Page 57 of An Unfamiliar Duke

Rosalind nodded. She considered it likely that when Sebastian was working, he forgot to eat as readily as he forgot to sleep. She crossed the entrance hall, making directly for the kitchen. The aroma of baking bread had been replaced by the smell of roast duck. Mrs. Shoup was stirring a large pot, her cheeks pink from the heat of the stove. One scullery maid was washing a small mountain of dishes in a large basin, and another was chopping cabbage. It seemed that dinner preparations were well underway.

“Good day, Mrs. Shoup.”

The cook gasped, dropped her wooden spoon into the pot, and placed her hand over her heart. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not see you there.” She walked away from the stove. “How’s Mary?”

“She’s as cheerful as ever,” Rosalind said, “but she is suffering from some discomfort in her back.”

Mrs. Shoup clicked her tongue. “You mark my words, that baby will be here before we know it.”

“I told her to send word to the house if her situation worsens,” Rosalind said.

“That was right good of you, Your Grace. Finley Park is a fair bit closer to her than any of the other cottages on the estate.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Now that you’re home, would you like some luncheon sent to your rooms?”

“In a little while, perhaps, but I actually returned to the kitchen to ask for a couple more Chelsea buns. For His Grace, this time.”

If Mrs. Shoup was taken aback that the Duchess of Kelbrook was choosing to order food from the kitchen for her husband, she did not show it. Indeed, given her familial relationship with Sebastian, Rosalind thought it likely that the cook was rather glad to have someone else taking an interest in whether or not he was eating.

“I’ll have a plate made up in no time,” she said, already reaching for a dish on the shelf above her. “Shall I have Marcus take it to the workshop?”

“No. I shall take it myself.”

Mrs. Shoup offered her an approving look. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Chapter 23

Rosalind stood outside Sebastian’s workshop, staring at the closed door. She had knocked twice, and he had yet to answer. In her hand, she carried a plate containing three Chelsea buns—Mrs. Shoup had insisted upon adding one for her—some cheese, a pear, and a slice of cold pork. By Rosalind’s estimation, it was an offering worthy of an interruption. But perhaps he would not think so.

She squared her shoulders. It had been foolish to think that he would welcome her in, but he needed to eat regardless. Without food and sleep, he would surely collapse. The unsolicited thought caught her off guard, and she tightened her grip on the plate. With Sebastian’s penchant for privacy, it might be hours before anyone checked on him. She knocked one more time and reached for the doorknob. It turned.

Easing the door open a couple of inches, Rosalind peeked inside. The curtains were open, filling the room with light. Papers lay in piles on the table, but there was no sign of Sebastian. She pushed the door open wide enough to step inside. Coals glowed dimly in the fireplace, but the room was beginning to chill. Fear clutched at Rosalind’s throat. Where was he? Surely he would not have left the room unlocked and unattended.

She crossed the distance to the table and set down the plate. And then she heard a breath. She swung around, her heart pounding. There he was, reclining in an armchair, with his legs outstretched before him, fast asleep. Taking a moment to allow her heart rate to resume its normal tempo, she approached him quietly.

He looked younger in repose. A lock of his light-brown hair had fallen across his forehead. His cravat was undone, his collar open. One arm hung over the side of the chair; the other lay across his lap atop a bent piece of paper. Rosalind reached for the paper, sliding it out from under his arm and smoothing away the creases. She glanced at it. Diagrams of rectangles and a cylinder covered the sheet. Beside them were rows of figures.

Curiosity overcame her. She studied the numbers. Each of the rectangles was marked with its width and height. The calculations beside the rectangles showed the units of measurement and the multiplication necessary to determine their area.

The cylindrical diagram was similarly marked, but it had figures showing the radius of the circle and its height. She had expected to see some reference to pi, the symbol William Jones had made popular at the turn of the century, but instead, the multiplication resembled the ones above, with only the height and radius represented. What did that mean? She frowned, wishing she’d had the opportunity to study arithmetic more deeply. Her gaze moved to Sebastian. Would he be willing to teach her?

Setting the paper down carefully on the end table beside Sebastian’s chair, she moved closer to him. She hated to wake him when he so desperately needed the sleep. But if he had completed all that he wanted to do, surely the papers would be rolled up in the satchel, awaiting the courier, rather than scattered across the table. She crouched down and touched his hand.

“Sebastian,” she said softly.

He stirred.

“Sebastian,” she tried again.

His fingers moved, intertwining with hers. “Rosalind?” His eyes were still closed, his voice groggy.

“Yes. I brought you some food.”

Slowly, as though he were surfacing from a deep well, he opened his eyes. Blinking several times, he glanced around the room, finally focusing on her face. “Rosalind? What are you doing here?”

“I came to bring you some food. When you did not answer my knock, I became worried. I came in to check on you and found you asleep in this chair.”

His grip on her hand tightened, and he sat up. “What time is it?”

“Almost two o’clock”