When she thought of how to describe her friendship with Mr Arnold, she struggled, for it felt more intense than that. As though just looking at him filled her with a kind of fascination.
I am quickly becoming infatuated.
“I have always loved stories. Any tale, such asThe Castle of Otranto,they have always intrigued me.” She confessed, aware that Mr Arnold was turning back to look at her, pausing in his work as she shivered in the cold. “I … I used to write my own stories.”
“You did?” he said, smiling instantly. She lifted a warning finger, seeing where he was going and pointing at his face.
“Remember your promise not to laugh?”
“Ah, I never promised not to smile,” he said, matching her stance and lifting a warning finger. It made her laugh as she rubbed her hands across her arms, trying to ward off the chill. “Here, take this.” He shrugged off his jacket and passed it towards her.
“What? No, I couldn’t,” she said hurriedly, trying to push it back towards him. She was also distracted, looking at the waistcoat and shirt-covered arms that moulded to his figure perfectly. He appeared athletic.
“Yes, you can. It is very easy, one arm goes in this hole, and the other arm goes in this one,” he said with humour, pulling a laugh from her.
“Very amusing. I meantwouldnot, not Icouldnot.”
“You must,” he said, walking towards her. She went to argue again, but he walked around her and pushed the jacket over her shoulders. All thoughts she had of arguing died on her tongue, for she was too aware of the way his hands slid across the upper parts of her arms with the jacket. Rather than walking away instantly, he hovered behind her for a minute, with his hands trailing up her covered arms.
“Thank you,” she whispered into the air.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat as he stepped away. “You are welcome.” He seemed to have shaken himself out of a dazed state as he returned to the wine. “Going back to our other conversation that I did not laugh at, so you will be pleased to see I did not break my promise. Have you written since you came here?”
“No,” she said, looking down at the wines left in the crate. When Mr Arnold turned away, fiddling with the silver-gilt wine labels hung around some of the bottles’ necks, she took the opportunity to lift the collar of his jacket and wrap it tightly around her neck.
She was enveloped in his scent, aware of the smell of deep clarets thanks to the wine cellar and other spices associated with the kitchens. When he looked back to her, she turned her nose away from the collar, trying to hide what she had done.
“Would you like to write again?” he asked.
“My father said it was not a wife’s place to write.”
“I shudder to think what your father said a wife’s place was,” Mr Arnold said carefully. “Quite frankly, Your Grace, you must do what makes you happy in this world. If you enjoyed your writing, then you must do it. Besides, it is hardly like your husband is here enough to take note of what you are doing with your spare time, is it?” he asked.
She realized just what he meant and stood a little taller. Gilbert hadn’t even noticed her new friendship with the butler, and he never asked after her day; surely there was no way he could find out if she were pursuing a passion.
“I believe you are right, Mr Arnold,” she said with decisiveness. “Maybe I will try writing again.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” He turned back to face her, wiping the dust off his hands. “Now, I might have to reclaim my jacket. If we walk back into the house like this, I have a feeling we will raise more than just your husband’s eyebrows.”
***
Owen looked between the empty chair and where the duchess sat, seeing that she wasn’t staring at the empty chair at all but looking straight back at him. It made him jolt in surprise, feeling the strength of those green eyes staring at him.
Those eyes …
He was beginning to see them in his dreams now. At first, he rather liked those dreams, but they were becoming a torment, especially when he woke up to recall a dream where those green eyes were beneath him, staring up at him from the pillow of a bed.
I should not be thinking of my duchess in such a way.
Owen cleared his throat, hoping to clear his mind with it as he was aware of the servers placing the platters on the table, all hurrying about their business. He performed his usual duty, laying the napkin over his arm to prevent splatter and reaching for the carafe of claret to pour the duchess a glass.
She was still watching him; he could see it out of the corner of his eye.
“Your Grace, your husband left a message of where he was going this evening,” he said, trying to sound formal as other people busied around them. They laid the table with herrings in parsley sauce, with a bowl of oysters cooked fresh in a white wine sauce to the side.
“He was to revisit Bath, something concerning a business meeting.” From what was said, Owen rather suspected the duke was visiting the brothel he liked to frequent in town, but he was hardly going to share that particular piece of information.
“I see,” she said, not seeming remotely interested in it. Her eyes were darting across the staff members, clearly waiting for them to go. When Owen went to follow them, he felt a tug on the napkin over his arm. It was the duchess, asking him to stay.
