Page 7

“ B ut Lord Stafford,” Nathaniel said, as he followed the man down the hall, “You were meant to dine with us.”

The man stopped, tugging down his blue waistcoat and shaking his head.

“Your Grace, I was already doubtful about the idea of coming here to take tea with you and Her Grace, when her husband has only passed a month ago. It is highly improper. I should have listened to my instincts.”

Nathaniel drew in a long breath. He should’ve chosen someone else.

Maxwell Stafford was far too prim and proper for this sort of undertaking.

But he hadn’t wanted to wait. His original intention had been to start with Sir Franklin, but unfortunately, the gentleman had been out of town when Nathaniel first inquired.

Not wanting to waste time, he had decided to begin his campaign as soon as his uncle had been buried.

He loathed to admit that Julian had been right—Evelyn’s lack of a proper mourning period had been a problem.

A great many gentlemen he’d approached had declined, not due to lack of interest in Evelyn—indeed, the fact that she was a virgin duchess had seemed rather appealing to them, something that made Nathaniel’s stomach turn—but because of propriety.

And propriety, it turned out, had become an obstacle.

So, he had taken what he could get. And what he could get was Stafford. Older than he would’ve liked, but sufficiently dull and non-threatening, qualities he thought would appeal to Evelyn.

He didn’t know her well, but what little he had learned told him she needed someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by her temperament; someone who would leave her be. Stafford had seemed like the perfect fit.

Yet the tea had gone badly. Evelyn had barely said two words between delicate sips from her cup. Stafford’s awkwardness was undoubtedly part of the problem.

“Stafford, old fellow,” Nathaniel said, “Her Grace is truly a lovely, refined young lady. If only you gave it a chance.”

“I have, Your Grace. And frankly, she is too young. Too vulnerable. The shock of watching her husband die before her has affected her deeply. You could see it in her eyes—she barely spoke. It was clear she was uncomfortable.”

Nathaniel pressed his lips together. He had been observing Evelyn closely the past week, and she did not seem like a brokenhearted widow.

Her sisters had visited twice, along with her aunt, and the four women had taken tea in the garden, giggling and chatting as if Evelyn weren’t newly widowed.

She had been far more talkative than she had been during tea with Stafford.

Perhaps Stafford had not been what she wanted. The trouble was, Nathaniel didn’t know what she wanted.

Shortly after they reached their agreement, he returned to Edinburgh to oversee the transfer of his belongings and to visit his mother and stepfather.

He’d only been back a week, during which he had busied himself trying to line up suitors.

Perhaps he had approached this all wrong.

Perhaps he had been listening to what he wanted, not what she wanted.

But then again, what she really wanted was that house—and she couldn’t have it.

“Your Grace,” Stafford said, tearing him from his reverie. “Give my very best to Her Grace, and my condolences once more.”

Condolences once more? Nathaniel thought. When had he given them the first time? He had been present the entire time… except—no. He had stepped out briefly when one of the tenants had come calling. Had they spoken of his uncle’s death then? Was that what had soured the encounter?

He only hoped Stafford hadn’t said anything untoward, anything that might have led Evelyn to believe he’d be like his uncle. But that would be foolish.

He exhaled. “Very well. I shall see you at the club.”

“Indeed,” Stafford said before leaving.

Nathaniel returned to the drawing room where Evelyn still sat, sipping her tea, pinky finger elegantly lifted.

“Has the gentleman gone already?” she asked as he resumed his seat.

“He has.”

“And when am I to see him again?” she asked cheerfully. Where had the cheer been during their tea? Where had the sunny smile gone when it mattered the most?

“You will not. I’m afraid Lord Stafford is not interested.”

“Oh, what a shame,” she said. “I found him quite pleasant.”

“Yes, pleasant indeed,” he replied, arms crossing. “Tomorrow you will meet Sir Franklin.”

“Already?” she asked, eyebrows arching. “People will think me a cyprian, meeting gentlemen at such a pace.”

“People will think you are a young widow in need of a husband,” he corrected. “And I remind you not to forget our agreement.”

Her expression darkened. “I know our agreement very well. Now, Sir Franklin—what do I know about him?” She set her teacup down and gave him her full attention. Her eyes shimmered with mischief. How had this become her plan?

He wet his lips. “He was knighted ten years ago. Comes from a wealthy family with an estate in Dover. You would be comfortable there. He is an amenable fellow, interested in politics, though you will not be expected to speak to him on such matters.”

