Page 8 of Duke of Myste
“Please, be seated,” Lord Drownshire urged, his tone markedly warmer than it had been moments ago. “We aremost appreciative of your prompt attention to… last night’s unfortunate incident.”
The Duke took the indicated seat, his posture remaining rigid, despite the invitation to relax. “Some matters require immediate intervention,” he replied, his gaze briefly meeting Jane’s before returning to her father. “I believe we all understand why I have come here.”
Lord Drownshire nodded gravely. “Indeed. A most regrettable misunderstanding, but one that must be resolved with appropriate decorum.”
Jane couldn’t help but note how the men discussed the situation as though she were not present—a pattern so familiar in Society that it had long since ceased to surprise her, though it never failed to ignite her indignation.
“Perhaps,” she interjected, “we might dispense with euphemisms, gentlemen? We are all aware of what has transpired.”
Lady Drownshire made a small, distressed sound, but the Duke surprised them all by inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Miss Brandon is correct. Clarity serves us better than obfuscation in this instance.”
Jane blinked, momentarily disarmed by his unexpected support.
The Duke turned to face her directly, his hazel eyes studying her with an intensity that made her straighten instinctively in her chair.
“Miss Brandon,” he began, his voice carrying a formality that seemed to fill the entire room. “I have come to address the circumstances in which we found ourselves last night.”
“You mean the circumstances in which you found yourself with mysister,” Jane emphasized, unable to resist correcting him despite her mother’s wince.
The Duke’s eyebrows rose fractionally—the only indication that her words had surprised him. “You were aware then that I recognized the substitution at the grand reveal?”
“Your expression made it rather obvious, Your Grace.”
A brief silence ensued, broken only by the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece.
Lord Drownshire cleared his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you and Jane might benefit from a private conversation. With appropriate supervision, of course,” he added hastily, glancing toward his wife.
The Duke considered this suggestion, his gaze never leaving Jane’s. “If Miss Brandon is amenable, I believe that would be most productive.”
All eyes turned to Jane, who found herself caught in an unexpected moment of indecision.
Part of her—the logical, practical part—knew that privacy would allow for a more honest exchange than this stilted, formal conversation conducted under her parents’ watchful eyes. Yet another part—the part that had registered the Duke’s penetrating gaze with unsettling awareness—hesitated at the prospect of being alone with him, even with her mother present as a chaperone.
“Very well,” she heard herself saying, her voice steadier than her erratic pulse.
Lord Drownshire rose, relief evident in his expression. “Excellent. I shall retire to my study. Prudence, you will remain, of course.”
Lady Drownshire nodded, though the look in her eyes betrayed her nervousness at being left to oversee this volatile situation.
“Perhaps I might sit by the window,” she suggested, moving toward a chair positioned at a distance that would provide the illusion of privacy while maintaining propriety. “The light is better for my needlework.”
As Lord Drownshire left, closing the door with deliberate quietness behind him, a new tension seemed to fill the space he had vacated.
Jane found herself oddly aware of the physical details she had not previously noted—the faint scent of sandalwood emanating from the Duke, the way the sunlight caught a silver thread in his waistcoat, and the almost imperceptible tap of his fingers against his knee.
“Well, Your Grace,” she prompted when the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length. “You wished to speak privately.”
The Duke’s expression remained unreadable, though something flickered in his eyes before he masked it.
“I find myself in a unique position, Miss Brandon,” he began, his voice pitched low enough that Lady Drownshire, now industriously focused on her needlework, would struggle to overhear. “Last night, I believed I was conversing with your sister about botanical specimens. This morning, I find myself obligated to offer marriage to a young woman who has made no secret of her… unfavorable opinion of me.”
Jane felt heat rise to her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or indignation, she could not tell. “I would not characterize my opinion as unfavorable,” she countered. “Merely… critical of certain positions you have expressed.”
“Ah, yes,” he drawled, the faintest hit of irony touching his voice. “I believe you described my views as ‘calcified relics of a dying patriarchal order’ during our discussion at your sister’s wedding.”
“Did I?” Jane feigned mild surprise, though she remembered her exact words perfectly well. “How careless of me to be so imprecise. I believe I intended to say ‘ossified,’ not ‘calcified,’”
For a moment, just the briefest flash across his otherwise composed features had Jane thinking she detected something that might have been amusement in his expression. But it vanished so quickly that she could not be certain it existed at all.
