“You were a soldier,” she corrected, daring once more to contradict him. “Now you’re a duke.”
“May not a man be both?” He set the full plate before her.
Ignoring it, she took a bite of chicken instead, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. “I daresay a man may be most anything he chooses. Men are fortunate in their freedoms, and wealthy noblemen most of all.”
“Am I harboring a radical, Miss Burke? A leveler?” His voice teased, but his tight jaw and narrowed eyes told another story. Her elder brother was a barrister, and she had once seen that very expression on his face in the courtroom as he interrogated a criminal. The tension only heightened when Tristan added, in a wary voice, “Perhaps a Jacobin?”
Laying aside the chicken, she picked up her fork and stabbed a shade too violently at the contents of her plate. Something that might have been aspic jiggled. “Two days ago, I was accused of being an Irish rebel. I had no idea a botanist touring the countryside to examine the local flora was assumed to be a dangerous creature. Perhaps I ought to study the moral of Captain Whitby’s story about the poets more carefully.”
His lips curved into a smile. But only after his eyes had scoured her face, leaving her certain he had ways of reading whatever secrets were written on her soul. Her fingertips tightened automatically around the spine of her journal. When he spoke, his soft voice curled around her like the heat of the fire, sending off sparks of—alarm? Oh, let it be alarm.
“Wandering women are the most dangerous kind,” he said, looking for all the world like the kind of man who thrived on danger.
She swallowed hard, though she had not taken another bite of food. “Must everything—everyone follow the same straight line, the same narrow path?” she asked once she trusted her voice. “In nature, one sees little respect for such artificial boundaries. Even the tamest farm animals break down fences, and plants’ roots tunnel under walls. Only in humans do we seem to expect domestication as the natural state.” She prodded at the abandoned chicken leg. “Perhaps some people—some women—are simply not meant to stay at home.”
He gave her words a thorough weighing before he spoke. “And you are such a woman.”
Not a question, steeped in curiosity and judgment. A simple statement of fact. Of understanding, too? But not even her family really understood. The prickle of awareness along her spine intensified until it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep from leaping to her feet. As if she could shake free of the sensation of his touch. As if she could outrun her longing for it.
Instead she drew a shaky breath and dug her fork into a piece of apple pie, fully expecting Tristan to chide her for eating dessert before she had finished her meal. But if he were tempted to do so, he held his tongue. Her second breath rattled a little less, and the third felt almost normal.
The spicy-sweet tang of the first bite of pie made her give an involuntary hum of pleasure, but it caught in her throat when he said, “Which, I confess, makes me curious about the fact that you spent the whole day, and evening, sitting in one place.” He walked his fingers around the edge of his still-empty plate as he spoke.
She coughed and said, “I’ve told you—”
His fingers left the plate to brush aside her words. “The flower, yes.” He did not, however, raise his eyes to hers.
Clearly, he found her interest in the rare, short-lived bloom an inadequate explanation. And when she thought back over their previous encounters, she believed she understood why. He imagined her restlessness a mere physical behavior, not a manifestation of her deeper…peculiarity.
“When I told you I am not always ladylike, I did not refer exclusively to an excess of bodily energy—”
The corner of one dark brow lifted; she did not need to see more to imagine its sardonic arc.
Oh, she ought not to be discussing bodies at all. Certainly not with a man. Not when they were alone. Alone in a room so dimly lit they had to sit close enough to touch just to see one another’s faces. No, she would not blush. She absolutely would not blush.
She blushed.
“My—m-my mind—” Could he feel the flame spreading across her cheeks? Certainly, if he lifted his fingers to her cheeks, or brushed his lips across…
“Your mind is prone to wandering, too?” He spoke in the sort of soft, soothing, coaxing voice she imagined a physician might use when examining a patient bound for Bedlam.
