The duke, however, reminded her of a forest, somehow—green and new-washed; not cloying, simply real. A real man, standing behind her, breathing—singing.
Is this truly the time to be thinking what he smells like?she scolded herself.You are on the brink of dismissal and destitution.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his eyes. His well-made features were grave; the slightest furrow marked his brow.
It would be far easier to dislike him,Maggie reflected,if he were not so handsome.
Or such a fine singer.
“This room,” he said abruptly, “is forbidden. I trust you understand me, Miss Winter.”
“I do,” she said, swallowing.
“Good.”
Turning on his heel, he marched out of the room, leaving the three of them in stunned, relieved silence.
Although, when Maggie inspected her own feelings, she was not sure thatreliefwas exactly what she felt when she contemplated the duke’s absence. To her own horror, what she felt, quite clearly, wascuriosity.
Oh, splendid,she thought wearily.This shall not end well.
Chapter Eight
Neil strode along the corridor towards his study, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt breathless, weak—disordered. The mind he strove so diligently to keep ordered was in chaos. And an ordered mind was, as everyone knew, the secret to an ordered heart.
Catherine used to laugh at me,he thought bleakly.She told me that one day I should fall in love, and it would undo me.
It had sounded like a threat then, and now it sounded like a curse.
He shut the thought away, locking the memory of Catherine behind the door he kept for her in his mind. Thinking of his sister felt like running one’s tongue over the tender place where a tooth had lately been drawn—painful, foolish, irresistible.
He reached the door to his study and paused, one hand on the doorknob, and tried once more to compose himself.
He hadn’t meant to listen. Crossing the Great Hall, he had heard the pianoforte and gone at once towards the sound, intending to put a stop to it. If Miss Winter were the culprit, he had already resolved to dismiss her. She disturbed him far too much. It would not do. Insolent, opinionated, too quick of tongue and too little in awe of him—what right had she to unsettle him so?
You have been alone too long,he told himself grimly.Solitude has turned your brain
I shall invite Aunt Harriet to the house; she will keep me sane—and make me value my solitude all the more when she is gone.
He turned the knob and entered;Green Grow the Rushesstill sounding in his head. When he closed his eyes, he saw Miss Winter behind his lids. When he opened them, he saw Simon.
“There you are,” Simon remarked from his perch in the armchair, a glass of Neil’s brandy in hand. “Am I going mad, or did I hear pianoforte music just now?”
“You did,” Neil said grimly. “Miss Winter found her way into Catherine’s morning room and played the instrument there.”
Simon’s eyes widened. “My word. You have not dismissed her, I hope?”
“No. But she has been told to keep out of the room. I believe she understands her fault.” Neil sat heavily in his chair, folding his arms. “She is not, I think, a good fit for this household.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Oh? I was speaking with Jenny Miller in the kitchen yesterday. She tells me Emma adores Miss Winter. Jenny speaks highly of her—and so, in fact, does Mrs Thornton. Even Crawford approves of her, and you know how sparing he is with praise.”
Neil scowled. “You talk to Jenny too often, Simon. I wish you would not.”
A silence fell. “I beg your pardon?” Simon said at last, his tone sharpening. “What do you mean by that?”
Neil cursed himself inwardly. He had spoken too hastily, let temper outrun reason.
Still, better to say it now than later.
