The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(36)

Sera seemed to notice it as well. “Where are they?”

He feigned ignorance. “Who?”

Her brow furrowed. “The girls, Haven. Where are my replacements?”

As though she could ever be replaced.

He ignored the thought. “It’s a good thing they aren’t here, considering we’re going to have to find four additional bedchambers for today’s unexpected guests. How long are they staying?”

“Where is your brotherly love, Duke?” the one married to Earl Clare asked.

He ignored the question. “How long, Seraphina?”

She smiled, all serenity, and patted his cheek. “There are thirty bedchambers in this monstrosity of a house,” she scoffed. “I think you’ll be able to find space for family.”

“Monstrosity?”

“No one requires a home this large.” The words were full of distraction as she looked to a massive old tree, heavy with summer. A single crow sat on a low-hanging branch, and it seemed Sera was watching the black bird.

“There was a time when you liked it,” he said.

She looked back to him then and said, softly, “No longer.”

Of course she didn’t. He was an ass for making her come here. For making her remember all they’d lost.

She continued, unaware of the riot of his thoughts. “Are you saying you haven’t the room?”

“Of course we’ve the room.” He turned and began to climb the stairs, suddenly keenly aware that the last time Sera had been here, she’d left him. And he’d deserved it. He resisted the urge to turn back and take hold of her. To prevent a repeat of the events of the past.

“Where are they?” Sera repeated her question. She followed him into the main entryway, flanked by her sisters—each wilder and stronger than the next—and his plans for the evening were suddenly outrageous. Misguided. Impossible. “Why did you summon me here with such insistence?”

What if he told her the truth?

“Are they even here?”

What if he told her he’d expected her to come alone?

“Haven?”

What if he told her he had planned to win her back?

“And why aren’t there any staff about?” He turned to face her, prepared to tell her the truth, but when he met her wide eyes, he saw that she already knew the truth. “Where is the staff?”

“I gave them the afternoon off,” he said, injecting the words with enough ducal force to inhibit any further questions.

He failed to remember that the Talbot sisters had never been intimidated by ducal force. Five pairs of knowing eyes bored into him, seeming to lay him bare.

“Why?” Lady Sesily said, handkerchief still at her lips.

Malcolm ignored the question and looked away to the crow on the tree, now no longer alone. There were still black birds there, seeming to watch him in return. He straightened his shoulders, channeled his ducal line, and, focused, returned his attention to Seraphina.

Mistake.

His wife’s gaze was narrow and knowing. “Where are the girls?” It was her tone that brooked no refusal in the end, however, all duchess, ironically.

“They arrive in three days.” The house was prepared, every bed made, every meal planned.

She nodded, and he could see the question in her eyes, the one she held back. Why are we alone?

He wondered for a moment what she might say if he responded honestly. If he told her the truth that they all seemed to suspect already. If he said, Because I wanted you alone. Because I wanted to undo it all.

It seemed a ridiculous plan now.

And so, instead, he found his reply in the moment, a fabrication that, once spoken aloud, thankfully seemed legitimate. “Our agreement was that you would play hostess and matchmaker, no? With that in mind, should you not be here in advance? To do whatever it is hostesses and matchmakers do?”

Malcolm was proud of the dismissive tone he somehow mustered, a tone that seemed to grate upon his sisters-in-law even as his wife remained unmoved.

“This is madness, Haven, you understand that, do you not?” Sesily said.

“Having her here will only set the other girls on edge,” the Marchioness of Eversley spoke.

“No one has ever been comfortable around the Talbot sisters—and that is before one of us is married to their potential suitor.” This, from Mark Landry’s wife. Or maybe the Countess of Clare. He could never tell them apart.

“Good Lord. Even saying that aloud sounds like insanity,” said the other. He’d forgotten what chattering magpies his sisters-in-law could be. But whichever one said that last bit wasn’t wrong. The entire plan was mad.

He did not look to the assembled women, instead focusing completely on his wife, who watched him for a long moment before saying, “Well then. I imagine there is a great deal to do.”

Seraphina lifted her skirts in one hand and, clutching the cat basket in the other with all the grace she might have if she were carrying a scepter, climbed the steps of the home to which she was mistress. He remained on the drive, watching her, transfixed by her smooth, fluid movements, even as she stilled on the threshold, turning to look down to him. “Why is your mother not playing this role?”

He did not hesitate. “The dowager is dead.”

Seraphina revealed no emotion. “I am sorry.”