Page 25 of A Virgin to Tempt the Duke

“You said it to theunder-gardener,” Lady Oldbarrow continued, undeflected, “who then repeated it to the head gardener, who did not speak to anyone for three days.” She tilted her head. “Three days! The hedge was dismantled the following month. The head gardener told your father it had root disease.”

“It may have had root disease,” Frederick said, toying with his fork rather than meeting anyone’s eyes.

“It did not have root disease, Frederick. It looked like a sheep and he knew it.”

“And then there was Rachel,” Lady Oldbarrow continued, turning smoothly toward her, “at approximately the same age, who decided that the hall clock was incorrect!”

“Oh,pleasedon’t—” Rachel began.

“—and took it upon herself to adjust it. By one hour. In the wrong direction.”

“I wasseven!”

“The household ran an hour behind for an entire day. The cook served luncheon at two.” Lady Oldbarrow’s eyes were bright. “She hid behind the hall curtains when it was discovered by the household,” she told Anna. “The ones by the east window. For approximately forty-five minutes.”

“They were good curtains for hiding.” Rachel folded her hands demurely.

“She was not found until dinner.”

Anna had been watching this as if a storybook was unfolding before her eyes. She watched the way the table had changed shape around Lady Oldbarrow’s stories, the way Rachel had gone from the careful pleasantness of a person managing a difficult atmosphere to something looser and more genuine, and the way His Grace had…

The wayFrederick,as Lady Oldbarrow called him, stopped presenting his controlled surface quite so thoroughly. He was looking at his godmother with an expression that had something akin to warmth, which spread to Anna’s heart.

Anna knew he was feeding Percy under the table. She could see it: the slight movement of his hand, the way Percy had oriented himself with absolute certainty, the piece of chicken that had not made it back to his plate. Something about the subtle paternal instincts made Anna’s heart swell, as she thought about her deep wish to have something to nurture.

“He knows perfectly well I can see him,” Lady Oldbarrow said, without looking down, as the next course was served.

“Percy earns his keep,” Frederick said.

“Percy,” Lady Oldbarrow told Anna, “has found a very intelligent human and has been living on roast chicken ever since.” She paused. “I respect it, frankly. A cat after my own heart.”

Anna laughed. It came out fully, not the constrained, careful sound she had been producing in pleasant company. It was her real one, unguarded, surprised out of her by the absolute precision of the observation. She didn’t realize how badly she needed a laugh. It lasted only a moment. But it filled the room.

She felt the Duke go still.

She did not look at him immediately; she couldn’t. So, she looked at Lady Oldbarrow, who was smiling, and at Rachel, who was grinning, and by the time she looked at his Grace, he was looking at his plate, and his jaw was very slightly tight. That was all.

Lady Oldbarrow caught Anna’s eye across the table. The old woman’s expression was entirely unreadable and somehow communicated thoroughly, as someone who had been watching people for sixty years did. Her gaze drifted to her godson, back to Anna, then down to her plate.

“Who is ready for dessert?”

CHAPTER 10

The garden table had been Mrs. Hale’s doing. There was a crisp white cloth, three chairs arranged toward the south view, a lunch that was both better and more elaborate than anything strictly required for three women eating brunch outdoors in October.

“These hothouse grapes have no business being so delectable at this time of year,” Anna remarked as she popped one in her mouth.

“You are most right,” Rachel said.

“Indeed,” Lady Oldbarrow said as Anna poured more tea.

Anna watched them go about their meal and could not help but smile. It was such a welcome distraction from all that had befallen her. The October sun was doing its best, which in Derbyshire meant a pale, determined light that was not quitewarm but was not cold either. The grounds stretched away from them in the quiet of summer, which felt comforting in its beauty.

She did not think about Birchall. Or rather, she did, but at a remove that had grown untroublesome, the way a bruise moved from sharp to dull. Eventually it would fade, just like the marks on her skin.

What she thought about instead was the letter she had written, which was put in the post four days ago to the attorney. For all she knew, it was currently sitting in a solicitor’s office in London, being read by someone who might be able to do something with it.

“The attorney wrote his Grace back,” she said, setting down the teapot. “His Grace told me yesterday, I wrote a statement. He said it was…” She paused. “He called it compelling.Which I gather is a good sign.”