The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(44)

And Grace would never dream of asking him to. Or scold him for not doing so.

He was the duke. She could not speak to him that way, no matter their friendship.

But Mr. Audley was...

She closed her eyes for a moment, turning away so he could not see the turmoil on her face. He was just Mr. Audley for now, not so very far above her. But the dowager's voice, soft and menacing, still rang in her ears -

If that is indeed still his name.

She was speaking of Thomas, of course. But the counterpart was true as well. If Thomas was not Wyndham, then Mr. Audley was.

And this man...this man who had kissed her twice and made her dream of something beyond the walls of this castle - he would be this castle. The dukedom wasn't just a few words appended to the end of one's name. It was lands, it was money, it was the very history of England placed upon one man's shoulders.

And if there was one thing she had learned during her five years at Belgrave, it was that the aristocracy were different from the rest of humanity. They were mortals, true, and they bled and cried just like everyone else, but they carried within them something that set them apart.

It didn't make them better. No matter the dowager's lectures on the subject, Grace would never believe that. But they were different. And they were shaped by the knowledge of their history and their roles.

If Mr. Audley's birth had been legitimate, then he was the Duke of Wyndham, and she was an overreaching spinster for even dreaming of his face.

Grace took a deep, restorative breath, and then, once her nerves were sufficiently calmed, turned back to him. "Which part of the castle would you like to see, Mr. Audley?"

He must have recognized that this was not the time to press her, and so he answered cheerfully, "Why, all of it, of course, but I imagine that is not feasible for a single morning. Where do you suggest we begin?"

"The gallery?" He had been so interested in the paintings in his room the night before. It seemed a logical place to start.

"And gaze upon the friendly faces of my supposed ancestors?" His nostrils flared, and for a moment he almost looked as if he'd swallowed something distasteful. "I think not. I've had enough of my ancestors for one morning, thank you very much."

"These are dead ancestors," Grace murmured, hardly able to believe her cheek.

"Which is how I prefer them, but not this morning."

She glanced across the hall to where she could see sunlight dappling in through a window. "I could show you the gardens."

"I'm not dressed for it."

"The conservatory?"

He tapped his ear. "Made of tin, I'm afraid."

She pressed her lips together, waited a moment, then said, "Do you have any location in mind?"

"Many," he answered promptly, "but they'd leave your reputation in tatters."

"Mr. Au - "

"Jack," he reminded her, and somehow there was less space between them. "You called me Jack last night."

Grace did not move, despite the fact that her heels were itching to scoot backwards. He was not close enough to kiss her, not even close enough to accidentally brush his hand against her arm. But her lungs felt suddenly devoid of air, and her heart had begun to race, beating erratically in her chest.

She could feel it forming on her tongue -  Jack. But she could not say it. Not in this moment, with the image of him as the duke still fresh in her mind. "Mr. Audley," she said, and although she tried for sternness, she did not quite manage it.

"I am heartbroken," he said, and he did it with the exact right note of levity to restore her equilibrium.

"But I shall carry on, painful though it may be."

"Yes, you look to be in despair," she murmured.

One of his brows rose. "Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?"

"Just a hint."

"Good, because I assure you" - he thumped one hand against his heart - "I am dying on the inside."

She laughed, but she tried to hold it in, so it came out more like a snort. It should have been embarrassing; with anyone else it would have been. But he had set her back at ease, and instead she felt herself smile. She wondered if he realized what a talent it was - to return any conversation to a smile.

"Come with me, Mr. Audley," she said, motioning for him to accompany her down the hall. "I shall show you my very favorite room."

"Are there cupids?"

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I was attacked by cupids this morning," he said with a shrug, as if such a thing were a common day occurrence. "In my dressing room."

And again she smiled, this time even more broadly. "Ah. I'd forgotten. It's a bit much, isn't it?"

"Unless one is partial to naked babies."

Again her laughter snorted out.

"Something in your throat?" he asked innocently.

She answered him with a dry look, then said, "I believe the dressing room was decorated by the present duke's great-grandmother."

"Yes, I'd assumed it wasn't the dowager," he said cheerfully. "She doesn't seem the sort for cherubs of any stripe."

The image that brought forth was enough to make her laugh aloud.

"Finally," he said, and at her curious look, added, "I thought you were going to choke on it earlier."