Page 6 of An Unfamiliar Duke

Sebastian chuckled. Her forthright confession was as refreshing as it was unusual. “Be assured, your honesty is commendable and more than makes up for our somewhat indecorous meeting.”

Her smile was brief but lovely. “That is very generous of you, sir. Good day to you.”

“Good day,” he replied.

She glanced up and down the road. Upon finding it free of traffic, she darted across, leaving Sebastian standing on the pavement, watching in bemusement as she and her maid disappeared from view around the corner.

* * *

Miraculously, despite being slowed down by the mortifying experience with a handsome stranger on Westchester Street, Rosalind arrived back at Langton House before the Duke of Kelbrook made his appearance. Albeit barely. Nora was applying the first dusting of face powder to Rosalind’s injured cheek when a footman arrived at the door of her bedchamber.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” Frederick said. “Lady Langton requests your presence in the drawing room.”

Rosalind’s chest tightened. For almost two hours, she had pushed aside her anxiety regarding what lay ahead; with the footman’s words, it all came flooding back. “Thank you, Frederick. Please tell her ladyship that I shall be there momentarily.”

“Very good, miss.”

He turned to go, and she closed her eyes, digging deep for the fortitude she so badly desired. “I do not have time to put on a fresh gown, Nora, but do what you can to tidy my hair and hide the blemish on my face.”

“Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll have you lookin’ as fresh as one of them daisies on yer hat. The redness is not nearly so noticeable as it was. And if I may say so, this gown is lovely on you.”

Touched by her maid’s kindness, Rosalind opened her eyes. “Thank you.”

Nora smiled and patted a little more powder on Rosalind’s cheek. “’Tis nothin’ but the truth, miss.”

Truth or not, Rosalind found herself clinging to her maid’s reassurances five minutes later when she stood outside the drawing room door. Her mother was speaking—something about the weather—and a male voice replied. There could be no denying it any longer; the duke was here. Rosalind clasped her hands together, took a deep breath, and walked in.

“Ah, Rosalind!” Her mother spotted her immediately.

Across from her mother, with his back to the door, a gentleman rose to his feet. He turned to greet her, and Rosalind’s gaze moved from his gray coat with its gold embellishment at the cuffs and collar to his cream-colored waistcoat with eight finely etched brass buttons. Her gaze flew upward, and her mouth went dry. Surely this was some sort of cruel trick. How could the lanky youth with disheveled blond hair and a permanent frown be the same person as this broad-shouldered gentleman with well-groomed, light-brown hair and teasing blue eyes? Furthermore, how could he be the very gentleman she’d literally run into on the corner of the street not more than a quarter of an hour ago? If she’d not caught a fleeting glimpse of his initial shock, she would have suspected he’d purposefully duped her. As it was, he concealed his astonishment and recovered his faculties almost immediately.

“Good day, Miss Ainsworth.” He bowed politely.

On shaking limbs, Rosalind dropped to a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Heaven help her. Would he say anything about their earlier, undignified meeting?

“Truly, it has been too long,” her mother said. “It must be almost ten years since we were all together at Finley Park.”

Rosalind grasped for the lifeline her mother had unwittingly thrown her. “Indeed. It has been ten years, three months, one week, and two days.”

A glint of humor shone in the duke’s eyes. “Your visit to Finley Park must have been memorable if you have counted every day since then.”

Blast it all. Could she do anything else to make herself look more idiotic in front of this man? Attempting to ignore the warmth creeping up her cheeks, she moved to take a seat beside her mother. “I like numbers,” she said.

“As do I.” The duke waited until she was seated before reclaiming his chair. “Although I cannot claim to have ever made such an accurate accounting of the calendar.”

Rosalind refrained from telling him that she was equally adept at calculating time and that, according to the clock on the mantel, he had precisely twenty-three minutes before social protocols and her nerves dictated that he take his leave. “Is there anything in particular that you enjoy calculating, Your Grace?”

His blue eyes met hers, and she sensed that he was genuinely surprised by her question. “In order to manage the affairs of my family estate, I am called upon to tabulate figures on a regular basis.”

“Do you not have a steward to do such tedious work?”

He chuckled. “I do, indeed, have a steward—a mighty good one, at that—but, I confess, I do not find adding and subtracting numbers to be tedious.”

Truth be told, neither did Rosalind, but His Grace undoubtedly considered her peculiar enough as it was. There was no need to add fuel to that flame.