If that is indeed still his name.
She was speaking of Thomas, of course. But the counterpart was true as well. If Thomas was not Wyndham, then Mr. Audley was.
And this man. . . this man who had kissed her twice and made her dream of something beyond the walls of this castle - he would be this castle. The dukedom wasn't just a few words appended to the end of one's name. It was lands, it was money, it was the very history of England placed upon one man's shoulders.
And if there was one thing she had learned during her five years at Belgrave, it was that the aristocracy were different from the rest of humanity. They were mortals, true, and they bled and cried just like everyone else, but they carried within them something that set them apart.
It didn't make them better. No matter the dowager's lectures on the subject, Grace would never believe that. But they were different. And they were shaped by the knowledge of their history and their roles.
If Mr. Audley's birth had been legitimate, then he was the Duke of Wyndham, and she was an overreaching spinster for even dreaming of his face.
Grace took a deep, restorative breath, and then, once her nerves were sufficiently calmed, turned back to him. "Which part of the castle would you like to see, Mr. Audley?"
He must have recognized that this was not the time to press her, and so he answered cheerfully, "Why, all of it, of course, but I imagine that is not feasible for a single morning. Where do you suggest we begin?"
"The gallery?" He had been so interested in the paintings in his room the night before. It seemed a logical place to start.
"And gaze upon the friendly faces of my supposed ancestors?" His nostrils flared, and for a moment he almost looked as if he'd swallowed something distasteful. "I think not. I've had enough of my ancestors for one morning, thank you very much. "
"These are dead ancestors," Grace murmured, hardly able to believe her cheek.
"Which is how I prefer them, but not this morning. "
She glanced across the hall to where she could see sunlight dappling in through a window. "I could show you the gardens. "
"I'm not dressed for it. "
"The conservatory?"
He tapped his ear. "Made of tin, I'm afraid. "
She pressed her lips together, waited a moment, then said, "Do you have any location in mind?"
"Many," he answered promptly, "but they'd leave your reputation in tatters. "
"Mr. Au - "
"Jack," he reminded her, and somehow there was less space between them. "You called me Jack last night. "
Grace did not move, despite the fact that her heels were itching to scoot backwards. He was not close enough to kiss her, not even close enough to accidentally brush his hand against her arm. But her lungs felt suddenly devoid of air, and her heart had begun to race, beating erratically in her chest.
She could feel it forming on her tongue - Jack. But she could not say it. Not in this moment, with the image of him as the duke still fresh in her mind. "Mr. Audley," she said, and although she tried for sternness, she did not quite manage it.
"I am heartbroken," he said, and he did it with the exact right note of levity to restore her equilibrium.
/> "But I shall carry on, painful though it may be. "
"Yes, you look to be in despair," she murmured.
One of his brows rose. "Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?"
"Just a hint. "
"Good, because I assure you" - he thumped one hand against his heart - "I am dying on the inside. "
She laughed, but she tried to hold it in, so it came out more like a snort. It should have been embarrassing; with anyone else it would have been. But he had set her back at ease, and instead she felt herself smile. She wondered if he realized what a talent it was - to return any conversation to a smile.
"Come with me, Mr. Audley," she said, motioning for him to accompany her down the hall. "I shall show you my very favorite room. "
"Are there cupids?"
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I was attacked by cupids this morning," he said with a shrug, as if such a thing were a common day occurrence. "In my dressing room. "
And again she smiled, this time even more broadly. "Ah. I'd forgotten. It's a bit much, isn't it?"
"Unless one is partial to naked babies. "
Again her laughter snorted out.
"Something in your throat?" he asked innocently.
She answered him with a dry look, then said, "I believe the dressing room was decorated by the present duke's great-grandmother. "
"Yes, I'd assumed it wasn't the dowager," he said cheerfully. "She doesn't seem the sort for cherubs of any stripe. "
The image that brought forth was enough to make her laugh aloud.
"Finally," he said, and at her curious look, added, "I thought you were going to choke on it earlier. "
"You seem to have regained your good mood as well," she pointed out.
"It requires only the removal of my presence from her presence. "
"But you only just met the dowager yesterday. Surely you've had a disagreeable moment before that. "
He flashed her a broad grin. "Happy since the day I was born. "
"Oh, come now, Mr. Audley. "
"I never admit to my black moods. "
She raised her brows. "You merely experience them?"
He chuckled at that. "Indeed. "
They walked companionably toward the rear of the house, Mr. Audley occasionally pressing her for information of their destination.
"I shan't tell you," Grace said, trying to ignore the giddy sense of anticipation that had begun to slide through her. "It sounds like nothing special in words. "
"Just another drawing room, eh?"
