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.
Propriety.
What a bloody lark that was.
As if he were an automaton, Hudson rose, offering Lady Elysande his arm. Together, they left the stilted atmosphere of the shabby golden salon in favor of the late-summer sun and the overgrown gardens of Brinton Manor. They walked in silence until they reached a fountain which was not currently functional and stopped. Saunders had mentioned something about broken pipes, but then, nearly everything at Brinton Manor seemed to require replacing or fixing.
In the absence of their shoes crunching on the gravel walk, the silence was almost deafening. Nothing but the call of birds. A breeze brought her scent to him, and it was pleasant. Lily of the valley, he thought.
“The fountain does not work,” he announced.
What the devil was he meant to do? Chief Inspector Hudson Stone did not squire ladies about in gardens. He did not press his suit or attempt to woo.
But he supposed the Duke of Wycombe would.
Pity he was now the latter instead of the former.
“It is a beautiful fountain,” Lady Elysande said, the most words she had strung together at once since tea had begun.
Her voice was pleasing. She seemed cordial enough. How to broach the topic of an unwanted marriage which was necessary to save this crumbling pile and all its people from penury?
“It would undoubtedly be better if it contained water,” he observed.
“But there is no water, and it is beautiful as it is. Why fret over the water’s absence?”
He cast a glance in her direction, studying her profile. Everything about Lady Elysande was faultless. Almosttooperfect. Her voice was well-modulated and sweet. Her gown was demure, her figure delightfully curved in all the right places. Her face was undeniably lovely.
