Page 32 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“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.

* * * *