The Lost Duke of Wyndham Page 0,67

would not respond to anything Cavendish) would know.

What might they expect from the weather? Find Jack and ask his opinion.

Could one obtain a decent pot of tea in Ireland? What about once they'd left the environs of Dublin? And then, after Grace had reported back with Yes and for God's sake (amended to remove the blasphemy), she was sent on her way again to determine if he even knew how to judge a tea's quality.

It was almost embarrassing to ask him this. It should have been, but by that point they were bursting out laughing just at the sight of each other. It was like that all the time now. He would smile. And then she would smile. And she was reminded just how much better she liked herself when she had reason to smile.

Just now the dowager had ordered her to find him for a full accounting of their proposed route through Ireland, which Grace found odd, since she would have thought the dowager had worked that out by then.

But she was not about to complain, not when the task both removed her from the dowager's presence and placed her in Mr. Audley's.

" Jack," she whispered to herself. He was Jack. His name suited him perfectly, dashing and carefree.

John was far too staid, and Mr. Audley too formal. She wanted him to be Jack, even though she had not allowed herself to say it aloud to him, not since their kiss.

He had teased her about it - he always teased her about it. He'd prodded and cajoled and told her she must use his given name or he would not respond, but she remained steadfast. Because once she did, she was afraid she could never go back. And she was already so perilously close to losing her heart forever.

It could happen. It would happen if she let it. She had only to let go. She could close her eyes and imagine a future...with him, and children, and so much laughter.

But not here. Not at Belgrave, with him as the duke.

She wanted Sillsby back. Not the house, since that could never be, but the feeling of it. The comfortable warmth, the kitchen garden that her mother had never been too important to attend. She wanted the evenings in the sitting room - the sitting room, she reminded herself, the only one. Nothing that had to be described with a color or a fabric or a location within the building. She wanted to read by the fire with her husband, pointing out bits that amused her, and laughing when he did the same.

That was what she wanted, and when she had the courage to be honest with herself, she knew that she wanted it with him.

But she wasn't often honest with herself. What was the point? He didn't know who he was; how could she know what to dream?

She was protecting herself, holding her heart in armor until she had an answer. Because if he was the Duke of Wyndham, then she was a fool.

As fine a house as Belgrave was, Jack much preferred to spend time out of doors, and now that his mount had been transferred to the Wyndham stables (where his horse was certainly wallowing in joy over the endless carrots and warm accommodations), he had taken up the habit of a ride each morning.

Not that this was so very far from his prior routine; Jack usually found himself on horseback by late morning. The difference was that before he'd been going somewhere, or, on occasion, fleeing from somewhere. Now he was out and about for sport, for constitutional exercise. Strange, the life of a gentleman. Physical exertion was achieved through organized behavior, and not, as the rest of society got it, through an honest day's work.

Or a dishonest one, as the case often was.

He was returning to the house - it was difficult to call it a castle, even though that's what it was; it always made him want to roll his eyes - on his fourth day at Belgrave, feeling invigorated by the soft bite of the wind over the fields.

As he walked up the steps to the main door, he caught himself peering this way and that, hoping for a glimpse of Grace even though it was highly unlikely she'd be out of doors. He was always hoping for a glimpse of Grace, no matter where he was. Just the sight of her made something tickle and fizz within his chest. Half the time