“No. I mean—well, yes. It does. Terribly sometimes. Or rather—” She sucked in another breath. From the sudden frown on his face, visible even in profile, she guessed that this time she wouldn’t be at leisure to take three. “I would not say it wanders, exactly. Wandering implies aimlessness, a leisurely drift from place to place, or subject to subject. My thoughts seem to bounce along, rather like a trotting horse.”
Those words captured his full attention. He was still leaning forward, bent toward his plate, but his head turned enough that he could fix her with one eye. The firelight caught the hard turn of his jaw, gleaming along the growth of a day’s beard. It must indeed be late. Would the stubble feel rough to touch? Or smooth yet sharp, like the edge of a knife…?
Her fork clattered onto her plate as she reached down to clamp one hand tightly around the other, both around her journal, determined to keep herself from indulging her curiosity.
She saw his gaze dart to the movement of her hands, then back to her face. “It would seem botanists enjoy employing metaphor,” he said, rather wryly. “Very well. A trot is steady, efficient…”
“For an experienced rider, yes.” She nodded, pressing her hands so firmly into her lap that she had to sit up straighter. “But the novice is likely to be jolted and jarred, fearful of being thrown, exhausted after a quarter of an hour—to say nothing of a day.” His silence left a void that her words rushed to fill. “Regrettably, despite a lifetime of experience, I have not entirely mastered the pace and sometimes find myself in danger of being unseated.”
He was watching her warily, and why not? She sounded like a madwoman. Oh, God. Why had she ventured to explain to him what no one had ever understood?
“But when I’m focused on certain tasks,” she continued, forcing herself to look away from him, “on plants, particularly—the intricacies of a flower, the pattern of a leaf—the pace changes.”
“To a walk?”
Did he ask out of genuine curiosity? Or was his question mocking? She dared not look at him to determine which. “No. More like a…a canter, I’d say,” she said, plowing ahead with the analogy. “Deceptively smooth. Dangerously fast. Too easy to find yourself miles from where you started and totally lost.”
“Hence a dozen hours spent in the conservatory without realizing how much time had gone by,” he said after a moment. She let her chin wobble and hoped it would pass for a nod. After another long silence, he spoke again. “You should eat.” Not, for once, a command. But even if it had been, she would have complied, for it was abundantly clear she needed something to occupy both her mouth and her hands.
To the sound of little more than the chink of utensils against stoneware, she finished the pie, returned to the plateful of chicken, herb pudding, and creamed turnips, even sampled the aspic. Despite her current unease, after passing the better part of the day without food, her appetite was voracious.
Though she tried to pay no attention to Tristan, she knew when he cut a piece of pie for himself, knew too that he prodded it with his fork, never raising a bite to his lips.
“Sometimes I fear…” he began after a long silence. “That is, I wonder… Did you see any evidence that my sister suffers from a similar…disorder in her thinking?”
If she had not already been sitting stiffly, his words would have drawn her upright. “I do not suffer, Your Grace, except under the judgments of others. And if your sister—”
“Forgive me. I chose my words poorly.” Pushing aside his plate,
he turned toward her, and his expression was grave, filled with something she had never expected to see written on his face. Uncertainty. A weak smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “As I seem prone to do of late. I only meant—”
She set down her fork but kept her fingers on its handle, rather than laying them on his arm as she was sorely tempted to do. “I understand. The truth of the matter is, Your Grace, I do not know Lady Viviane well enough to answer. She gives every indication of being a clever girl, an eager pupil—”
“Too clever for her own good, according to some.”
The very words Miss Chatham had spoken. In her mind’s eye, Erica could see the woman’s disapproving posture. Did he know? “Too clever for her governess, at any rate,” she agreed. “Perhaps another—?” But the words were hardly out of her mouth before his broad shoulders drooped in defeat, and she understood then that Miss Chatham was only the latest in a long line of failed teachers. “You must not give up hope,” she tried to reassure him. “The right person is out there. You must find someone who understands—”
“What it’s like to have one’s mind always flitting from one subject to the next?” There was a note of skepticism in his voice, as if he struggled to imagine anything so thoroughly out of his control.
