A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,18
figured less prominently, until this past year, when Althea had bided with her sister over the Yuletide holidays and not since.
“Perhaps she has a special friend.” Althea offered that suggestion to Septimus, the pantry mouser. He regarded his duties belowstairs as purely honorary. Witness, he’d wandered into Althea’s sitting room, after following her around the manor for most of the day.
“Shall we read our evening away?”
Septimus leapt onto a hassock and commenced his ablutions.
“No reading, then. Shall we pen a letter to Jane explaining that expiring of boredom in Yorkshire is preferable to expiring of mortification in Mayfair?” And how could a lady be bored when running an estate meant she always had more to do than the day allowed?
The cat curled at an angle to undertake an indecent maneuver involving its nether parts.
Jane was owed some explanation for Althea’s decision to avoid the social Season, and a letter sent tomorrow would arrive in London before Constance did. Althea had taken the chair at the escritoire by the window and was casting about for an innocuous way to begin her epistle when something clicked against the glass of the French doors.
The wind this time of year could be fierce, and an occasional twig or acorn might be blown against the windows. Birds, confused by reflected sunlight, had been known to dash themselves against a pane, but the sun had set an hour ago.
The sound came again, a cross between a ping and a thwack.
Althea opened the door and got smacked on the shoulder with a pebble. “Ouch.”
“Good evening, my lady.” The voice rumbled softly from deep shadows below the balcony. “Might you be interested in a game of cribbage?”
Althea had thought much on her previous encounter with Rothhaven and had decided she’d been a fool. The duke had the right of it: Never beg, and especially don’t beg eccentric neighbors who refuse to aid a damsel asking for a bit of social guidance.
“Rothhaven, I employ both a butler and a night porter. Have you a reason for eschewing the front door?”
The privet hedge rustled. “Piquet or chess. Choose, or I’ll disappear back from whence I came.”
Never to be seen again. He needn’t say the words for Althea to infer them. “In a puff of black smoke no doubt. I choose cribbage. Best of three hands.”
He vaulted onto the balcony more lightly than Septimus leaping onto the chaise. “If you’re subjecting me to cribbage, then I’ll have another wheel of that cheese for my trouble.”
No scent of horse or leather clung to him, meaning he’d come on foot. “Did you travel the lanes looking for stray children to snack on, Your Grace?”
“I traveled the fields and half-ruined my boots. I have a suggestion. Rather than remove to more commodious surrounds, let’s stand out here half the night waiting for lung fever to overtake us.”
“You disdain to use the front door, but expect the hospitality of my private sitting room at an hour bordering on indecent. And women are supposed to be the gender in want of rational processes.” She returned to the parlor, a room small enough to be kept cozy on even frigid nights.
Rothhaven followed her and crossed to the fire, unbuttoning his greatcoat. “Will we be disturbed?”
“I am expecting the ghost of the first Viscount Lynley to walk in the next hour or so. Perhaps you and he are acquainted. The viscount was famous for riding the shire at all hours too, though his inspiration was the fine ale brewed by the local publican’s daughters.”
“I am not troubled by the company of ghosts, my lady. Gossiping servants are another matter entirely.”
Oh. Oh. “You are concerned for my reputation should we be discovered debauching at the card table.”
He draped his coat over the back of Althea’s reading chair and commenced a circuit of the parlor. “Even a man of my prodigious imagination is stymied by the notion of debauching over a hand of cribbage. Nonetheless, you are an unmarried female, and I am a similarly unencumbered gentleman. Conclusions will be drawn if we are found alone together after dark, and your campaign to land a bachelor will be over before it begins.”
He paused before a sketch Constance had done of Quinn. Both Constance and Cousin Duncan enjoyed significant artistic talent, while Stephen was a prodigy with mechanics. Quinn could make money multiply with a snap of fingers.
While I can age a good cheese and hold conversations with my cat. “If you think my brother would force you to marry me,