Page 2 of The Duke’s Defiant Love

Sebastian returned to his manuscript.

"And if she sends broth, send it back."

A faint smile touched Hopkins's mouth.

"Yes, Your Grace."

He had scarcely reached the door before another footman appeared.

"Your Grace. The Dowager Duchess is here."

Sebastian closed his eyes. “Tell me my mother is not in this house."

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Your Grace."

"You could attempt it. I would not hold the lie against you."

"She is already past the hall, Your Grace. I did not think it wise to attempt to stop her."

Sebastian set down his pen and glanced at the estate ledger beside him, the columns of quarter-day rents from the Hartley farms neatly totaled and cross-checked twice, as he preferred them. He adjusted the small stack of correspondence squared at the corner of his desk.

A note from his steward regarding the drainage works at the north boundary. A letter from his solicitor concerning the renewal of the Kentish leases. A third, from a former tutor at Cambridge, inviting him to contribute a paper to a society journal, which he had already set aside to answer at his leisure, since it was the least urgent thing in the room.

"Hopkins, could you tell her I am dead?"

Hopkins paused. "Your Grace?"

"Temporarily."

"I fear Her Grace would insist upon seeing the body."

"Of course she would. I was hoping you might say I had been called away to Scotland."

"Your Grace has recently been to Scotland."

"Then the Continent."

"Would you like me to mention an approximate date of return?"

"No. The more distant and uncertain, the better."

Hopkins inclined his head.

"I shall see what I can do."

Before he could take a step, a familiar voice came from the corridor.

"You most certainly shall not."

The Dowager Duchess swept into the room without waiting for permission, dressed in deep sapphire silk despite the lateness of the hour, the rich color lending brilliance to the silver threaded through rich chestnut hair that had once matched her son's almost exactly.

Her features remained finely cut, her blue eyes keen beneath delicately arched brows, and there was still enough beauty about her to explain why portrait painters had once quarreled over the privilege of capturing the young Duchess of Ravensmere. She knew it and used it, the way she used everything..

The footman bobbed his head. "Shall I bring tea?"

She halted precisely three steps inside the study. "I do not intend to stay long enough to require tea."

"You never intend to stay long," Sebastian said, "and yet."