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“He is a good man,” she repeated firmly. “You will agree with me, once you further your acquaintance.”

Mr. Audley let out an amused little puff of breath. “You sound like a servant now, starched and prim and properly loyal.”

She scowled at him, but he clearly did not care, because he was already grinning and saying, “Are you going to defend the dowager next? I should like to hear you do it, because I’m most curious as to how, exactly, one would attempt such a feat.”

Grace could not imagine that he might actually expect her to reply. She turned, though, so he could not see her smile.

“I could not manage it myself,” he continued, “and I’m told I have a most silver tongue.” He leaned forward, as if imparting a grave secret. “It’s the Irish in me.”

“You’re a Cavendish,” she pointed out.

“Only half.” And then he added, “Thank God.”

“They’re not so bad.”

He let out a chuckle. “They’re not so bad? That’s your rousing defense?”

And then heaven help her, she could not think of a single good thing to say except, “The dowager would give her life for the family.”

“Pity she has not done so already.”

Grace shot him a startled look. “You sound just like the duke.”

“Yes, I’d noticed they had a warm and loving relationship.”

“Here we are,” Grace said, pushing open the door to his chamber. She stepped back then. It could not be proper for her to accompany him into his room. Five years she’d been at Belgrave, and she’d never once stepped foot inside Thomas’s chambers. She might not have much in this world, but she had her self-respect, and her reputation, and she planned to keep a firm hold on both.

Mr. Audley peeked in. “How very blue,” he remarked.

She could not help but smile. “And silken.”

“Indeed.” He stepped inside. “You’re not going to join me?”

“Oh, no.”

“Didn’t think you would. Pity. I’m going to have to loll about all on my own, rolling in all this silken blue splendor.”

“The dowager was right,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “You’re never serious.”

“Not true. I’m quite frequently serious. It’s up to you to figure out when.” He shrugged as he wandered over to the writing desk, his fingers trailing idly along the blotter until they slid off the edge and back to his side. “I find it convenient to keep people guessing.”

Grace said nothing, just watched him inspect his room. She ought to go. She rather thought she wanted to go, actually; all day she’d been longing to crawl into bed and go to sleep. But she stayed. Just watching him, trying to imagine what it was like to see all of this for the first time.

She had entered Belgrave Castle as a servant. He was quite possibly its master.

It had to be strange. It had to be overwhelming. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that this wasn’t the fanciest or most ostentatious guest bedchamber. Not even close.

“Excellent art,” he commented, tilting his head as he regarded a painting on the wall.

She nodded, her lips parting, then closing again.

“You were about to tell me it’s a Rembrandt.”

Her lips parted again, but this time in surprise. He hadn’t even been looking at her. “Yes,” she admitted.

“And this?” he asked, turning his attention to the one underneath. “Caravaggio?”

She blinked. “I don’t know.”