“You needn’t flatter me, Northwyck,” she returned, briskly, despite the warmth she felt in her cheeks. He had no business knowing he’d affected her. He was obviously too used to ladies melting into puddles at his feet.
“Is that what I was doing?” he murmured.
“You’ve known me too long to think I’d believe you anyway.”
“Is that so?”
“’Tis.”
“And have I been away so long that compliments offered to pretty ladies are no longer the thing? Even here in Little Barrow?”
She absolutely would not blush. He was teasing her, playing the polite Society games she used to know how to play. “So why are we digging holes for children to fall into, exactly?” he asked when she did not reply.
“They are meant to be excavation trenches, barely as deep as a washing basin,” she explained. “It’s somewhere for them to practice their techniques, to foster a curiosity about the past and the search for artifacts that tell us about our forefathers.”
“You do sound like the duke.”
“He’s a kindred spirit.”
“Indeed.”
She glanced at him again. “Why are you here then, if not for the festival?”
“Visiting family,” Conall replied. His voice really was entirely too delicious: rough and smooth at the same time, like whiskey.
Something about it burned a path through her, just as that whiskey would have.
The Duke ofPendleton lived on the other side of the village, in an estate roughly ten times the size of Little Barrow itself. It was well situated with rolling hills and pockets of woodland and access to several ancient barrows and a single desolate stone circle. The walk up the drive alone usually took Persephone half an hour to complete. She was grateful that she did not have to do so today. Conall’s horse was a massive brute, with very gentle manners and a smooth gait. He snorted gently at the stableboy who darted out to take the reins.
Conall steadied her as she slipped out of the saddle. She slid along his body, far closer than was polite. It flustered her and she tripped on a cobblestone. Assuming it was due to her knee, his hand closed over her shoulder. “I’ll carry you inside.”
“Absolutely not.” She’d blurted out. He looked at her curiously. She forced a smile. “I mean, I’m perfectly able to make it to the door.”
If he carried her inside it would cause a hullaballoo and she’d had a lifetime’s fill of being stared at. She limped ahead with a determination generally reserved for unpleasant appointments with the dentist. She’d have hopped like a rabbit if she’d thought it would get her inside faster. She didn’t trust him not to scoop her up anyways. He was exactly the sort.
Instead, he kept pace quietly beside her, his hand near her lower back, not quite touching her. More respectful than the shape of his eyebrows. She’d never considered that eyebrows could have a moral slant, but his were decidedly wicked.
The house was a renovated abbey dating back to the Reformation and the Dissolution of the Monasteries. One of the Duke’s ancestors had evidently performed some valuable service for King Henry the Eighth and was subsequently well rewarded. The abbey was built of gold-hued stones that glowed in the morning light. She had always loved it. And not just because of the rings of ancient barrows tucked behind the back woods which she coveted.
The duke welcomed her into his gold house and so he expected everyone else in the village to follow suit. They complied because he was a duke and in return, she did not pay any awkward social calls which might require a reciprocal visit. And so, the delicate balance of social life was protected. Until the festival, that was. Because now Persephone had call to be everywhere and as no one wanted to be left out of the celebrations they must give way. They still had opinions, of course. A lot of them. Right down to the duke’s butler, Basil.
He was too professional to say so outright, but not quite professional enough to suppress the quivering of his nostrils. It was a dead giveaway. Had she thought that he would stoop to play cards, she would have warned him about his tell. As it was, she only smiled cheerfully when he answered the door. “Good morning, Basil.”
“My lady.” He bowed smartly to Conall. “My Lord Northwyck. The duke will be so pleased you’ve arrived.”
“Thank you, Basil.”
Persephone handed him her bonnet, slightly squashed from her tumble. His gaze flickered to the mud flaking off her hem onto the marble stones of the foyer. She winced. “I’m sorry, Basil. There was work to be done in the village.”
“Indeed.”
She fancied explorers into the artic had faced less frigid waters. When he seemed transfixed with the mess at her feet, Conall’s voice went sharp. “Is His Grace in the breakfast room, Basil?”
Basil jumped. Persephone had never seen him jump. “Yes, my lord. He’s expecting you.”
“Good. Let’s not keep Lady Persephone on her feet. And have Mrs. Hastings bring up a cold compress immediately.”
“At once, my lord.”