The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(39)

The maid jumped to her feet. "Oh, but I should not gossip."

Jack gave her a reassuring nod. "I won't say a word. I give you my vow."

She dashed toward the door, then turned around and said, "My name is Bess." She bobbed a curtsy. "If you need anything."

Jack smiled then, because he was quite certain her offer was completely innocent. There was something rather refreshing in that.

A minute after Bess left, a footman arrived, as promised by Miss Eversleigh, to escort him down to the breakfast room. He proved not nearly as informative as Bess (the footmen never were, at least not to him), and the five-minute walk was made in silence.

The fact that the trip required five minutes was not lost on Jack. If Belgrave had seemed unconscionably huge from afar, then the inside was a positive labyrinth. He was fairly certain he'd seen less than a tenth of it, and already he'd located three staircases. There were turrets, too; he'd seen them from the outside, and almost certainly dungeons as well.

There had to be dungeons, he decided, taking what had to be the sixth turn since descending the staircase.

No self-respecting castle would be without them. He decided he'd ask Grace to take him down for a peek, if only because the subterranean rooms were probably the only ones that could be counted upon not to have priceless old masters hanging on the walls.

A lover of art he might be, but this - he nearly flinched when he brushed past an El Greco - was simply too much. Even his dressing room had been hung wainscot to ceiling with priceless oils. Whoever had decorated there had an appalling fondness for cupids. Blue silk bedroom, his foot. The place ought to be renamed Corpulent Babies, Armed with Quivers and Bows Room. Subtitled: Visitors Beware.

Because, really, there ought to be a limit on how many cupids one could put in one small dressing room.

They turned a final corner, and Jack nearly sighed in delight as the familiar smells of an English breakfast wafted past his nose. The footman motioned to an open doorway, and Jack walked through it, his body tingling with an unfamiliar anticipation, only to find that Miss Eversleigh had not yet arrived.

He looked at the clock. One minute before seven. Surely that was a new, postmilitary record.

The sideboard had already been laid, so he took a plate, filled it to heaping, and chose a seat at the table.

It had been some time since he'd breakfasted in a proper house. His meals of late had been taken at inns and in rented rooms, and before that on the battlefield. It felt luxurious to sit with his meal, almost decadent.

"Coffee, tea, or chocolate, sir?"

Jack had not had chocolate for more time than he could remember, and his body nearly shuddered with delight. The footman took note of his preference and moved to another table, where three elegant pots sat in a row, their arched spouts sticking up like a line of swans. In a moment Jack was rewarded with a steaming cup, into which he promptly dumped three spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk.

There were, he decided, taking one heavenly sip, some advantages to a life of luxury.

He was nearly through with his food when he heard footsteps approaching. Within moments Miss Eversleigh appeared. She was dressed in a demure white frock - no, not white, he decided, more of a cream color, rather like the top of a milk bucket before it was skimmed. Whatever the hue was, it matched the swirling plaster that adorned the door frame perfectly. She needed only a yellow ribbon (for the walls, which were surprisingly cheerful for such an imposing home) and he would have sworn the room had been decorated just for that moment.

He stood, offering her a polite bow. "Miss Eversleigh," he murmured. He liked that she was blushing.

Just a little, which was ideal. Too much, and that would mean she was embarrassed. A bare hint of pale pink, however, meant that she was looking forward to the encounter.

And perhaps thought she ought not to be.

Which was even better.

"Chocolate, Miss Eversleigh?" the footman asked.

"Oh, yes, please, Graham." She sounded most relieved to get her beverage in hand. And indeed, when she finally sat across from him, her plate nearly as full as his, she sighed with delight.

"You don't take sugar?" he asked, surprised. He'd never met a woman - and very few men, for that matter - with a taste for unsweetened chocolate. He couldn't abide it himself.

She shook her head. "Not in the morning. I need it undiluted."

He watched with interest - and, to be honest, a fair bit of amusement - as she alternately sipped the brew and breathed in the scent of it. Her hands did not leave her cup until she'd drained the last drop, and then Graham, who obviously knew her preferences well, was at her side in an instant, refilling without even a hint of a request.

Miss Eversleigh, Jack decided, was definitely not a morning person.

"Have you been down long?" she asked, now that she had imbibed a full cup.

"Not long." He gave a rueful glance to his plate, which was almost clean. "I learned to eat quickly in the army."

"By necessity, I imagine," she said, taking a bite of her coddled eggs.

He let his chin dip very slightly to acknowledge her statement.

"The dowager will be down shortly," she said.

"Ah. So you mean that we must learn to converse quickly as well, if we wish to have any enjoyable discourse before the descent of the duchess."

Her lips twitched. "That wasn't exactly what I meant, but - " She took a sip of her chocolate, not that that hid her smile. " - it's close."