Page 18 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
“Three weeks only, but long enough for the duke to place his trust in me.Naturellement, we corresponded for many months prior to this. I hardly need to spread the word regarding my work, but I was appearing at one of the smaller London theatres and His Grace read of it in his newspaper. It was he who approached me—courted me, we might say—to attend him here, at the abbey.” Her expression was all smugness.
Mrs. Burnell’s eyes narrowed. “And here we are, knowing next to nothing about our host. You’ll be so kind as to share with me anything pertinent to His Grace’s feelings, Madame. I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn and distress him.”
“Mais bien sûr.” The French woman took Mrs. Burnell’s arm. “Come, let us take a turn about the room, and leaveles jeunesto become acquainted.” She gave a knowing smile. “Soagréable, yes, for Monsieur Benedict to have a delightful young lady of his own age to converse with.”
Left alone, Rosamund and Mr. Studborne stood in silence for a few moments. He cleared his throat self-consciously. She wondered if it would be too gauche to take a second glass of sherry.
She'd have preferred a refreshing cider, as they enjoyed back home when guests were over, but she'd settle for anything that might stop her feeling so nervous.
“Has Hector settled in alright?” he said at last.
“Hector?”
“Your little dog.” he prompted.
“Oh yes! Of course.”
Silly of her to have insisted on naming him so when they’d met on the beach. Rosamund wondered whether to admit that she really only called him Pom Pom, but before she had the chance, Mr. Studborne was talking again, his air studious.
“An appropriate name for the breed, West Highland Terriers being known for their stubborn temperament and their courage—like Hector in Homer’sIliad, defending Troy to the last. He knew the gods were favouring Achilles and he was about to die, but continued fighting valiantly.”
He added hurriedly, “Not that I’m suggesting he’s at all aggressive. He seems very sweet natured—like his mistress. That is, they do say owners and their dogs tend to be alike.”
Rosamund blinked. Was he flirting?
“There may be something in that.” Rosamund gave a tentative smile, thinking of the duke and his formidable Great Dane. “It’s more bare cheek than bravery. He's rather too food-driven, I’m afraid, but wonderfully doting, always making free with his nose kisses.”
She blushed, realizing she’d managed to compare herself with an overly affectionate dog.
Thankfully, Mr. Studborne seemed not to have noticed, and was giving her the benefit of his encyclopaedic knowledge of West Highland Terriers.
“Bred for the field. White-coloured so that they’re easy to see during hunts, with powerful hindquarters for pursuing anything that runs. King James I was fond of them apparently.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Not that I’m keen on hunting. I’m glad that wearing these gives me a good excuse not to join in with gun sports.”
He gave a nervous cough. “But such dogs are also useful if you’ve a vermin problem. One jolly good shake and the neck snaps.”
“I’ve not checked under the bed, but I’m hopeful the bedrooms here are free of rats.” Rosamund curbed a sudden desire to laugh.
If this was flirting, he was quite terrible at it.
At last, the gong in the hall sounded and the duke appeared, as if summoned from the shadows, looking distinguished in white tie and tails. The severe colours emphasised the silver in his hair, brushed back smoothly from a high forehead.
Though he surveyed her through hooded eyes, Rosamund did not miss the glimmer in their depths. He continued staring until she looked away shyly.
“The three graces themselves cannot have been more enchanting. You honour me ladies.” Taking Mrs. Burnell on one side and Madame Florian on the other, he led them in to dine.
Somewhat self-consciously, Rosamund allowed Mr. Studborne to escort her, and a flash of remembrance took her by surprise: of his hand covering hers in the cave, and his lightly-haired forearm brushing her wrist.
None of that!Rosamund chided herself.There’s a great catfish to land.
The decoration of the abbey lacked some imagination, in that all the rooms seemed to follow the same dark crimson tones (a practical colour, being less likely to show the dirt). However, the dining room had clearly been designed to impress. The stucco ceiling was most prettily finished, its cherubs carrying garlands of roses between them, surrounding a central chandelier of magnificent proportions.
Meanwhile, a series of French doors led onto a terrace. The curtains remained open, allowing enjoyment of the parkland vista, though there was little light remaining. Only the smallest portion of far-off sky yet glowed from the dipping sun.
Rosamund was glad that the table had been set only in its centre portion, closest to the great hearth. The older members of their party had the privilege of the flames at their back. Seated beside Mr. Studborne, Rosamund wished she’d had the foresight to bring down her silk shawl.
With the lifting of the lid on a tureen of soup, she was happy to see tendrils of steam ascend. Only a vegetable broth, she guessed from the aroma, but it would be warming.
It occurred to her that the duke had planned the placement well, for it afforded him the most opportune view of Rosamund, and she was aware of his eyes upon her.