“Ah, yes,” she said dryly. “Because a woman could never possibly speak intelligently about politics.” She blinked at him. “I suppose she might make the gentleman feel foolish when he realizes she knows more than he does?”

“I didn’t say that. I only meant?—”

“That it is unseemly?” she finished. “No man should feel intimidated by a woman—heavens forbid. No, we must maintain the illusion that women can do nothing without a man by their side.”

Why did she challenge him at every turn?

The most vexing part was that, in principle, he agreed with her.

He didn’t think women should be confined to embroidery and watercolors.

In fact, he had enjoyed Edinburgh’s public houses, where many of the young women had opinions—and weren’t afraid to share them.

Of course, most of them made their living entertaining gentlemen, so they had to converse intelligently.

But he could not tell Evelyn that. The less they knew about each other, the better. He didn’t want her to grow too comfortable. He needed the opposite.

“Well,” he said, “I hope your meeting with Sir Franklin goes better. Just focus on topics that are not… vexing.”

“And what topic, might I ask, is not vexing?”

“He’s interested in hiking and theology. Perhaps discuss a sermon you’ve heard? Topics of that nature.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, if I am to meet him tomorrow, I must decide what to wear. If you’ll excuse me.” She rose and left. Only after she was gone did he realize he’d been digging his nails into the leather of the chair.

What a vexing woman…

Later that afternoon, as he wandered the upper floors, preoccupied with estate matters, he entered the library.

He found Evelyn sitting at the desk, hunched over—a most unladylike posture—with piles of newspapers stacked beside her.

She held a quill, occasionally jotting something down before switching papers.

Was she studying? It was most peculiar.

And then the thought returned. He had to make her uncomfortable. She had to want to marry, to leave his home. Watching her so focused only reinforced the idea.

He stepped into the hall and spotted the butler.

“Bennett.”

“Your Grace?”

“Fetch four or five footmen. Have them begin packing up books from the library.”

“Packing up books?” the butler repeated.

“Yes. Take them to the hall. Leave them near the Duchess’s chambers.”

“But Her Grace is in the library.”

“Is she?” Nathaniel said innocently. “Well, I’m sure whatever she’s doing can be done elsewhere. This is urgent.”

“But… which books, sir?”

“It matters little. Empty the shelves. Move the books and the shelves into the hall.” He paused, then smiled. “And there is no need to be quiet about it. In fact, the louder the better.”

The butler’s jaw dropped, but he nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later, footmen arrived and entered the library. Soon, the clanking and thudding of books being removed echoed through the hall. Trunks arrived, and books were dropped in.

Nathaniel stood outside, arms and legs crossed.

Soon, Evelyn’s voice rang out: “I am reading here!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Bennett said, “but His Grace said this was urgent.”

“But why?”

“I do not know.”

Moments later, she appeared, arms full of newspapers. As she walked toward him, he noted that some were scandal sheets. Gossip, then. Looking for her name, most likely. Typical. Self-centered women were always the same.

Though… that wasn’t a kind thought. She had been genuine when she spoke of her suffering. Still, her confidence and her manner made it difficult to see her as a victim.

“Is this necessary, Nathaniel?” she asked.

He noted—as he had since returned from Edinburgh—that she refused to address him with his title, just as he refused to call her “Your Grace.”

“It is quite urgent,” he said. “I do hope you won’t mind a little discomfort.”

“Discomfort?” she echoed. “My reading has been interrupted, but I’ll manage.”

“Oh yes, and I’m afraid the books and shelves will need to stay outside your chambers for a while. I know it may be a bit of a maze, but I’m having the library renovated, and your wing is nearby, so it’s the most convenient space.”

“There’s an unused drawing room across from the library. Why not use that?”

“Oh, but that’s the private drawing room assigned to the Duchess of Sinclair.”

“I’m not using it.”

“Well, all arrangements have been made. I wouldn’t want to confuse Bennett and the footmen by altering the plan now. And there are more renovations to come. There may be some noise. Should you find it unbearable…”

Her jaw tensed, eyes narrowed, but a sweet smile formed on her lips.

“Do not fret,” she said. “I’ve lived through far worse than a little noise and mess. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for tomorrow.”

He watched her go, noting how she threw her head back in defiance. His cheeks hurt from grinning as widely as he did, for he knew that while she was defiant and confident now, things might look quite different in a few days’ time.