“I daresay we’re not such rare specimens.” She spoke before she thought, as she too often did. Now he was studying her intently, with an eagerness in his expression that presaged some brilliant idea. A proposal—though not of marriage. His lips parted, and instinctively she shook her head before he could speak. “Or perhaps not. One such as I would make a poor teacher indeed. Your sister requires a governess who is compassionate, but who can also model proper, ladylike behavior.”
Ladylike behavior. The words acted like charm, breaking the momentary spell that had held him. He drew back slightly. “Yes. Yes, of course. I have worried that if she continues in this course, her prospects may be altered…”
“They may well be, Your Grace. But not necessarily for the worse.” The prickliness had returned to her voice. “She is, after all, the daughter of a duke.”
A whisper of breath escaped his lips, neither a sigh nor a laugh. “She is that.”
He rose and lifted the kettle from the hob, where it had been murmuring merrily, not quite to the point of whistling.
“Tea?” she asked, hopeful.
He poured steaming water into a basin, then stepped back to the table to gather the remains of the food and return it to the cupboard. “I’m afraid not—not without waking Mrs. Dean, that is,” he added with a smile. “She guards the tea chest more stringently than the silver.”
“Then what—?”
But she did not need to finish her question. He had shrugged out of his coat and was rolling up lace-edged sleeves in a manner that would surely give his valet heart palpitations; the view of his corded forearms was having a similar effect on her.
“As I said,” he told her, flicking a dollop of soap into the basin, “the army has taught me resourcefulness.”
“Surely you must have a servant? Even…abroad,” she added, avoiding any mention of where, sensing his discomfort at her earlier mention of France.
“Not always.”
He held out his hand for her empty plate, but she rose and brought it to him, snatching a towel from the drying rack near the fire as she passed. She had little familiarity or felicity with domestic tasks, but at least she was wearing an apron.
“I see no need to make more work for my servants.” He plunged her plate into the soapy water.
“They will thank you for thinking of them, I’m sure.” Though she wasn’t quite sure it was true. It required no great stretch of imagination to see him as the servants here must: a stern taskmaster, difficult to please. Would the kitchen staff wake to discover his visit below stairs and think it a criticism of their efforts? A threat to their positions? Perhaps the only person employed at Hawesdale who seemed to look with any particular favor on the advent of the new duke was Miss Chatham, and that did not seem to bode well for anyone.
“Well, anyway,” she said, “no one should be surprised. Everyone seems to know that you like things kept orderly.” He laughed, the sound full-throated, if not precisely genuine. “Mr. Sturgess thinks that’s why you avoid the conservatory,” she added, and immediately wished she had not, for at those words, he dunked another plate into the wash water with such vigor she feared it would crack. Desperate for some occupation, she snatched the clean, soapy plate from his hand and dipped it into a second basin of clear water. “I’m sure he only meant…” She made a circle in the air with the plate, searching for the proper description. But wordsmithing was her elder sister’s skill, and so she fell back on what the gardener had actually said. “He thinks you must find it too dirty. Too wild.”
“Does he, now?” Tristan’s voice was soft. Too soft. Another chill tickled down her spine. She waited for him to speak again, but he said nothing more. The remaining items were washed in a moment’s time, and once she had dried them, he took them from her and returned them to their proper places. Soon, the only remaining evidence of their late-night feast was the cut loaf. Though it had been put back beside the other loaves, the linen dipped tellingly where the now-missing portion had once held the cloth aloft.
After taking her towel to dry his hands, Tristan knelt to bank the fire again. Mesmerized, she watched the flex of his muscles beneath the thin, silky fabric of his shirt. The flames sank. In another few minutes, the room would return to darkness. Still, the strange intimacy of the place and the moment kept her rooted to the spot. Where was her usual impulse to hurry away?
“And you, Miss Burke,” he said at last. “Did you find the glasshouse dirty and wild?”
