Chapter 17
“Burke? What’s wrong?” Rosalie asked, her hand clutching a little tighter to his clenched arm.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.” He led her on through the open doors.
Madeline followed Rosalie and Burke into the grand Alcott dining room.
The table was vast enough to seat thirty people.
Madeline had spent more than one night in this room with the table so full.
She felt almost helplessly small seeing it now, stretched before her with only the three of them to sit at it.
Thankfully, the table was modestly set at only one end.
The grates to either side of the room blazed with a warm fire, and the near end of the table was set with candelabras and a winter arrangement of pine boughs and cones with some hothouse flowers adding pops of red. It was intimate, almost romantic.
Burke showed Rosalie around the table to take the right-hand seat at the head and promptly sat next to her, leaving a footman to pull out Madeline’s chair.
“But who is Mr. Selby’s nephew?” Rosalie asked again. “Have we met him?”
Burke shot her a scathing look. “You know you have.”
“I can’t recall. I—” She went quiet, her eyes narrowing with realization. She turned slowly to glare at Mr. Burke. “Really? You’re still holding onto that?”
“Til the day I die,” he muttered, reaching for his napkin and snapping it open rather more forcefully than was required.
“You will be on your best behavior, or so help me, Burke,” she warned.
“I do know how to comport myself in company,” he replied.
“I’m missing something,” said Madeline, her gaze darting from one to the other. “Who is the gentleman?”
“You met him too,” Rosalie replied. “Do you remember Mr. Bray? Nephew to the curate of Finchley? It was ages ago, before I was married,” she added with a pointed look at Burke.
Madeline’s vision filled with memories of the man.
Mr. Charles Bray, nephew to Mr. Selby, curate of Finchley.
He was also a man of the church. They first met the week of the Michaelmas Ball three years ago.
She remembered his kind eyes and the easy way they conversed at dinner.
He even danced with her at the ball, though he was a bit clumsy and stepped on her foot.
But Madeline didn’t mind, for she was clumsy too.
“Oh, heavens,” Rosalie gasped, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. She glanced from Burke to Madeline, a smile stretching across her beautiful face. Before she could continue, there was a knock at the door and a footman entered.
“Mr. Charles Bray, Your Grace,” he announced, stepping back to let the gentleman into the room.
Rosalie stood with a slight sigh, one hand on her heavy middle as she moved around her side of the table. Burke was immediately on his feet too. Madeline craned her neck to look around her chair as the gentleman entered the room.
Gracious, how were his eyes the only feature she could recall?
Charles Bray was so handsome, just not in quite the same rugged way as Mr. Burke.
No, Bray’s was a softer beauty, like Bernini’s Apollo to Michelangelo’s David.
He had a head of caramel-colored curls and amber eyes to match.
He was clean-shaven, his chops trimmed back high at the ear.
It gave him a youthful look, though she knew him to be older than her by at least a few years. He was closer in age to Rosalie.
“Mr. Bray, how lovely to see you again,” Rosalie called, still all smiles.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “I’m terribly sorry for putting you out like this. My uncle insisted that I come in his stead.”
“Nonsense.” She stepped forward, offering her hand out to him, like he was an old friend instead of a passing acquaintance. “Any member of the Selby family is welcome in this house day or night. Our door is always open.”
Madeline didn’t miss the way Burke’s brows narrowed. Nor the way his lips curled into a snarl. He quickly schooled his features, recovering as Mr. Bray shook the hand the duchess offered. “Bray,” he said with a curt nod, stepping up behind the duchess until his shadow loomed over her.
“Mr. Burke,” the gentleman replied with a polite smile. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Is it?” Burke retorted under his breath as he headed back around the table.
Mr. Bray raised a brow in confusion but said nothing. Of course, the gentlemen knew each other well. Burke grew up here at Alcott. And from what Madeline could remember, Mr. Bray did too, or near enough in Finchley.
Rosalie brushed past the awkward moment.
“Come, Mr. Bray. We only just sat down. We’re a small party tonight.
My husband comes presently, and we’ve been graced with the company of my dear friend.
I believe you’ve met.” She stood at the head of the table, waving a hand at Madeline.
“Mr. Bray, surely you remember Lady Madeline Blaire.”
Madeline offered him a breathless smile as he stepped fully into the light of the table.
The smile on his face spread. “Of course. Lady Madeline, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bray,” she murmured, clutching the napkin in her lap.
