She curtseyed again, smaller this time. “Pleased to make your acquaintance as well.”
And how difficult it was to fathom that this engaging, friendly, trousers-wearing female before her was the sister of the imperious duke she had clashed with the previous morning.
The lady in question turned her attention to the frowning butler, who had paused as well and hovered on the periphery. “I will take Miss Hilgrove to see Westmorland, Young. You may carry on with your morning.”
“Of course, Lady Calliope.” The butler bowed, and then took his leave. “I shall leave you to direct Miss Hilgrove to the grand library.”
Callie—or, rather, Lady Calliope, as was apparently her formal address—turned to Isabella. “He is not as much of a frigid bore as he seems, you know.”
She spoke with the candor of an old friend who was imparting a confidence.
Which was silly indeed, for Isabella was neither this extravagant creature’s old friend, nor was she anyone worthy of her confidences.
“Are you speaking of Mr. Young?” Isabella asked, deliberately misunderstanding Westmorland’s sister.
“Of course not. I am speaking of Benny.” Lady Calliope’s grin was as infectious as it was carefree. “Westmorland, as you know him. Forgive me, Miss Hilgrove. I do detest formality. Having lived abroad for so long, I often forget the English adherence to it.”
She could hardly fathom the duke who had sent three of her best typists fleeing from Westmorland House in tears possessing a sister who referred to him asBenny. Isabella decided she liked Lady Calliope. Immensely and in spite of her unfortunate familial ties.
“You lived abroad?” she asked, enthused although she knew she was meant to be working this morning.
And the minutes were ticking by, likely rendering her near to tardy by this point.
But her dreams of travel were too potent a lure. She had lived all her life in London, not often traveling far from it, and certainly never beyond the bounds of her home country. Her father had been a wealthy merchant, but he also detested the notion of venturing abroad when England, as he suggested, was bountiful enough in her majesty.
“France was home to me for some time,” Lady Calliope said with a sentimental smile. “I do so wish, sometimes, that Benny did not bring me back to London. However, here I am, and here you are. I dare not tarry with you overly long, for I know my brother’s temper better than most. However, I could not resist the opportunity to speak with you, our paths having inadvertently crossed.”
The duke’s sister began walking down the expansive picture gallery, and Isabella followed, intrigued and wishing she had not committed herself to playing the typist for Westmorland. She was meant to continue building her school however she could. At this very moment, there were two dozen new ladies being trained by someone other than herself.
“Did His Grace mention my school to you, my lady?” she asked as she trailed the trousers-wearing spitfire.
“Something of that nature.” Lady Calliope sent her a smile over her shoulder. “You need not look so apprehensive, my dear Miss Hilgrove. As I said, Benny is not the unfeeling bear he presents to most. And please, do call me Callie. My father was a duke, it is true, but I cannot abide by the old ways of the world. Besides, if you are to be a regular visitor here at this old mausoleum, you and I shall be friends, I know it.”
Friends with a lady? And with the sister to the duke who had made himself her nemesis? It hardly seemed possible, and yet, there was something about Lady Calliope—some indefinable quality—which set Isabella at ease.
“I shall call you Callie,” she allowed as they approached a set of doors at the end of the picture gallery, “but only if you agree to call me Isabella.”
“Fair enough,” decreed the duke’s eccentric sister with an air of finality. She paused. “Do not allow him to browbeat you, my dear Isabella. He is insufferable when it is allowed.”
“Is he?”
The query, issued in the deep, mellifluous tone of the Duke of Westmorland, split the moment in half. Isabella started as her gaze flew to him. His countenance was grim, his coat, waistcoat, and trousers equally dark.
How difficult it seemed to believe the singularly beautiful, austere duke standing on the threshold of the Westmorland House library was now her employer. She must be dutiful, she reminded herself firmly, respectful as well. She must hold her tongue, numb her sense of pride, stay her restlessly beating heart.
“Benny!” Callie’s smile grew, her tone warm with undeniable caring. “What are you doing skulking about? You gave me a fright.”
Her affection for her brother was obvious.
“Lady Calliope.” He inclined his head, his tone curt. He offered a bow in his sister’s direction, then another in Isabella’s. “Miss Hilgrove. Forgive my…skulking.”
NoMiss Killjoy, she noted. And did she detect a touch of levity behind his grim smile? Or was his leniency for his sister alone?
Once more, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Well.” Callie’s gaze flitted from Isabella to the duke. “I know there is a veritable mountain of work awaiting, and precious little time in which to manage the doing. I shall leave the two of you to your efforts. It was a great pleasure meeting you this morning, Isabella.”
“You as well, Lady Calliope.”