“Yes, I suppose I did—in the most delightful way. Thank you for sharing it with me. I think…I think it may be the only room in all of Hawesdale Chase in which I do not feel out of place.” In the conservatory, she could be…herself.
He continued to stare into the glowing embers and made no reply.
“I should go.” Even in the silent room, the sound of her voice was nearly lost.
He cast a look over his shoulder before rising and turning to face her. “I’ll escort you back to your room,” he said, reaching for his coat.
“I can find it myself.” She snatched up her journal from the bench. “I have my map.”
The corners of his lips lifted, though she would hesitate to describe it as a smile. “Indeed you do. Good night, then, Miss Burke.”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
Back in her room, a candle had been left burning, but the fireplace was cold. The clock on the mantel read a few minutes after midnight. She removed the damp apron and wrapped herself in a silk shawl, one of the duchess’ many generosities, then sat down on the bed to review the day’s sketches, as was her habit. At home, her coverlet was a frequent casualty of just this sort of late-night perusal: wrinkles, a muddy shoeprint, ink stains from a dropped pen or even an overturned bottle. Tonight, however, she was careful to remove her shoes and to use only a pencil, adjusting a line here, adding a note there, most in her own shorthand Latin.
She was tired, but not sleepy, and away from the conservatory, her mind once more darted in a dozen different directions. Cami and Lord Ashborough. The washed-out bridge. Lady Viviane. The characteristics of the star-like blooms that became apples suitable for pie-making.
And the Duke of Raynham, of course.
Out of habit, she began to make lists. Experience had taught her the best way to keep all her worrying and wondering from melting together like different colors of hot wax, making an ugly, insoluble mess. Three columns, each with its heading:
Important things.
Insignificant things.
Things that require further reflection.
Dutifully, she sorted her thoughts into each, feeling a sense of pride at her
triumph over the impending chaos. Until she discovered she’d written a certain name three times, once in each column.
As the journal fanned shut around her pencil, it turned the front, back, and side views of the Passiflora into a sort of moving picture. After tonight, she could make a similar series of sketches of Tristan in his various moods. A portrait of a duke up to his elbows in a dishpan would surely be a curiosity.
Whatever had possessed her to spout all that nonsense to him, about her mind rattling about like a spineless rider on a trotting horse? He must think her a cork-brained, cotton-headed…oh. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drive out the memory of his expression as she’d plucked the tufts of cotton wool from her ears. Such disorder, such ridiculousness must be repulsive to a man who’d managed to convey his status as an officer and a gentleman even when covered head to toe with mud.
Yet he had he come to find her. Why? He had even been on the point of offering her a post as Lady Viviane’s new governess, she felt sure of it.
But she was foolish enough to want something else.
She wanted to drown in that look he’d had in his eye in the library, to feel the heat of his palm against the curve of her lower back, to hear his voice speak words of passion.
And he was going to marry Miss Pilkington. Cool, elegant, polished Miss Pilkington.
A sob escaped her lips as she flung herself backward into the mound of soft pillows, half laughing, half crying. Afterward, she lay there and listened to the chunter of heavy rainfall against the eaves.
The moment the storm stopped, she would be free of all this. She only hoped it would not be too late.
* * * *
Tristan returned to his chambers by way of the drawing room, wondering whether his guests had retired for the night. Not that he wanted company, precisely. But he did not trust himself to be alone, either.
The footman had not returned to his post, and the door stood partly open, presumably left that way by the last to leave. Voices from within told that the room was not empty, however. Hidden by the stout oak panel, but with a clear view into the room, he paused. The card players had reconfigured themselves. Whitby now partnered Miss Pilkington, who looked more animated than she had at any previous time that day. Beresford and Lady Lydgate were teamed against them, seated on opposite sides of the table; he refused to speculate on what might be going on between them beneath its cover. Sir Thomas faced Lord Easton over the chessboard, the former studying his next move while his opponent snored. Virtually the same dull scene he had left. Only the Newsomes had gone. Guin now sat by the fire in place of the vicar’s wife, a book open on her lap.
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