Deborah Simmons - Glory And The Rake

‘Ah, there you are. Come join us,’ the duchess said, and Glory’s heart pounded far more than was reasonable as he stepped into the light. He moved with the quiet grace of a cat, and not an ordinary pet, but one like those found in menageries … one that was stalking its prey.

Glory held her ground, but glanced away to still her racing pulse. She had learned through experiences with some of the villagers and the workmen not to let her weaknesses show, for surely her opponent, be it a vendor or an enemy, would take advantage. Unfortunately, the thought of Westfield taking advantage of her only fuelled her agitation. All too well, she recalled the feel of him pressed against her back, the warmth of his breath upon her ear …

‘Miss Sutton.’

The sound of the deep voice made her jump, and Glory realised he was speaking to her. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to look into his handsome face. His dark eyes revealed little, and yet Glory suspected that there was nothing that escaped him, including the fact that she was hanging back, as far from him as possible. No doubt that’s why he was making a point of offering her his arm to take her into supper.

Glory was tempted to refuse, but she did not want him to see how easily he had unnerved her. With a curt nod, she assented, but as he led her into the dining hall, she had never been so aware of another person. Her skin tingled where her fingers rested against his sleeve, and she nearly pulled away. When she took her seat, glad to be free of his touch at last, Glory felt his fingers brush against her back.

She was certain the movement had been no accident and wondered if he took liberties because of what had happened the previous night. If so, Glory had more to worry about than his designs upon the spa, and a shiver ran up her spine. She was in no position to protect herself from a powerful lord, and poor Thad had proven himself no match for Westfield. As the implications struck her, Glory was hard pressed not to leap from her chair and flee into the night.

Although she remained where she was, all the Gothic novels Glory had read came back to haunt her in the dimly lit, old-fashioned room. She told herself that even a duke could do nothing while lodged in a gentleman’s home, with her family around her and his mother in attendance. And yet Glory felt as though no one else was present, the two of them existing in some kind of netherworld.

Vaguely, she heard Phillida launch into a lengthy explanation for her earlier fainting spell, including abundant praise for Westfield’s fast action in coming to her rescue. Mention of the incident restored Glory to herself, and she braced herself for Westfield’s comments. But he demurred, saying little and appearing uninterested, though Glory sensed that he was paying more attention than he pretended to.

‘We may have arrived only recently, but I have already heard of this physician,’ the duchess said. ‘It seems he is a most unpleasant sort. What on earth were you doing with him, Westfield?’

Glory looked towards the duke with no little curiosity. Whatever the man was up to, his mother apparently knew nothing of it.

‘The fellow accosted me, offering his dubious services, for whatever might ail me. Then he accosted Miss Sutton,’ Westfield said. ‘Apparently, he has designs upon her … waters.’

Glory gaped in astonishment, but she could read nothing in the duke’s expression. Was he telling the truth? If so, she had misjudged him, yet she could not cast aside her suspicions so easily. There was something about the man that just didn’t ring true …

‘Ah, the famous waters,’ the duchess said in a tone of delight. She went on to praise Queen’s Well, reminiscing about her visit many years ago, in such a manner that could only be deemed genuine. Gradually, Glory’s wariness receded over the course of the meal. She enjoyed hearing about the spa’s past success, for she had little first-hand information about those days. Even Phillida and Thad appeared impressed by the dowager’s enthusiasm.

But not the duke. Yet, even in his silence, he seemed to command Glory’s attention, a dark presence at the head of the table that drew her fleeting glances. And when he finally spoke, she was jolted by the sound, deep and low and seemingly intimate. Or had it simply sparked a memory of him leaning close and whispering in her ear …?

‘Why did you decide to resume operations?’

Although the question was a casual one, Glory sensed a deeper meaning behind the words. Yet she could see nothing untoward in his expression, handsome, vaguely attentive and distant. It was a polite query, nothing more.

Glory drew in a breath and wondered what on earth was happening to her. She had always been the one member of the family with common sense. It was not like her to envision Gothic scenarios or hidden mysteries, threats and dangers with no apparent substance. Stolid and determined, she was not one for fripperies or flirting. So why was her heart pounding so alarmingly?

Westfield.

When she realised that everyone was waiting expectantly for her reply, Glory forced a smile. ‘It is our family’s heritage and should not be allowed to languish when the well is still in good order.’

‘But don’t you think the time for such places has passed?’ the duke asked.

‘No, I think they will always be popular. Mineral springs have served as gathering spots probably since our earliest ancestors stumbled across them bubbling up from the ground,’ Glory said. ‘For a long time many wells were associated with saints and became the focus of pilgrimages for those who would be healed, with some people travelling great distances to partake of the waters.’

Over the years, Glory had done her research and she warmed to the history. ‘Later, when shrines were frowned upon, people still sought the therapeutic waters, along with the entertainments, music, dances, cards and the like, that were added so that visitors could enjoy the pleasures of society in a relaxed and healthful setting.’

‘There isn’t a lovelier setting than Philtwell,’ the duchess said, which made Phillida exclaim about the beauty of the area. Glory found her aunt’s speech so astonishing that she had to bite back a smile as she took a sip of wine. If the dowager could convince her aunt and brother they would be happy here, Glory was not about to argue.

‘But considering the current state of the village, what kind of patrons do you hope to attract?’ Westfield asked.

Although he didn’t elaborate, Glory assumed he envisioned only the most derelict and those who preyed upon them. She lifted her chin. ‘Queen’s Well has always served a fine clientele that has included royalty.’

‘Queen Elizabeth?’ Westfield asked, his tone wry.

‘Yes,’ Glory said. ‘In fact, the well was rediscovered by one of her courtiers.’

‘And has not changed much since.’

‘It has kept the appeal of a small site, of course, but there have been many developments through the centuries,’ Glory argued. ‘A new well and Pump Room were constructed, and Assembly Rooms and inns were added over the years, along with plantings and gravel walks. I’ve already had those cleared and the trees trimmed. I’m having some flowering bushes put in around the Pump Room, but eventually I hope to add new gardens.’

‘Excellent,’ the dowager said. ‘The spa needs plenty of tree-lined groves and secluded walks, where romance can flourish.’

Glory eyed the dowager with bemusement. ‘Perhaps, but I do not want to gain a reputation for that sort of thing, which has been the ruin of many a spa. Young women will not come to visit unless they feel completely safe from importuning adventurers … or any man, for that matter,’ she added, with a glance towards Westfield.