How to Fool a Duke (The Husband Dilemma #1) - Lancaster, Mary Page 0,30

music—which turned out to be quite a treasure trove. Among other exciting finds, she discovered an older variation of a Scottish song she loved and was singing it softy to herself when she became aware of being observed.

She broke off, lifting her gaze from the music to the French doors where the Duke of Vexen leaned one broad shoulder, watching her intently.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” she agreed with enthusiasm. “I have never come across this version before—it is much deeper and somehow even more sad.”

He smiled, easing his shoulder off the wall and walking into the room. “Your voice has something to do with it, too. You are modest for a pupil of Signor Arcadi.”

“Oh, don’t,” Sarah said with a shudder. “He has left Whitmore and refuses to come back until I am gone.”

“Good.”

Sarah’s eyes fell. She tucked the bound music under her arm, and closed the chest. “I must go. Hammy is expecting me.”

“May I walk with you as far as my site? Or is solitude still more alluring?”

She flushed. “I shall be glad of the company.”

He smiled and offered her his arm.

“Do you have plans to leave Whitmore?” he asked as they walked across the outer courtyard.

“Soon,” she replied. Her smile twisted. “Lady Billows said my parents miss me. Do you think that is true?”

“Why should you doubt it?”

“Well, they barely noticed me when I was with them. Unless I misbehaved.”

“Sometimes we don’t appreciate what we have until it is too late. Don’t leave it too long to go to them, for I think you miss them. Speaking as someone who knows the loss of parents, I would do anything to spend an hour with mine.”

“Truly?” She regarded him curiously. For the most part, he was so self-possessed, so independent that she had never imagined him feeling the vulnerability of loss. “You were very little, you said, when your mother died. Do you remember her?”

“I remember an impression, a soft voice, a comforting scent. But I doubt the features of her face bore any resemblance to my memory.”

She caught a glimpse of a child’s baffled grief, a loneliness worse than any she had known. “And your father?” she asked gently.

“I remember him better. But he was a distant figure. I never felt he liked me very much and wished he did. But I was too young, too proud to worm my way into reluctant affections. And then he died, and it was too late.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as though banishing regret and sadness, “Which is why I think you should go home, why Lady Whitmore—” He broke off.

“Lady Whitmore?” she repeated in surprise.

He hesitated. Then, “Apparently she has a son from whom she is estranged. But she will not let me help or even tell me who he is. I can find no likely candidates in Debrett’s. I daresay she would consider it prying in any case. But if you get the chance, you might urge her in the direction of reunion.”

Sarah smiled. “Your Grace is unexpectedly kind.”

“Your Grace,” he repeated with derision. “I think at least in private you might call me by name.”

“Leonard,” she remembered.

“Some of my older friends call me Leo.”

“And here is where I must leave you, Leo.” They had walked as far as the track down the hill to his site and she stopped, offering her hand

He smiled as though his name on her lips pleased him. He took her hand in his warm clasp and bowed over it. “No complaints about grimy fingernails?”

She smiled back. “Considering how we met, I would be a pot calling the kettle black.”

“Then I will see you at the inn tomorrow evening. I hope you’ll save a waltz for me.”

She only laughed and set off again toward the village. She wondered if they were still playing, or if the flirting was real.

Chapter Eight

Once again, the duke found himself watching with amazement as Sarah walked away—her level of grace and comportment, something he deeply admired. As for himself… He would not deny himself the chance to kiss her again. The path she took home had several areas with thick trees where no one would see them.

“Sarah,” he called as he strode after her.

Perhaps she didn’t hear him, or maybe she didn’t wish to, but kept walking, staring up at the sky, then straight ahead.

Though he appreciated the chase as much as any other man did, Leonard was not one to do so out in the open. He glanced to his