, he agreed.

He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because of Honoria's dark look as she shook her head behind her mother and pointed for

him to take his leave. Perhaps it was because he knew that it would vex her to no end if he accepted. Or perhaps it was just

that his stomach was growling and he didn't want to think about the nightmare-inducing meal awaiting him at the abbey.

So he stayed. Again.

They dined alfresco on cold meats, hunks of sharp cheese, hearty bread, ripe fruit and— Huzzah — more biscuits. Lady Hartley, Honoria, Althea and he simply sat on the stage, their feet dangling over the side, the day

waning with the comfort and relaxation that he hadn't often found. Which was surprising because it had been the most peculiar

day of his life.

"Is it always like this here?" He made a swirling gesture to the house and stage, and as he did a yellow feather floated out

from his sleeve.

The three Hartley women laughed, the sound filling the high walls of the amphitheater like music.

"No," Honoria said. "When my father is home, it's much more entertaining."

Oscar could not imagine that. Then again, he was coming to learn that, where this family was concerned, he was probably better

off not knowing in advance.

"He'll like you," Roxana offered, pressing her hand to his shoulder as if she imagined he was worried. She didn't know that he wasn't planning on being around Addlewick for too much longer. But she smiled at him in that uncanny way mothers often had that made you wonder if they could read your thoughts. "I think I'll retire for the evening. Thea, would you come with me and bring that lantern?"

"It's still light out, Mother."

"I know, but night is fast approaching."

Oscar took the hint. "I'll be going, as well. Thank you for the unexpected but enjoyable day, Lady Hartley."

"How many times must I tell you to call me Roxana? We are family now." She pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then, weaving her

arm through Thea's, the two of them climbed the stairs out of the pit.

He hopped down from the stage and turned for Honoria. Without thought, he set his hands on her waist to help her down. She

opened her mouth as if to argue—after all, they both knew he wasn't the chivalrous sort—but then relented and placed her hands

on his shoulders instead.

They were eye to eye in this position, her face framed by the stars just winking into existence through the indigo of twilight.

"I remember a night sky similar to this in Paris."

"I'm surprised you recall it at all."

"Such a peevish tone, Signore. Is this about that make-believe kiss again?" At the mention, he could swear he saw the first

curls of steam coming out of her ears. "Apparently, this is a rather sore point. Very well. If it will make you feel better,

I will let you refresh my memory."

He slid her forward, taking his time to lower her feet to the ground. And she surprised him by staying close, lightly tracing

the edge of his jaw with her fingertips and sending a shower of tingles over his skin.

"I've been thinking about that," she purred, looking at him through heavy lashes in a way that made his blood thicken.

His grip tightened on her narrow waist. "Have you?"

"Mmm-hmm," she hummed. And when she sank her top teeth into the plump flesh of her bottom lip, he nearly groaned.

He wanted that lip. Wanted to take it between his teeth, then take her mouth in a slow, thorough kiss. That would be the perfect

ending to this surprising day. He was even willing to lose this round to her, to be the first one to concede.

But it seemed like he wouldn't have to, after all. Because she rose up on her toes and laid her finger against his lips, brushing

softly back and forth. "And I think that you're right."

"I am?" His reply was hoarse and barely audible, his throat going dry when her hand slid to his nape. A warm shiver darted

down his spine, pooling low. Every single part of him was focused on one thing—wanting her mouth beneath his.

"That kiss," she whispered, her sweet breath teasing the surface of his skin, making him ache with hunger, "never happened.

Just. Like. This. One."

Abruptly, she lowered to her heels. Then she left him there, tongue-tied and more aroused than he ever remembered being. And

all from a kiss that never happened.

Bloody hell.