She curtsied twice and hurried away. Lucy paused, taken aback by the odd encounter. First, the maid had called her Lady Margaret, a name she had become certain she would never hear again. Then, she had fled as if Lucy carried the plague, gone to nether regions of the house not frequented by the family. She finished her descent in the throes of angst.
“I see you eschew the bed as well.”
Lucy turned to find the duchess watching her. She curtsied badly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Grandmother. Call me Grandmother.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I will.”
The duchess shook her head. “Come, dear. I always break the fast with a slice of buttered bread and a cup of strong tea. Your pleasant company would add to my enjoyment.”
Lucy swallowed unease and followed her to a cozy drawing room that effused the scent of cedar and roses.
“I like this room,” Lucy said. The duchess smiled.
“Your approval delights me. This is where I prefer to spend my time, although I am usually alone.”
“I do not mean to trespass.”
“Oh, no, you are not at all in trespass. In fact, I have long anticipated the opportunity to share this place with my granddaughter. That dream was long dead until your arrival revived it.”
Her voice trembled with those final words, but she recovered quickly to offer the faintest of smiles. Lucy returned the smile, though uncertainty threatened its form. “Of what should we speak?”
The duchess gazed into her eyes and leaned forward with palms outstretched. “We shall talk of everything. Of twenty years. Tell me of Italy. What you saw and did there. Tell me of your life in Dartmoor. Tell me what you believe and what you aspire to become. I want to know everything about you, my child.”
Struck by the urge to retreat, Lucy shifted uncomfortably. However, the warmth and desperate need exuding from the duchess compelled her to remain. “I saw Venice and swam in the canals, even though Father strictly forbade it.”
With that, she began painting an amateur portrait of her brief life, careful to avoid the incriminating events of Shooter’s Hill. The duchess asked questions and occasionally injected anecdotes from her seventy years. A servant brought food and drink from time to time, just a minor thread in the tapestry of storytelling between Lucy and her grandmother. Without notice, the day slipped away against the backdrop of hours of conversation. As such, Hawes’s announcement came as somewhat of a surprise.
“Your Grace, Mr. Beaumont has arrived.”
“Send him in.”
Lucy’s pleasant mood veered suddenly into anticipation of conflict. During her brief acquaintance with Henry, she had determined only how to argue with him. When he entered the room, her breath caught unexpectedly. He had exchanged his uniform for a fine coat and tight breeches that highlighted muscled thighs honed from riding battlefields and highways. He looked every bit the London gentleman; a man beyond her refinement and tasked with the unenviable job of reshaping her into a creature she loathed. For a moment, she yearned to have met him under different circumstances without an impassable gulf between them.
Henry glanced at Lucy and bowed. “Your Grace. Lady Margaret.”
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Beaumont.”
He sat across from them, seemingly wishing to be elsewhere. At least they held that in common. When Lucy sighed, he cocked an eyebrow.
“Are you well?”
She grinned fiercely. “Well enough to suffer your condescension. Are you now my nanny?”
“More of a wet nurse, given your utter lack of social grace.”
“And do you claim extensive experience as a wet nurse?”
His half smile grew full. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Please explain, sir.”
“It is a trifling tale.”
She laughed. “Oh, I think not. Male wet nurses are clearly rare, as I did not believe biology would allow such. Thus, please explain.”
“The claim is merely metaphorical.”