He was the kind of person who looked at you with his whole body, not just his eyes. His attention was all or nothing. She fought the urge to curl away from it.
“You’re here, sir.” Rosalie gestured to the empty chair by Madeline.
Burke was already back on the other side of the table, waiting to take his seat. Mr. Bray nodded, resting his hands on the back of his chair while he waited for Rosalie to resume her seat. Only once the duchess was seated did the gentlemen sit.
“How long have you been in the country, sir?” Rosalie asked, leading the conversation.
“Yesterday, on the afternoon coach,” Mr. Bray replied, waiting as the footman filled his wine glass. “It was supposed to arrive at noon, but we were delayed two hours.”
“This weather is just terrible,” Rosalie replied, giving the footmen a nod to begin serving the first course. “I can’t believe you both braved a journey with the roads in such a state.”
“Did you arrive yesterday as well, Lady Madeline?” he asked.
She nodded, bringing her glass to her lips. At a sharp look from Rosalie, she cleared her throat and added a lame, “I did, sir.”
“She was nearly frozen by the time she arrived,” Rosalie said with a laugh. “I dunked her in a hot bath to warm her up. And tonight, we shall wrap you in feathers and furs,” she added, flashing Madeline a smile.
There was something odd about Rosalie’s behavior. Burke noticed too because his gaze kept darting to her. And Madeline was quite sure if his brows stayed lowered like that, the look would become permanent.
“What brings you to Finchley?” Rosalie asked, leaning back as a footman served her the first course. Madeline waited mere moments before a footman swept behind her, setting down a steaming bowl of rabbit soup spiced with fennel and dolloped with cream.
Mr. Bray cleared his throat, reaching for his spoon. “Um . . . my uncle. His health.”
“Oh . . .” Rosalie’s gay tone disappeared as her smile fell. “Oh, of course. I’m so sorry, Charles. I was distracted. I didn’t even think to ask why you came in his stead. How is he then?”
His smile fell as he focused on his bowl of soup. “Nearing the end, I think,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Bray,” Burke offered, and Madeline could hear in his tone that he meant it. “Selby is a good man. We all pray for him that his pain will soon ease.”
Madeline sat back, glancing about the table. She had a vague memory of the curate. “What ails him?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Mr. Bray faced her again. “Doctor Rivers says it is a pernicious cancer of his organs. He has some internal pains and . . . well, it’s not polite conversation for a dinner table, I suppose. Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, casting Rosalie an apologetic look.
“We asked the question,” she replied kindly. “We all care about Mr. Selby. He’s been such a dear friend to our family. As Burke says, we pray for him.”
Before Mr. Bray could reply, the door opened, and the duke swept in. “Christ, but I’m famished. Sorry, I’m so late, angel. I—” He paused in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
Mr. Bray shot out of his chair, coming to attention for the duke.
Across the table, Burke remained seated, as did Rosalie.
Madeline leaned back in her chair to glance around Mr. Bray, catching the duke’s eye.
Gracious, but he always had the ability to make her stomach flip.
He was all hard edges. His fierce green eyes blazed with an inner fire.
There was no man born with more tenacity of purpose than James Corbin, seventh Duke of Norland.
His gaze settled on Madeline and Mr. Bray as he cleared his throat. “I see we have company.”
“Yes, my love,” Rosalie replied. “Madeline arrived late last night. And you remember Mr. Bray?”
“Of course,” he said, coming forward to shake the gentleman’s hand. “Bray, how are you? How is Selby?”
“Holding on, Your Grace,” Mr. Bray replied. “He speaks nothing but praise of you, sir.”
James nodded, jaw tight. “Aye, he’s a good friend.” His gaze turned to her. “Lady Madeline, you’re well?”
“Perfectly so, Your Grace,” she replied.
“Well then . . .” He stood there for a moment, recovering his thoughts before he swept around the top of the table.
Madeline expected him to sit, but he walked right past his chair and moved to Rosalie’s side.
He dropped to one knee, his hand immediately going up to brush featherlight over her stomach.
Rosalie’s hand slipped absently from the table, covering his as he murmured a few private words to her.
She nodded, replying quietly. It was such an intimate moment.
There was nothing sensual in the act, and yet it was such a clear signal of possession, of love and devotion.
Madeline was surprised the duke wanted his guests privy to it.