Chapter 3 #2
“You are forgiven, of course,” Lady Winthrop said, performing a curtsy for the duke. “But I admit, I am curious to know why you have come with such urgency, Your Grace. Unless you have enlightened Baron Winthrop while we were engaged with preparing ourselves...?”
“Ah, yes,” the duke laughed softly, and the sound was even more disabling than his usual register had been.
“Baron Winthrop and I spoke of other matters entirely. In fact, I was complimenting the baron on his last anthology of poems. My aunt has read a number of them over dinner since her return from the continent. Thank you for taking good care of her while she journeyed with you,” he added to her father.
“Lady Chipping supported us in our travels much more than we supported her,” the baron replied, smiling. “Her knowledge of the continent was a real boon to us. And her company, of course. She spoke highly of you, Your Grace, if it may be said.”
“Of course,” the duke answered in good humor.
He seemed like the sort of man who never turned down a compliment.
And from the look of him, Rosalie suspected she received plenty.
“Though I cannot vouch for the veracity of my aunt’s tales.
” Rosalie felt him shift his attention toward her.
“However, I have not come here to discuss my aunt, Baron Winthrop. In truth, I was hoping to speak with your daughter.”
The room held its breath—Lady Winthrop most audibly. Rosalie glanced up from the floor to meet the duke’s eyes. He was deadly serious. She could not read his expression beyond that. She did not want to. She was too afraid of what she would discover behind those sharp blue eyes.
“You mean... our daughter Rosalie?” Her father stumbled over her name as if it were the first time he had said it. “I would like to honor your request, Your Grace, naturally. But this turn of events has surprised me. What might she do for you?”
He was asking, in more agreeable terms, when and how they had become acquainted, and what purpose a private conversation could possibly serve. Lady Winthrop glanced at Rosalie with the same unspoken questions in her face, and with a hint of impressed pleasure that made Rosalie want to scream.
“It is an understandable confusion, and yours is a natural reaction.” The duke clasped his hands behind his back.
“But I fear I cannot betray the meaning of my visit until I have spoken with your daughter alone. I would not push the limits of your hospitality. Certainly, her maid should remain in the room with us or nearby.”
“Rosalie?” her mother asked, her eyes ablaze with excitement and suspicion. “What do you think about His Grace’s request?”
She thought she wanted to die, and if not die, then at the very least crawl into a hole and never surface again. Instead, she said, “I think you should fetch May,” knowing that the longer they argued about whether to grant the Duke of Hartmere what he wanted, the more chance he would expose her.
Once her maid had been told to come and chaperone, Rosalie’s parents took their leave. May was asked to remain outside the door rather than inside the room with them to ensure His Grace was made comfortable.
The duke stood by the hearth, the tips of his boots lined up with the fire rug.
Rosalie thought about sitting but remained upright instead, staring at the dark-haired gentlemen across the room.
The soft orange light of the fire warmed his silhouette.
It was dark outside. A storm was coming.
The house felt suddenly small and stale.
“I only wish to ask you one thing, Miss Winthrop. You may find my question vulgar in its banality, but so be it.” He turned from the hearth to look at her, and her breath caught in her lungs. “Why did you do it?”
“Why... did I do what?”
He smirked. The expression made her knees go weak with fear and something else. “You know precisely what I mean. Would you have me say it aloud for all to hear?”
Rosalie’s mouth went dry. “You may say what you want, Your Grace. It will not change my answer. I do not know what you are talking about.”
“No?” He took a step closer, and it took considerable effort not to step back in turn.
“Let me refresh your memory then. Last evening, on the terrace, a woman ran at me in the dark and kissed me soundly before fleeing as if nothing had happened. I did not imagine her. I do not imagine women kissing me as a rule. Fancies of that sort are better suited to poets like your father and young ladies who read too many novels, like you.”
She opened her mouth in surprise, figuring that Lady Chipping must have spoken about her. “How fortunate for you that you are neither,” she said. “A young lady who reads too many novels can come up with the wildest ideas... and start seeing villains everywhere.”
It was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Something flickered behind his eyes.
“You have a little cheek in you,” he said, seemingly amused. “I did not expect that, though maybe I should have.”