viewing it with you."
"We shall begin in the gallery."
He smiled. She was clever. But just before she reached the door, he called out, "Are there nudes?"
She froze.
"I was wondering," he said innocently.
"There are," she replied, but she did not turn around. He longed to see the color of her cheeks.
Vermillion, or merely pink?
"In the gallery?" he asked, because surely it would be impolite to ignore his query. He wanted to see her face. One last time.
"Not in the gallery, no," she said, and she did turn then. Just enough so he could see the sparkle in her eyes. "It is a portrait gallery."
"I see." He made his expression appropriately grave. "No nudes, then, please. I confess to a lack of desire to see Great-Grandfather Cavendish au naturel."
Her lips pressed together, and he knew it was with humor, not disapproval. He wondered just what it would take to nudge her further, to dislodge the laughter that was surely bubbling at the base of her throat.
"Or, good heavens," he murmured, "the dowager."
She sputtered at that.
He brought a hand to his forehead. "My eyes," he moaned. "My eyes."
And then, bloody hell, he missed it. She laughed. He was sure that she did, even though it was more of a choking sound than anything else. But he had his hand over his eyes.
"Good night, Mr. Audley."
He returned his hand to its proper place at his side. "Good night, Miss Eversleigh." And then - and he would have sworn he'd been prepared to allow her to depart - he heard himself call out, "Will I see you at breakfast?"
She paused, her hand on the outer doorknob. "I expect so, if you are an early riser."
He absolutely was not.
"Absolutely I am."
"It is the dowager's favorite meal," she explained.
"Not the chocolate and the newspaper?" He wondered if he remembered everything she'd said that day.
Quite possibly.
She shook her head. "That is at six. Breakfast is laid at seven."
"In the breakfast room?"
"You know where it is, then?"
"Haven't a clue," he admitted. "But it seemed a likely choice. Will you meet me here, to escort me down?"
"No," she said, her voice dipping slightly with amusement (Or exasperation? He couldn't be sure), "but I will arrange to have someone else lead you there."
"Pity." He sighed. "It won't be the same."
"I should hope not," she said, slowly shutting the door between them. And then, through the wood, he heard, "I plan to send a footman."
He laughed at that. He loved a woman with a sense of humor.
At precisely six the following morning, Grace entered the dowager's bedroom, holding the heavy door open for the maid who had followed her with the tray from the kitchen.
The dowager was awake, which was no great surprise. She always woke early, whether the summer sun was slipping in around the curtain edges, or the winter gloom hung heavy on the morning. Grace, on the other hand, would have gladly slept until noon if permitted. She'd taken to sleeping with her drapes open since her arrival at Belgrave - the better to let the sunlight batter her eyelids open every morning.
It didn't work very well, nor did the chiming clock she'd installed upon her bedside table years earlier.
She thought she would have adapted to the dowager's schedule by this point, but apparently her inner timepiece was her one rebellion - the last little bit of her that refused to believe that she was, and forever would be, companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham.
All in all, it was a good thing she'd befriended the housemaids. The dowager might have Grace to start her day, but Grace had the maids, who took turns each morning, slipping into her room and shaking her shoulder until she moaned, "Enough..."
How strange about Mr. Audley. She would never have pegged him for a morning person.
"Good morning, your grace," Grace said, moving to the windows. She pulled open the heavy velvet curtains. It was overcast, with a light mist, but the sun seemed to be making a good effort. Perhaps the clouds would burn off by afternoon.
The dowager sat up straight against her pillows, queenly in her elaborately styled, domed canopy bed.
She was nearly done with her series of morning exercises, which consisted of a flexing of the fingers, followed by a pointing of the toes, finishing with a twisting of her neck to the left and right. She never stretched it side to side, Grace had noticed. "My chocolate," she said tersely.
"Right here, ma'am." Grace moved to the desk, where the maid