Page 228 of Dukes for Dessert

It wasn’t jealousy, she assured herself. The pang she felt every time she saw a married couple wildly in love with each other was just… heartburn. That was it. Too much coffee with breakfast. Not a twist of longing for something she did not need and would never have. This afternoon’s uncharacteristic display of temper aside, she knew her place. It was at home. With her father. He couldn’t lose her, too.

After counting to one hundred, she eased to her feet... and came face-to-face with the Skeffington twins, Annie and Frederick.

“Can we make crowns of flowers, Miss Quincy?” Annie asked.

“Bor-ing,” her brother singsonged. “Hoops are better.”

“All hoops look the same,” his sister scoffed. “Every flower is different.”

Frederick tugged at Carole’s skirts. “Do you want to trundle hoops with me?”

Any other day, the answer would have been yes. Yes to flowers, yes to hoops, yes to anything. She loved children, but more importantly: when one was in want of a distraction, a pair of indefatigable ten-year-olds could be just as entertaining as a circus.

But Azureford’s letter had clearly specified “afternoon.” If she dallied any longer, Carole wouldn’t make it before night fell. She had to hurry before Azureford stumbled across the sketchbook himself.

“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Hoops and flowers, first thing after breakfast.”

Before they could argue, Carole all but sprinted up the duke’s stone path toward his front door.

Just as her fingers closed about the brass knocker, Judith materialized breathlessly at her side.

“How… dare you,” she panted, shoving a silver ringlet from her damp forehead. “I’m your… chaperone.”

Silver ringlets? Judith had stopped to curl her hair before chasing after Carole?

“You’re my lady’s maid,” she said firmly, although they both knew she really meant surrogate mother.

Carole hadn’t been older than Annie and Frederick when the fever stole her mother away. As her father retreated more and more into himself, Judith quickly became the only constant Carole could count on.

“I was letting you rest,” she added. “You said your knee was hurting because it was about to rain, and—”

“Shh!” Judith swatted a hand at her in horror. “Never mention arthritis where someone might hear you.”

Carole rolled her gaze skyward. “Who would even care whether or not you—”

The door swung open, revealing Swinton, the Duke of Azureford’s authoritative, unflappable, recently coiffed butler.

Her heart sank. He was never going to let them in.

4

“Why, Mr. Swinton,” Judith cooed, twisting a silver ringlet about her finger. “Every time I see you, you look more handsome than the last.”

Carole tensed. That was it. Swinton was going to toss them both into the street. Or the closest madhouse.

Instead, he preened—and immediately tried to hide it with a cough. “I felt it time for a new coiffure.”

He felt it time for a new coiffure? What in the world?

Carole looked from her blushing lady’s maid to the stoic white-haired man blocking the doorway and back again.

Oh, for the love of geometry. The Duke of Azureford’s butler was flirting—or rather, carefully not flirting—with the maid Carole had known since childhood. Or thought she knew. Apparently, there was a cure for seasonal arthritis after all: The next-door neighbor’s butler.

Carole flashed the letter she’d received from Azureford. “May we come inside?”

“Of course.” Swinton stood to one side to allow them passage.

Carole stepped past him quickly, eager to be on her way to the duke’s library.

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