“What do you think?” Green asked, fairly bouncing on her toes in her eagerness.
“I think you have worked wonders upon my hair,” she said, turning back to the lady’s maid with a smile. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure, it was.” Green grinned. “Is there aught else you’ll be needing from me this morning, madam?”
“That will be all,” she said, before rethinking mid-sentence. “Unless you might ring for a tray of breakfast? I am famished, and I have some work awaiting me this morning.”
She gestured back to her recipes, still laid out neatly on the writing desk and in need of review. Perhaps with some food to fortify her constitution, she would be able to concentrate uponthe task at hand instead of dwelling on the maddening Duke of Whitby.
Green’s countenance suddenly turned sheepish. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Loveless. I almost forgot to tell you that His Grace is wanting your presence in the breakfast room this morning.”
Anticipation coiled in her belly, along with something else. Something she refused to acknowledge for how perilous it was.
“Have any of the guests begun to arrive yet?” she asked her lady’s maid hopefully.
“Not until this afternoon, I believe, madam,” Green informed her.
Miranda forced a tight smile. “I suppose I shall descend to the breakfast room, then. Until later, Green.”
Abandoning the recipes she had scarcely been able to concentrate upon and the safe haven of her room, Miranda descended to the dining room. The absence of servants was once again notable. Not a hint of a maid or footman to be seen. Not even a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye. It was as if Wingfield Hall had been left empty.
Had Whitby truly kept the servants from view specifically for her?
It hardly mattered, Miranda told herself as she hastened toward the room where they had dined the night before.
“There you are.”
The all-too-familiar voice had her breaking her stride and turning to find the duke approaching her, dressed this morning in country tweed that made his golden mane even more pronounced, his blue eyes twinkling with their customary mischief as he sauntered toward her.
She remembered herself, dipping into a hasty curtsy. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Good morning to you as well, my dear.” He offered her an elegant bow in return. “I was beginning to fear you were avoiding me.”
Mortification made heat climb up her throat. “I must apologize again for my lack of restraint yesterday.”
For falling asleep on him, for snoring, for drooling upon his coat.Heavens!By day, her shame was not any less stinging than it had been the night before.
But he just grinned, as gorgeous and unperturbed as ever. “You needn’t apologize. I’m pleased that you feel comfortable enough with me to lower your guard, Miranda.”
That wasn’t what she felt. Was it?
“I was soused,” she pointed out, her voice sharper than she had intended.
“My fault, no doubt. Too muchChateau Margaux.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you to breakfast?”
“When are your guests arriving?” she asked, eyeing his arm dubiously. “When am I to consult the menu with your housekeeper? I need to prepare.”
“Later today,” he said smoothly, his gaze lingering on her lips in a hot look she felt like a touch. “And you may consult the menu at your leisure. I was selfishly hoping you might conjure your cream ices for dinner. I would also be honored if you joined us there.”
How tempted she was to accept his invitation. To forget who she was and what she must be.
Miranda shook her head. “You know I cannot.”
“As I said, my guests are sworn to secrecy. Nothing that happens within these walls leaves Wingfield Hall.”
“That sounds rather ominous,” she observed as she at last settled her hand in the crook of his elbow.
He began guiding her from the main hall. Curtains had been pulled aside to allow sunlight to stream in windows, andalthough the day was overcast, the multitude of panes meant the cavernous room was bathed in a cheerful, natural glow. She couldn’t help but to admire the way it brought out the glints of gold and copper in his hair.
