HER MAID REFOLDED a yellow underskirt for the third time. It was irksome because Malmsey had been with her for years and was the soul of efficiency.
She tapped her quill to her chin with the steadiness of a clock. Daylight washed over her latest unfortunate task: a list.
Villages had been written down, scratched off, and re-listed again…each one a possible new home.
When the grumbling maid removed a gown yet again, she had to ask, “Are you unwell, Malmsey?”
“No ma’am.” She turned the hem over, inspecting it with pursed lips.
“Then why so slow this morning?”
The maid ducked into the chest, her voice a muffled, “I didn’t know you were in rush to be gone, ma’am. You and the dowager get on so well. I thought you’d want to stay a bit longer.” Curious eyes peeked at her from a froth of skirts. “Maybe you’d want to see the duke again.”
Her quill-tapping stopped, and an odd tingle invaded her. The maid conspired to keep her in Richland Hall. Why? She’d not ventured from her chamber, but when she did it’d be to leave this fine estate and hunker down in Butterfly Cottage. She’d throw herself into gardening, find healing for the time being. She snorted. Maybe she’d give garden planning a try. Anything not to think of
Because the Duke of Richland would not be part of her future.
She could only guess she wasn’t in his. Not after last night’s uncomfortable dismissal. She’d paid for it with long, achy sobs and poor sleep. His last word about hope was far too cryptic.
Did he wish for a congenial parting? She was his neighbor and his mother’s friend.
That had to be it.
Smiling blandly, she looked out the window. From the third floor on a clear day, one could see the ocean spreading wide and blue in the distance. Perhaps a walk there would assuage the pain?
“No,” she said. “I won’t see the duke again.”
“Ever? That’s a bit hard, ma’am. He is your neighbor.” Mamlsey was, if anything, persistent.
“I’m sure the duke will be very busy soon.”
Neighbor’s could be avoided if one put some thought into it. Acknowledging that fact widened the void which had camped around her since last night. For two years she’d made a concerted effort to be in the duke’s vicinity, though never alone. It was always enough to fuel their attraction, yet not push them over impropriety’s cliff.
Their kiss unraveled everything. Their awkward conversation about Pandora’s box did too.
She rubbed her forehead. A throb banged there, magnifying the void that enveloped her. She badly needed the healing sanctity of her home.
There was a knock on the door, probably Thomas come to let them know the carriage was ready to take her home all of the short distance to Butterfly Cottage.
Malmsey opened the door with a cheerful, “And here he is, the duke himself.” The maid curtseyed. “We were just talking about you.”
She glared fiery darts at the maid’s back.
“Indeed.” His Grace wasn’t bothered by Malmsey’s forward chatter. He filled the doorway, more heart-achingly handsome than ever. “Good morning.”
His chocolate-smooth voice was a balm to her irritation.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
It was silly how the small things about him affected her. His strong, thoughtful hands. His scar peeking out from the black eye patch. She wanted to kiss the slanted line and heal it, though she never would. The denial left her dry as sand.
He was staring at her mouth. Had he come for a parting kiss?
She became aware of her death-grip on her chair’s back rest. Since she was leaving for good, she’d allow the luxury of a last kiss. A brazen idea, but recklessness in small doses was good for the heart. Freeing. Life was meant to be lived to the fullest, and he filled her. Thus, it was easy to order her maid to leave.
“Malmsey, go find Mrs. Staveley and ask her about the carriage.”
She was steady, giving the order. The maid’s eyes were saucers, the unspoken
After interminable seconds, Malmsey dipped a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am.” And left.
They kept eye contact, listening to the maid’s footsteps fade. Daylight brushed the left side of him. The shine of his auburn hair. The stoic line of his jaw. He was back to his old habits, wearing his favorite boots and a brown broadcloth coat well-past the first stare of fashion. She liked him this way.
His lips twitched. “I didn’t come to gawk at you, yet I count it the best part of my morning that I am.”
“Oh, Your Grace.” The void around her was fading. All because of his presence and a few choice words.
He didn’t have a flare for conversation like his brother, Lord George, but his forthrightness was a fine quality. It made what he said better because it was a gift, raw and lovely beyond measure.
