Page 7 of The Duke
Elsie knew all too well this remark was meant to render her mute, to put her in her place, so she paused, pretending to give it proper consideration, before replying, “I do try to answer any questions or issues posed to me. But as the middle sibling, I often find it is my brother or sister who reply more quickly.”
“That I find hard to imagine.”
“Your Grace does not know me well enough to make such assertions on my character.” She hoped he took her quick reply in a friendly manner, but when the duke turned around, he did not seem to know the meaning of the word friendly. Or even cordial. No, instead there was what looked to her to be an awkward, almost sinister smile on his face, but she was probably being fanciful.
Before he could speak, there was a knock, and gratefully, Elsie moved away from the duke. Being near to him, even though they were separated by several feet made her feel acutely aware of her breathing, the dampness of her dress, how she was not herself. Yet the blasted man felt comfortable making judgements of her character.
In the doorway was the housekeeper, she nodded at Elsie. “Your room is prepared. I took the liberty of sending up some food. Your servants are likewise taken care of.”
Before Elsie could speak, the duke called out from behind her, “Has my sister gone to bed yet, Mrs. Clarke?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Rather than the cold cuts in her chamber, perhaps our guest would like to freshen up and then meet the family, whose tidings she has rushed down to impart most urgently.” The duke had drawn closer, and Elsie could sense rather than see the press of him not far from her.
It felt like a test, although Elsie was not sure why. What barrier or issue would there be in informing the duke’s sister of his new title? Surely the young lady would be thrilled. If she were old enough, it would mean a Season in London and a dowry.
“I should be delighted.” Elsie straightened her back and looked around at the duke. “I will escort my rescued pet to my chamber, freshen up and be ready I am sure before the food.”
“This way, miss.” The housekeeper opened the door wider, and Elsie clicked her fingers at the hound, hopeful it would work.Thankfully after the third click, the dog raised his head, and seeing Elsie was about to leave, let out a pitiful whine, and dashed after her, his floppy ears bouncing up and down.
Then they were free of the library and in the wake of Mrs. Clarke, who moved with agility through the dark hallways, a single lantern to guide the way. She was not talkative, and after several minutes Elsie could stand it no more.
“Does the manor normally sound so?”
“The storm has made it worse.” They reached the staircase, and Mrs. Clarke set off, with Elsie following close behind her. “Darkness normally would not fall this early.”
“Most unseasonal,” Elsie guessed.
“It changes,” came the unhelpful reply. The housekeeper was so sure-footed despite the darkness, that Elsie’s concentration was rooted chiefly on not slipping over, then forming an adequate response. “Here you are, miss.”
The housekeeper opened a chamber door, ushered Elsie inside, nodded at her guest and then left.
Inside the bedroom, there was a lit fire and several burning candles to illuminate the old-fashioned bed in one corner. Ancient dark furniture dotted throughout the room matched the aesthetics of the bed frame, and finally, the room was hung with heavy, rich tapestries that looked, even from where Elsie stood, as if they would be moth eaten. It was gloomy and lonely, and from somewhere deep in the manor house, she could hear the noise of what sounded like someone yelling but at a great distance from her. Were it not for the dog at her heels and her promise to her sister, Elsie would have been tempted to run down to the stable and back out in the storm.
CHAPTER 4
Kit had to admit, when the chit emerged downstairs an hour later, he was mildly impressed. In truth, he had half thought she would cry off. Surely, further exploration of the manor would put off the most hardened of women, and if not, then the old house’s general noises, atmosphere, and staff should have done the trick—but she was still here.
Slowly he got to his feet when Miss Keating entered and made a slight bow of greeting. She had changed out of her wet travelling clothes, and in the soft light of the fireplace, he saw she now wore a simple evening gown of soft blue. It was not quite navy, nor royal, or pale enough to be periwinkle—but it suited her better than the sombre outfit she had been in previously.
Raising his eyes to her petite face, he saw her smile at Mrs. Clarke in some vague attempt to engage the housekeeper—a naïve effort on Miss Keating’s part. It would be more helpful to try to charm the chill outside.
Mrs. Clarke departed, leaving Miss Keating and himself, with a large stretching table between them and the two-footmen setting out the food.
“Good of you to join me.” Kit sank back into his seat,indicating that Miss Keating should do the same. She was a great distance away from the flickering candles and an array of hastily prepared food was scattered haphazardly over the table. There were some cold cuts of meat, beef he thought, and rather more tempting was vegetable and chicken soup. From somewhere bread rolls had been found and a bottle of claret. It was not the stuff that London would have deemed “fine” by any stretch of the imagination, but his staff had tried to prepare dinner for guests, but he doubted it was what Miss Keating was used to.
“Of course, as my honoured host…” Miss Keating began.
“Would we go that far? After all, I don't have much choice in the matter. You are an uninvited guest to all intents and purposes…”
“Would you prefer to throw me out?” He saw a flash of a challenge on Miss Keating’s face as she settled more comfortably into her seat. She certainly had a flair for the dramatic which, although he was hardly immune himself, Kit did not know if he appreciated in her.
He sucked in a breath before continuing, “No indeed, but I would have preferred a little warning. I do not believe that to be unfair.”
Any sort of notice would have been nice—a letter from his uncle stating he was ill, a notice from the lawyer… anything. It was not every day that someone learnt they were a duke. Now most men of Kit’s acquaintance, when he’d had a social life at university, would have been delighted at this turn of events, but having never desired such a “blessing,” Kit could not muster a thrill at the news. Especially since he knew the sordid nature of his family’s modus operandi, and being forced to step into such a gilded cage left him dubious at best and at worst, angry. The title was not the gift most would view it as.
“This is delicious.” Miss Keating was smiling at one of the footmen, her face between the candles illuminated a gracioussmile, one that caused a dimple in her left cheek. “Please thank your servants for their kindness.”
