“Of course,” he agreed solemnly.
And then what?
Perhaps his confusion showed in his countenance, for Mrs. Grey added, “And then perhaps a turn about the gardens.”
“The gardens resemble nothing so much as an overgrown thicket,” he pointed out.
“There is yet a gravel path, Your Grace,” his housekeeper countered.
So he supposed there was. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”
He was meant to thank her, was he not? Curse it, he had no notion of how he was supposed to conduct himself. He was in Hades. It was certain.
He turned on his heel and began striding toward the golden salon.
“The salon is in the opposite direction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Grey called helpfully after him.
He stopped, taking a moment to look around.
“So it is.” He spun on his heel. “Thank you, madam.”
Even neglected and in severe disrepair, Brinton Manor was damned massive. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the location of its nearly two hundred chambers. Nettled, Hudson stalked to the golden salon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he simply bolted over the threshold unannounced and stood there, watching the countess and her two daughters engaged in low, heated conversation. The countess was a handsome brunette dressed in lavender silk while one of her daughters possessed dark hair and the other light.
He swore he detected something that sounded remarkably likehe cannot be as bad as rumor suggestsbefore he cleared his throat, bringing attention to his presence in his own fashion.
All three faces turned toward his, and he found himself falling into a pair of warm brown eyes. Striking eyes. Eyes which met and held his gaze.
“Your Grace!” exclaimed the elder woman, drawing his stare back to her as she dipped into a flustered curtsy.
The ladies flanking her followed suit.
He held still for a moment, then bowed. A ducal bow? He thought not. Rather, his was the abbreviated bow of a man who was busy and possessed precious spare time for trifling matters such as social calls. However, he had to remember that he was no longer Chief Inspector Stone.
The reminder felt like a death itself.
His death. Or at least, the death of the man he had been.
“My lady,” he said. “Lady Elysande, Lady Isolde.”
Lady Elysande, he presumed, was the one dressed in gray half mourning to honor her betrothed. Six months. Long enough, one supposed. If true, the intriguing gaze belonged to her. The other sister was dressed in pink, her gown bedecked with at least a dozen silk roses. Beside the subdued dress of her sister, Lady Isolde appeared frivolous.
“We are very pleased to make your acquaintance at last,” the countess said, smiling.
He wondered if she referred to his absence at the funeral, necessary since he had not been aware of the previous duke and most certainly not his death. But never mind any of that. There was a tension in the air. The countess and her daughters had paid this call not because they wished to exchange polite pleasantries amongst neighbors from nearby estates. Rather, they had done so for a reason.
A very good one.
The last Duke of Wycombe had died before Lady Elysande had become his bride. Now, she had arrived to betroth herself to the next duke.
“Will you take tea?” he asked abruptly.
“We would be delighted,” said the countess smoothly.
Mrs. Grey, for all that her continued wages were not assured, was diligent. A tea tray appeared and tea was served. Hudson found himself ringed by three aristocratic females, arse on the edge of his seat, pretending to swill a beverage that was loathsome to him. Give him coffee—or whisky—any day instead.
A stilted conversation ensued during which he was sure he said the wrong thing at least half a dozen times. The countess steered the conversation for her daughters. Lady Isolde was quiet. Lady Elysande studied him from beneath lowered lashes, lips pursed. They were pretty, those lips, but he did not like noticing. This entire affair left a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the tea and everything to do with finding himself forced into marriage.
At long last, the countess suggested he take Lady Elysande on a brief stroll through the gardens. Lady Leydon would, naturally, remain behind with Lady Isolde, watching from the windows for propriety’s sake.
