"Oh, you think?"
"If truthiness gets to be a word, then accosting a duchess with a gun ought to be enough to get one hanged. "
"You're quick," he said admiringly.
"Thank you," she said, then admitted, "I'm out of practice. "
"Yes. " He glanced down the hall toward the drawing room, where the dowager was presumably still enthroned upon her sofa. "She does keep you rather silent, doesn't she?"
"Loquaciousness is not considered becoming in a servant. "
"Is that how you see yourself?" His eyes met hers, searching her so deeply she almost stepped away. "A servant?"
And then she did step away. Because whatever it was he was going to find in her, she wasn't so sure she wanted to see it. "We should not loiter," she said, motioning for him to follow her up the stairs. "The blue silk bedroom is lovely. Very comfortable, and with excellent morning light. The artwork in particular is superb. I think you will like it. "
She was babbling, but he was kind enough not to remark upon it, instead saying, "I'm sure it will be an improvement over my current lodgings. "
She glanced over at him with surprise. "Oh. I had assumed - " She broke off, too embarrassed to remark that she'd thought him a homeless nomad.
"A life of posting inns and grassy fields," he said with an affected sigh. "Such is the fate of a highwayman. "
"Do you enjoy it?" She surprised herself, both by asking it and also by how very curious she was in the answer.
He grinned. "Robbing coaches?"
She nodded.
"It depends on who is in the coach," he said softly. "I very much enjoyed not robbing you. "
"Not robbing me?" She turned then, and the ice, which had been cracked, was officially broken.
"I didn't take a thing, did I?" he returned, all innocence.
"You stole a kiss. "
"That," he said, leaning forward with great cheek, "was freely given. "
"Mr. Audley. . . "
"I do wish you'd call me Jack," he sighed.
"Mr. Audley," she said again. "I did not - " She looked quickly about, then lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. "I did not. . . do. . . what you said I did. "
He smiled lazily. "When did 'kiss' become such a dangerous word?"
She clamped her lips together because truly there was no way she would gain the upper hand in this conversation.
"Very well," he said. "I shan't torment you. "
It would have been a kind and generous statement if he hadn't followed it with: "Today. "
But even then, she smiled. It was difficult not to, in his presence.
They were in the upper hall now, and Grace turned toward the family apartments where he would be staying. They moved along in silence, giving her ample time to consider the gentleman beside her. She did not care what he'd said about not completing university. He was extremely intelligent, unique vocabulary notwithstanding. And there was no arguing against his charm. There was no reason he should not be gainfully employed. She could not ask him why he was robbing coaches, however. It was far too forward on so short an acquaintance.
It was ironic, that. Who would have thought she'd be worried about manners and propriety with a thief?
"This way," she said, motioning for him to follow her to the left.
"Who sleeps down there?" Mr. Audley asked, peering in the opposite direction.
"His grace. "
"Ah," he said darkly. "His grace. "
"He is a good man
," Grace said, feeling she must speak up for him. If Thomas had not behaved as he ought, it was certainly understandable. From the day of his birth, he'd been raised to be the Duke of Wyndham. And now, with the flimsiest of fate twists, he'd been informed that he might be nothing more than plain Mr. Cavendish.
If Mr. Audley had had a rough day, well then, surely Thomas's was worse.
"You admire the duke," Mr. Audley stated. Grace couldn't quite tell if this was a question; she didn't think so. But either way, his tone was dry, as if he thought she was somewhat naive for doing so.
"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. "
"I do," he said, in a tone that was somehow both impressed and grim. "It's a Caravaggio. "
"You are a connoisseur?" she asked, and she noticed that her toes had somehow crossed the threshold of the room. Her heels were still safe and proper, resting on the corridor floor, but her toes. . .
They itched in her slippers.
They longed for adventure.
She longed for adventure.
Mr. Audley moved to another painting - the east wall was full of them - and murmured, "I would not say that I am a connoisseur, but yes, I do like art. It's easy to read. "
"To read?" Grace stepped forward. What an odd statement.
He nodded. "Yes. Look here. " He pointed to a woman in what looked like a post-Renaissance work. She was seated upon a lavish chair, cushioned in dark velvet, edged with thick, twisting gold. Perhaps a throne? "Look at the way the eyes look down," he said. "She is watching this other woman. But she is not looking at her face. She's jealous. "
"No, she's not. " Grace moved to his side. "She's angry. "
"Yes, of course. But she's angry because she's jealous. "
"Of her?" Grace responded, pointing to the "other" woman in the corner. Her hair was the color of wheat, and she was clad in a filmy Grecian robe. It ought to have been scandalous; one of her breasts seemed poised to pop out at any moment. "I don't think so. Look at her. " She motioned to the first woman, the one on the throne. "She has everything. "
"Everything material, yes. But this woman" - he motioned to the one in the Grecian robe - "has her husband. "
"How can you even know she is married?" Grace squinted and leaned in, inspecting her fingers for a ring, but the brushwork was not fine enough to make out such a small detail.
"Of course she is married. Look at her expression. "
"I see nothing to indicate wifeliness. "
He lifted a brow. "Wifeliness?"
"I'm quite certain it's a word. More so than truthiness, in any case. " She frowned. "And if she is married, then where is the husband?"
"Right there," he said, touching the intricate gilt frame, just beyond the woman in the Grecian robe.
"How can you possibly know that? It's beyond the edge of the canvas. "
"You need only to look at her face. Her eyes. She is gazing at the man who loves her. "
Grace found that intriguing. "Not at the man she loves?"
"I can't tell," he said, his head tilting slightly.
They stood in silence for a moment, then he said, "There is an entire novel in this painting. One need only take the time to read it. "
He was right, Grace realized, and it was unsettling, because he wasn't supposed to be so perceptive. Not him. Not the glib, jaunty highwayman who couldn't be bothered to find a proper profession.
"You're in my room," he said.
She stepped back. Abruptly.
"Steady now. " His arm shot out and his hand found her elbow.
She couldn't scold him, not really, because she would have fallen. "Thank you," she said softly.
He didn't let go.
She'd regained her balance. She was standing straight.
But he didn't let go.
And she did not pull away.