Page 19 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
She concentrated on her posture and bringing the soup to her mouth without dribbling any down her chin. Her mother was right; she need say almost nothing. And, the less she was obliged to say, the fewer lies she would need to tell.
The hardest thing was knowing where to look. She could hardly keep her eyes lowered the entire time, but whenever she looked up, the duke’s were upon her.
Her mother would call it a triumph. Through the fish course, she asked endless questions, regarding the history of the duke’s family and the abbey itself.
Roast beef followed, served rare and thinly sliced, the juices running red on the plate. Rosamund lifted a fork of buttery potato to her lips, aware of the duke watching as she chewed and swallowed.
It was passably good, though Rosamund couldn't help but think the dish would be improved by a few chili beans.
She made herself raise her eyes. Above the fireplace was another portrait of the late duchess—this time resplendent in black velvet. Rosamund had no doubt of the duke’s grief in losing his wife, and yet he looked at her with such a predatory air.
“You wear an unusually large gem, Miss Burnell.” He’d refrained from addressing her directly, until now. His lidded eyes were upon the ruby about her neck. “They are said to ward off the evil eye and protect the wearer, being especially potent when given with love by someone close.”
Without thinking, Rosamund brought her hand to the pendant.
“Most regard only the financial value of such stones”—he paused, his eyes sliding to Rosamund’s mother—“but their symbolism is of more interest to me. Madame Florian wears emeralds, do you see? They focus the mind, many believe, giving us vision where others have none. My late wife was fond of sapphires, which suited her well, representing her constancy.”
“And what of diamonds?” asked Mrs. Burnell. “They seem to me the most romantic. What do those signify, Your Grace? A reflection of a new lover’s ardour, perhaps?”
“Not quite.” A half-smile curled the duke's lips. “They were rather known for testing a woman’s honesty.”
Rosamund willed herself to maintain her composure.
“A diamond may be placed under a sleeping bride’s pillow. A woman without true love will toss in her sleep, unable to rest. Meanwhile, she of faithful heart is said to embrace her husband, even as she sleeps.”
Madame Florian gave a tinkling laugh. “And so the canny bride pretends to be dreaming, waiting until the diamond she covets is placed beneath her. Then, she may sigh and twine herself about her spouse, winning herself both gems and the trust of her husband.”
Rosamund felt heat rush to her cheek.
Mr. Studborne’s knife clattered clumsily against his plate.
Her mother tittered. “My, your European humour is quite risqué! I fear my Rosamund won’t understand, being maidenly as she is.”
“Forgive me.” The duke pressed his napkin to the corner of his mouth. “It was ungallant of me to mention such a subject.”
Madame Florian sighed. “The innocence of youth, so idolised in poetry and art—yet so fleeting. Youth and beauty alike have no power over time. The soft kernel is devoured and the husk cast aside.”
She took a sip from her wine glass, peering mischievously at Rosamund. “What is it Shakespeare says of beauty? ‘Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour?’ Ah, the final hour comes to us all.”
The duke raised an eyebrow. “You, above all, Madame, must know that death is not to be feared. It is only one stage in the great cycle. The ancient Maya believed nothing was ever born and nothing died. It inspired their view of the gods and the cosmos.”
The French woman pursed her lips.
Rosamund had endured the past half hour without uttering more than a handful of words. Now, she felt compelled to speak. “Surely, Your Grace, you do believe in the notion of Heaven; of our eternal souls returning at last to our Maker?”
The duke’s eyes brightened. “Indeed I do, Miss Burnell, and much else besides. For does the Church not tell us of an intermediate state between death and resurrection, in which our soul does not sleep in unconsciousness, but exists—in happiness or misery—until the day we rise again and are reunited with our corporeal body? Perhaps, then, we may communicate with those who have passed over into that place of waiting.”
“It is a fascinating thought,” Rosamund said. “But it seems unnatural to—”
Madame Florian made a sound of exasperation and muttered something sounding far from complimentary in her native tongue.
The duke raised his hand to silence her.
“Pray continue, Miss Burnell.” He leaned forward a little. “I like to think myself open to all opinions in this matter.”
Rosamund was acutely aware of suddenly commanding all attention. She swallowed hard. “I mean only that, if we believe in such a realm, we should recognise, also, that those spirits residing there are no longer of this world. Once passed over, they belong to another place.” She shivered involuntarily.
“I agree with Miss Burnell.” Beside her, Mr. Studborne spoke firmly. “Uncle, I believe your happiness lies in the future rather than the past. Life is for the living and, while a period of mourning is only proper, we must recognise when to let go.”
