The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(45)

"You seem to have regained your good mood as well," she pointed out.

"It requires only the removal of my presence from her presence."

"But you only just met the dowager yesterday. Surely you've had a disagreeable moment before that."

He flashed her a broad grin. "Happy since the day I was born."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Audley."

"I never admit to my black moods."

She raised her brows. "You merely experience them?"

He chuckled at that. "Indeed."

They walked companionably toward the rear of the house, Mr. Audley occasionally pressing her for information of their destination.

"I shan't tell you," Grace said, trying to ignore the giddy sense of anticipation that had begun to slide through her. "It sounds like nothing special in words."

"Just another drawing room, eh?"

To anyone else, perhaps, but for her it was magical.

"How many are there, by the way?" he asked.

She paused, trying to count. "I am not certain. The dowager is partial to only three, so we rarely use the others."

"Dusty and molding?"

She smiled. "Cleaned every day."

"Of course." He looked about him, and it occurred to her that he did not seem cowed by the grandeur of his surroundings, just...amused.

No, not amused. It was more of a wry disbelief, as if he were still wondering if he could trade this all in and get himself kidnapped by a different dowager duchess. Perhaps one with a smaller castle.

"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Eversleigh," he said. "Although I'm sure they are worth a pound."

"More than that," she said over her shoulder. His mood was infectious, and she felt like a coquette. It was unfamiliar. Unfamiliar and lovely.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Too steep a price, I'm afraid. I am but an impoverished highwayman."

She cocked her head. "Wouldn't that make you an unsuccessful highwayman?"

"Touche," he acknowledged, "but alas, untrue. I have had a most lucrative career. The life of a thief suits my talents perfectly."

"Your talents are for pointing guns and removing necklaces off ladies' necks?"

"I charm the necklaces off their necks." He shook his head in a perfect imitation of offense. "Kindly make the distinction."

"Oh, please."

"I charmed you."

She was all indignation. "You did not."

He reached out, and before she could step away, he'd grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. "Recall the night in question, Miss Eversleigh. The moonlight, the soft wind."

"There was no wind."

"You're spoiling my memory," he growled.

"There was no wind," she stated. "You are romanticizing the encounter."

"Can you blame me?" he returned, smiling at her wickedly. "I never know who is going to step through the carriage door. Most of the time I get a wheezy old badger."

Grace's initial inclination was to ask him if badger referred to a man or a woman, but she decided this would only encourage him. Plus, he was still holding her hand, his thumb idly stroking her palm, and she was finding that such intimacies severely restricted her talents for witty repartee.

"Where are you taking me, Miss Eversleigh?" His voice was a murmur, brushing softly against her skin.

He was kissing her again, and her entire arm shivered with the excitement of it.

"It is just around the corner," she whispered. Because her voice seemed to have abandoned her. It was all she could do to breathe.

He straightened then, but did not release her hand. "Lead on, Miss Eversleigh."

She did, tugging him gently as she moved toward her destination. To everyone else, it was just a drawing room, decorated in shades of cream and gold, with the occasional accent of the palest, mintiest of greens.

But Grace's dowager-inflicted schedule had given her cause to enter in the morning, when the eastern sun still hung low on the horizon.

The air shimmered in the early morning, somehow golden with the light, and when it streamed through the windows in this far-flung, unnamed drawing room, the world somehow sparkled. By midmorning it would be just an expensively decorated room, but now, while the larks were still chirping softly outside, it was magic.

If he didn't see that...

Well, she did not know what it would mean if he did not see that. But it would be disappointing. It was a small thing, meaningless to anyone but her, and yet...

She wanted him to see it. The simple magic of the morning light. The beauty and grace in the one room at Belgrave that she could almost imagine was hers.

"Here we are," she said, a little breathless with the anticipation. The door was open, and as they approached, she could see the light slanting out, landing gently on the smooth surface of the floor. There was such a golden hue to it, she could see every speck of dust that hung floating in the air.

"Is there a private choir?" he teased. "A fantastical menagerie?"

"Nothing so ordinary," she replied. "But close your eyes. You should see it all at once."

He took her hands and, still facing her, placed them over his eyes. It brought her achingly close to him, her arms stretched up, the bodice of her dress just a whisper away from his finely tailored coat. It would be so easy to lean forward, to sigh into him. She could let her hands drop and close her own eyes, tilting her face toward his. He would kiss her, and she would lose her breath, her will, her very desire to, in that moment, be only herself.