Page 41 of An Unfamiliar Duke

A light knock sounded at the door. James went to answer it, returning with a tray containing a bowl of steaming soup and a wedge of fresh bread.

“That may well be the best thing I’ve set eyes on all evening,” Sebastian said as James placed the tray on a nearby table.

In truth, the only thing that could top the sight of a warm meal would be to see Rosalind. He’d scarcely been able to get her out of his mind since that earth-shattering kiss—which made returning home so late all the more disheartening. She would be asleep by now, blissfully unaware of the inner tumult she was causing him. He glanced at the door that separated their chambers. And that was when he noticed the white envelope lying on the floor.

His pulse quickened. James had already set out his nightshirt. The valet did not need to stay simply to watch Sebastian eat—or read a letter.

“I appreciate your assistance this late at night, James,” Sebastian said. “There is no need for you to stay any longer. One of the maids can take care of returning this tray to the kitchen in the morning.”

If James was surprised, he did not show it. “Very good, Your Grace.” He gathered Sebastian’s damaged clothing and dirty shoes.

“Good night, James,” Sebastian said.

“Good night, Your Grace.” His valet bowed and then exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Sebastian retrieved the letter before the sound of James’s footsteps faded. Moving closer to the candle at his bedside, he broke the seal and pulled out the paper inside. The letter was short, but despite his weariness, it had the power to cheer him. That Rosalind wished to reach out to the Beckett family brought him unexpected pleasure, and her ridiculous postscript made him smile. He had intended to visit the Becketts again tomorrow, but doing so with Rosalind and her basket would make the trip far more enjoyable.

* * *

Rosalind was putting the last pork pie in the basket when Sebastian entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Rosalind,” he said.

She looked up from her work, her heart racing at the sound of his voice. “Good morning,” she replied. “I’m surprised to see you up so early. Rumor has it you were eating soup at eleven o’clock last night.”

Sebastian leveled Mrs. Shoup with a knowing look. “And where exactly did that rumor begin?”

His cook wiped her wet hands on her ample apron and smiled nonchalantly. “My job is to feed you, Your Grace. When and where you choose to eat is your responsibility. Of course, if someone specifically asks me what time you took your dinner, I may share that information if the person asking is important enough.”

“Understandable,” he said, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Important people can be very hard to refuse.”

Rosalind averted her gaze. Mrs. Shoup had all but told him that she’d been asking about his comings and goings last night. Hoping he would not notice her discomfort, she began tucking a cloth over the food hamper.

Cook disappeared into the pantry, and Sebastian’s footsteps crossed the tiled floor toward Rosalind. Already, he was close enough that he would likely notice that her hands were trembling. She lowered them to her sides.

“Thank you for your note.” His voice was low enough that the two scullery maids peeling vegetables in the far corner of the kitchen would not hear him. “I am here because I was hoping that you might allow me to accompany you to deliver the basket to the Becketts.”

She swung around. “You would do that?”

“Of course. It’s a marvelous idea. Mr. and Mrs. Beckett will be grateful; the children will be thrilled.”

“But I did not think you enjoyed making social calls.” The softly spoken words escaped before she’d thought them through. She had made this same slip before. “Forgive me. It’s just that you show so little interest in associating with others when you are in London.”

He inclined his head. “I think it fair to say that it is not conversing with others that I choose to avoid when I am in Town, but rather, it is giving attention to those whose artificial facades hide personal agendas.”

Rosalind pondered that observation. In the short time she had been at Finley Park, she had witnessed Sebastian speaking freely and cheerfully with every one of his servants. Indeed, the only instances she could recall him showing any reticence to converse had been when being harassed by Mr. Sellers and Lord Eppingham or being pressed by the Dowager Marchioness of Pendleton. And if she had been the recipient of their badgering, she would have acted exactly the same way. “I apologize. I should have known better.”

He shook his head. “Your estimation of me is shared by every other member of the ton, and I have likely only enhanced it by neglecting you for so many years.”

She stilled. He had given her the perfect opening, if she was bold enough to take it. “Why did you stay away?”

“Would your opinion of me fall even lower if I were to admit that fear played a great part in it? Fear that you would always resent me for not finding a loophole in the marriage contract. Fear that we would never be compatible. Fear of how much my life would change with a socialite wife . . .”

“A socialite wife?”

His smile was fleeting. “I may not have visited you, Rosalind, but I knew of you. A man would have to be living in the West Indies for the last decade to have not heard of the beautiful and gregarious Miss Ainsworth.” He paused. “I retract that. It is quite possible that you are spoken of in high-society circles even there.”

“That is not true.”