Page 29 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Oh, yes.” She nodded, breathless with excitement. “Passion.”

The temperature in the room seemed to rise a few degrees more. “I beg your pardon?”

“Passiflora caerulea. Blue passionflower.” She nearly brushed against him as she walked past, her eyes fixed on the plant behind him. “I had seen pictures, of course, but never thought to see it in bloom.”

Though he found the glow on her face far more compelling than any plant, he forced himself to turn and look in the direction she had indicated. Some sort of tropical vine had been trained to climb the wall surrounding the doorway. As he glanced over its profusion of green leaves, he did not immediately see the flower to which she referred.

“An extraordinary blossom.” With a delicate touch, she drew her finger along the pale, puckered cluster of petals that drooped from one branch. “And it lasts only a day. I knew I might never have such a chance again.”

Tristan could both understand and appreciate single-mindedness, though at present he was having difficulty concentrating on the flower. His eye persisted in wandering to the woman beside it. Worse, his mind—and a few other organs besides—seemed content to ignore the real possibility that she was a spy determined to ruin him. He needed to regain control, to shift the conversation onto safer ground.

“My sister did not share your enthusiasm, I take it?”

She drew to her full height. He recognized a defensive posture when he saw one. “I would not expect it of her—of anyone,” she said, a little sharply. “But in fact she was a most eager pupil. When Mrs. Dean came to announce dinner, I urged her to leave. I did not want her fervor to fall victim to fatigue.”

He noted Erica’s pallor, the stiffness of her movement. “And what of you, Miss Burke? Surely you must be tired. And hungry. Have you eaten nothing all day?”

“Mrs. Dean was kind enough to bring me a tray.” With one hand, she gestured toward it, still sitting on the table, mostly untouched. The fingers of her other hand played nervously over the cover of her journal. “After Lady Viviane left.”

“So long ago as that?”

“I knew I had but a few hours with the Passiflora, Your Grace. You see…” Fumbling with her journal, she found a page and extended it to him. With a hand he willed not to tremble with eagerness, he reached out for the book. But she did not release it. So together, they held it while he studied the sketches she had made, different views of a spectacular bloom that made him wonder what it would be like to be the whole focus of her attention. “In light of that, how could I concern myself with such mundane matters as dinner?” She swayed slightly, not quite steady on her feet.

He released the book. “Then you must concern yourself with them now.” Daring to step closer, he set his palm at the small of her back, urging her toward the far door and the kitchen beyond. “Come.”

Chapter 10

The drop in temperature from the conservatory to the kitchen sent a shiver down Erica’s spine. Tristan must have felt it pass through her. She told herself not to ascribe any meaning to his touch—or to its absence, for his hand dropped away as soon as the door swung closed behind them, making her shiver again. He stepped to the enormous hearth, where the fire had been carefully banked, and stoked it into life once more. Almost involuntarily, she glided closer to its warmth. Closer to him.

In the firelight’s glow, the outlines of tomorrow’s breakfast, already laid out by the kitchen staff—loaves of bread under a cloth, a basket of eggs waiting to be broken and coddled, a flitch of bacon—grew distinct. Her stomach gave a low rumble.

“Sit.”

His voice of command was softened by the unexpected coziness of the kitchen. Or perhaps her usual resistance was weakened by hunger. Either way, she sank onto the bench beside a scarred worktable, still facing the fire, and watched him as he moved efficiently around the room, collecting the remains of dinner and liberating a fresh, crusty loaf from its flimsy linen fortress.

“I would not have guessed a duke would know his way around a kitchen.” As she spoke, she turned partly toward the table, allowing the heat from the fireplace to soak into the weary muscles of her back. How many hours had she spent bent over her sketches?

“I have not always been a duke,” he pointed out.

She tried to imagine him as a small boy, sneaking down to the kitchen for a treat. The behavior seemed out of character, but even if he had done it, the staff would never have dared to scold him. “Always the son of one, though.” He stilled. Just for a moment, but long enough for her to realize her misstep. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. You must miss your father a great deal. I did not mean to—”

With one hand, he brushed aside her fumbling apology. “Regrettably, loss is common—as you yourself know.” In the semi-darkness, his eyes glittered and held her gaze. She recalled his words in the library that morning and, once again at the reference to Henry, part of her longed to make some escape. This time, however, Tristan was the first to move, striding toward the opposite side of the room. “We must learn to bear up under our grief.”

Had she borne up under hers? Or had she tried to shrug off the burden? Begging her father for her dowry, pleading with her sister to leave Dublin, hoping to put the past behind her…

Whereas Tristan had been required to confront his past, to return to his childhood home, to assume a role he likely had never expected to assume. She’d seen evidence of his reluctance to come back, but he had done it nonetheless. Folks do say he likes things orderly—always has, even when he was lad. Military life must have suited him well.

“Were you stationed in Paris?”

Dishes rattled against one another as if something had been dropped on them, and Tristan’s head emerged from the depths of a cupboard. “I beg your pardon?”

She managed a feeble smile. “You are not yet accustomed to non sequitur in my conversation, Your Grace? I had been thinking this must have been a difficult homecoming for you. And I remembered that your sister mentioned you had been in France. Which naturally made me think of Paris… I hear it’s lovely. Or rather, was.”

His answering smile was strained. “Regrettably, Miss Burke, I am not at liberty to satisfy you as to the particulars.”

“Oh.” Despite the ache in her back, she sat up a little straighter. “Of course.”

He came toward the table, bearing stoneware plates and plain flatware—presumably the china and silver used by the family were kept elsewhere, under lock and key. “But you do well to remember that I am a soldier.” After setting down his burden, he gestured with that same arm toward the makeshift banquet now crowding the table. “A resourceful one.”