To anyone else, perhaps, but for her it was magical.
"How many are there, by the way?" he asked.
She paused, trying to count. "I am not certain. The dowager is partial to only three, so we rarely use the others. "
"Dusty and molding?"
She smiled. "Cleaned every day. "
"Of course. " He looked about him, and it occurred to her that he did not seem cowed by the grandeur of his surroundings, just. . . amused.
No, not amused. It was more of a wry disbelief, as if he were still wondering if he could trade this all in and get himself kidnapped by a different dowager duchess. Perhaps one with a smaller castle.
"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Eversleigh," he said. "Although I'm sure they are worth a pound. "
"More than that," she said over her shoulder. His mood was infectious, and she felt like a coquette. It was unfamiliar. Unfamiliar and lovely.
He held up his hands in surrender. "Too steep a price, I'm afraid. I am but an impoverished highwayman. "
She cocked her head. "Wouldn't that make you an unsuccessful highwayman?"
"Touche," he acknowledged, "but alas, untrue. I have had a most lucrative career. The life of a thief suits my talents perfectly. "
"Your talents are for pointing guns and removing necklaces off ladies' necks?"
"I charm the necklaces off their necks. " He shook his head in a perfect imitation of offense. "Kindly make the distinction. "
"Oh, please. "
"I charmed you. "
She was all indignation. "You did not. "
He reached out, and before she could step away, he'd grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. "Recall the night in question, Miss Eversleigh. The moonlight, the soft wind. "
"There was no wind. "
"You're spoiling my memory," he growled.
"There was no wind," she stated. "You are romanticizing the encounter. "
"Can you blame me?" he returned, smiling at her wickedly. "I never know who is going to step through the carriage door. Most of the time I get a wheezy old badger. "
Grace's initial inclination was to ask him if badger referred to a man or a woman, but she decided this would only encourage him. Plus, he was still holding her hand, his thumb idly stroking her palm, and she was finding that such intimacies severely restricted her talents for witty repartee.
"Where are you taking me, Miss Eversleigh?" His voice was a murmur, brushing softly against her skin.
He was kissing her again, and her entire arm shivered with the excitement of it.
"It is just around the corner," she whispered. Because her voice seemed to have abandoned her. It was all she could do to breathe.
He straightened then, but did not release her hand. "Lead on, Miss Eversleigh. "
She did, tugging him gently as she moved toward her destination. To everyone else, it was just a drawing room, decorated in shades of cream and gold, with the occasional accent of the palest, mintiest of greens.
But Grace's dowager-inflicted schedule had given her cause to enter in the morning, when the eastern sun still hung low on the horizon.
The air shimmered in the early morning, somehow golden with the light, and when it streamed through the windows in this far-flung, unnamed drawing room, the world somehow sparkled. By midmorning it would be just an expensively decorated room, but now, while the larks were still chirping softly outside, it was magic.
If he didn't see that. . .
Well, she did not know what it would mean if he did not see that. But it would be disappointing. It was a small thing, meaningless to anyone but her, and yet. . .
She wanted him to see it. The simple magic of the morning light. The beauty and grace in the one room at Belgrave that she could almost imagine was hers.
"Here we are," she said, a little breathless with the anticipation. The door was open, and as they approached, she could see the light slanting out, landing gently on the smooth surface of the floor. There was such a golden hue to it, she could see every speck of dust that hung floating in the air.
"Is there a private choir?" he teased. "A fantastical menagerie?"
"Nothing so ordinary," she replied. "But close your eyes. You should see it all at once. "
He took her hands and, still facing her, placed them over his eyes. It brought her achingly close to him, her arms stretched up, the bodice of her dress just a whisper away from his finely tailored coat. It would be so easy to lean forward, to sigh into him. She could let her hands drop and close her own eyes, tilting her face toward his. He would kiss her, and she would lose her breath, her will, her very desire to, in that moment, be only herself.
She wanted to melt into him. She wanted to be a part of him. And the strangest part was - right there, right then, with the golden light rippling down upon them - it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
But his eyes were closed, and for him, one little piece of the magic was missing. It had to have been, because if he had felt everything that was floating around her - through her - he never would have said, his voice utterly charming -
"Are we there yet?"
"Almost," she said. She should have been grateful that the moment was broken. She should have been relieved that she did not do something she was sure to regret.
But she wasn't. She wanted her regrets. She wanted them desperately. She wanted to do
something she knew she should not, and she wanted to lie in bed at night letting the memory keep her warm.
But she was not brave enough to initiate her own downfall. Instead, she led him to the open doorway and said softly, "Here we are. "