CHAPTER THREE #2
He realised he had been staring at the drawing in silence. When he turned, Miss Grace was watching him with that same steady, assessing gaze, and he had the uncomfortable sensation that she could see more of his reaction than he wished to reveal.
“You’ve done well, Miss Grace.”
“The children have done well.” Her voice was even, neither proud nor falsely humble.
“I merely provided the structure.”
“You’re too modest.”
“I’m accurate.” She tilted her head slightly, as though considering how to explain something that should have been self-evident.
“Modesty is a performance. Accuracy is useful.”
Modesty is a performance.
The words struck him with unexpected force.
He had spent fifteen years surrounded by performances, giving and receiving them, navigating a world where nothing was quite what it seemed and everyone was playing some role or another.
The rake, the wit, the scandal, the charmer.
He performed constantly, automatically, without thinking about what lay beneath.
And here was this woman, in her grey dress and her practical hairstyle, looking at him with eyes that held no performance whatsoever. She was not trying to impress him. She was not flirting with him. She was not even particularly interested in his approval, as far as he could tell.
She was simply telling him the truth, as she saw it, without embellishment or apology.
He looked at her more carefully, for the first time since she had entered the study.
She met his look with an unwavering steadiness. She betrayed none of that conscious vanity or maidenly confusion which his Grace was so accustomed to eliciting from the ladies of the ton.
But of course, she did not know he was the Duke of Trevane. She thought him merely Mr. Langford, a gentleman of means but no particular consequence, a man the ton would overlook entirely.
She was looking at him as though he were simply a person.
The realisation was unexpectedly unsettling.
When had anyone last looked at him as simply a person?
His friends saw the rake, the companion, the man who could always be counted on for wit and scandal.
His enemies saw the duke, the title; the women who pursued him saw the conquest, the prize, the story they would tell their friends.
But Miss Grace saw none of these things. She saw a man who paid her salary and occasionally visited the children whose welfare he funded.
“Mr. Langford?” She raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Are you quite well?”
“Perfectly.” He shook off the strange sensation that had gripped him.
“Forgive me. I was merely… contemplating your philosophy. Accuracy over performance. It’s refreshingly unusual.”
“I find that honesty saves considerable time.” She moved toward the door, clearly preparing to escort him back downstairs.
“The children will be waking soon. Shall I have Mrs. Kemp bring tea, or would you prefer to join them in the nursery?”
“The nursery, I think.”
“Very well.” She paused at the door, turning back to face him with an expression that had shifted subtly. There was a question in her eyes now, something she was weighing whether to ask.
“Mr. Langford. May I inquire how long you intend to stay?”
“Three days, perhaps four.”
“I see.” She absorbed this information without visible reaction.
“I ask because the children have come to anticipate your visits. They mark the days on a calendar. It would be helpful to know the pattern, so that I might prepare them for your departures.”
They mark the days on a calendar.
The ache in his chest intensified. He had known, of course, that they looked forward to his visits.
The way they greeted him, the way Thistle launched herself at him from whatever height she had most recently scaled, the way Viola pressed close to his side as though afraid he might disappear if she looked away.
But he had not known about the calendar.
“I visit monthly,” he heard himself say.
“The third week of each month, barring unforeseen circumstances. I stay three days, sometimes four.”
“Thank you. I shall incorporate that into our planning.” Miss Grace nodded crisply and stepped into the corridor.
“This way, Mr. Langford. Mind the loose board at the top of the stairs. Thistle has been jumping on it to hear it creak, and I have not yet arranged for repair.”
He followed her down the corridor, past the loose board that did indeed creak alarmingly when stepped upon, and toward the nursery where his daughters were waiting.
Behind him, the drawing of Miss Grace holding Viola’s hand remained pinned to the schoolroom wall, a silent testament to something he had not expected and did not know how to name.
The nursery door burst open before they reached it, and Thistle exploded into the corridor like a small, determined cannonball.
“Papa!”
She launched herself at him with the fearlessness that Miss Grace had so accurately described, and Rhys caught her easily, from long practice, swinging her up into his arms where she immediately wrapped herself around him like a particularly affectionate barnacle.
“You’re early,” Thistle informed him.
“Anna said you weren’t coming until tomorrow. I told her she was wrong. Anna hates being wrong.”
“I made good time on the road.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the particular scent of childhood: soap and grass and something that was probably Brutus. “How is Brutus?”
“Excellent. He learned to jump on command. Well, he jumped. I’m not sure he understood the command. But he definitely jumped.”
“Significant progress.”