Joceline did as he asked, wondering at the reason even as an illicit surge of anticipation went through her at the prospect of being alone with him. But there was also an edge of concern. Would he decide to give her the sack for her overstepping after all?
She turned to face him, dipping a curtsy, belatedly remembering herself. “Your Grace.”
“You needn’t linger at the door as if I’m a lion about to pounce,” he said, waving a gloved hand to indicate she should take one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Come and have a seat, if you please.”
He was being polite, she noted warily, but his gloves were firmly back in place. She wished that they were gone, for they seemed like yet another barrier he had erected to keep the world at a safe distance. And although she had no right to want to tear down those walls, she still did.
Joceline seated herself primly and folded her hands in her lap. “What does Your Grace require?”
“Some company,” he said wryly. “Just for a few moments.”
That was when she noticed a half-empty glass of brandy on his desk. He had been imbibing, which was most unlike him.
“Of course,” she said simply, trying not to frown at the evidence that he had been so deeply affected by the bedchamber’s reopening.
Her fault.
“Would you like a brandy, Mrs. Yorke?” he inquired, obviously having caught her eyeing the liquor.
“It would be most improper, Your Grace.”
“That isn’t what I asked you.” His mien was calm, assessing, his gaze as intense as ever.
“I fear such an elixir would be far too strong,” she hedged.
“A brandy and soda water, then,” he suggested. “Spare me the misery of drinking alone.”
“Surely there is a more suitable companion for the task,” she suggested kindly, fearing what would happen if she lingered, partook in spirits with him, and allowed her own defenses to fall. “Dunreave, perhaps?”
“A teetotaler, if you would believe it.” The duke raised an imperious brow. “So, you see, it is either you or one of the footmen, and without paying insult to Joseph or Peter, I would far prefer you as my accompaniment to either of them.”
“Very well, then,” she relented with the greatest of reluctance. “A brandy and soda water, and if Mr. Dunreave takes me to task, I shall endure his disapproval.”
“He won’t take you to task,” the duke was quick to insist, rising and going to a sideboard where glasses and bottles were housed. In her time here, the levels of the liquids contained within had failed to move.
With a deft hand, he prepared her drink whilst Joceline sat uncomfortably in her chair, aware of how awkward and unusual her present circumstances were. Never in all her years of service had the gentleman of the house ever invited her to sit with him in his study. And certainly not to imbibe together.
But the Duke of Sedgewick had asked, and the Duke of Sedgewick would get what he wanted.
He returned to her, offering the glass. She accepted it, her fingers brushing over soft leather, wishing it were his bare skin instead. She wondered why he insisted upon hiding his hands. Was it because he was embarrassed by his scars, or was it too painful for him to see them, a reminder of how he had received them?
“Here you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Sedgewick settled in his seat, lifting his drink to her in toast. “No, my dear Mrs. Yorke. I am the grateful one. I ought to be thanking you, rather than the other way around.”
She had raised her glass in turn, but now she clenched the stem in a tight grip, frozen by the frank admiration in his eyes. He was looking at her in a way a man should never look at his housekeeper. And she liked it. Liked it far too much.
“I am here at Blackwell Abbey to perform a duty,” she reminded him. “Nothing more.”
“And at my mother’s behest, no less.” He raised his glass to his lips, taking a healthy swallow. “Ah, the irony.”
She wasn’t sure what she ought to say to such a statement, so she took up her brandy and soda water, sipping delicately at it. She’d had spirits before, but not often. There was no place in her life for excess. Still, the drink was surprisingly pleasant.
“I expect you must think me a monster,” he said. “My temper hasn’t always been this mercurial, I assure you. Only since the fire.”
“It wouldn’t be my place to think poorly of you, Your Grace,” she said with loyal resolve. “A housekeeper’s lot is to serve, never to judge.”
