“It seemed polite to inquire.”
Of course it did.
Steele’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “That was very thorough of you, Lady Petunia,” he said as he took his seat next to her. “Your organizational skills are formidable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I try my best.”
Claire, who had been observing with delight, laughed softly. “Rosie, you should take notes. I do believe Petunia has outmaneuvered you.”
Clearly, she had.
“Petunia has simply inherited the Rosehaven gift for civility, that’s all,” Cosmos offered by way of pouring oil over troubled waters.
What civility?I wanted to ask. Half of our teas were conducted in open skirmishes.
Petunia, adopting the solemn air of a hostess at a royal banquet, turned to the duke. “One lump or two, Your Grace?”
“Two,” Steele replied, eyes still fixed—mockingly—on mine. “I have the feeling I shall require them.” Even from my seat, I could smell the faint scent of bergamot that always clung to him.
Petunia, playing the perfect hostess, asked, “So how has your day been, Duke?”
Steele regarded Petunia solemnly, his expression softening just enough to suggest genuine warmth. “My day has been rather long, Lady Petunia,” he said. “But considerably improved by your invitation. It isn’t every afternoon one is received by such an accomplished hostess.”
Petunia’s smile lit up her entire face. “Then you like it?”
“Very much.” He accepted the cup the maid handed him, pausing just long enough to cool the tea before taking a sip.
Petunia, still intent on conversation, leaned forward. “Do you have dogs, Your Grace?”
“Not in London,” Steele said. “But several at Thornburn Abbey—mostly hounds. Bracken is the oldest. He’s convinced he owns the place.”
Petunia’s eyes widened. “Thornburn Abbey—that’s where your family comes from, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, she added, “Where is it located?”
“Thornburn Abbey is in Yorkshire, and it is indeed our family seat,” he replied, setting his cup carefully upon the saucer. “It was once a monastery before Henry VIII took a dislike to such institutions. Ours survived by the narrowest of margins. The walls are ancient, the windows are drafty, and the roof is eternally in need of repairs. I treasure it, just the same.”
Petunia brightened at once. “Rosehaven Manor is in Yorkshire, too. It is so beautiful there. All rolling hills and green fields as far as you can see.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Your part of Yorkshire enjoys gentler weather. Thornburn Abbey stands much farther to the east, closer to the sea. The land there rises toward the moors, and the wind never quite settles. Sea mist drifts in without warning, and the rain arrives whenever it pleases. It is harsher but striking in its own way.”
“It sounds awfully cold,” Chrissie said, wrinkling her nose.
Steele’s mouth curved slightly. “It would be, to anyone who values comfort. But it suits me. The air is clear and the moors go on forever. My hounds believe civilization ends at the stables. From August until March, it’s home.”
“You stay there all winter? By yourself?” Petunia asked in wonder.
“Not entirely,” he said. “My mother keeps the dower house nearby, and my brothers drift through at different times. Philip is currently there, and Nicky will join us at the end of the season. After the New Year, he and Mother will seek warmer climes.” He paused as if considering the picture he presented. “So the abbey is never truly empty. Quieter than some households, including yours, I imagine, but there is life enough. And the hounds see to it I am not left in peace for long.”
“You must be lonely when your family is not there.”
“Sometimes,” he said softly. “But I find peace in solitude.”
That quiet admission drew the room still for a breath. I saw, for the briefest moment, the weariness beneath his composure—the man behind the title. Then it was gone, shuttered once more behind the duke’s reserve.
“It does sound beautiful,” Petunia said, her words a quiet comfort.
A swell of tenderness rose within me. Petunia, for all her youth, saw far more than most adults ever did. She had heard the quiet ache beneath the duke’s words and offered the only balm she could—a child’s gentle reassurance, simple and sincere.
“It is,” he said quietly. He turned to me then, the gravity of the moment still lingering in his eyes. “You preside over a remarkable household, Lady Rosalynd.”
