“I have said too much. I tend to babble on when I am nervous.”
“Why are you nervous, Miss Lewis?” He let the question hover in the air until he clicked his tongue. “So, you’ve run intoher, haven’t you? Lady Presholm. In fact, I had the displeasure of seeing her carriage two streets back. Is that it?”
Imogen did not answer, which was an answer in itself. She looked down at Arthur’s hat, adjusting it with trembling fingers just to have something to do with her hands.
“Don’t let her venom settle in your marrow, Miss Lewis,” the Duke of Kirkhammer said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and serious. “Lady Presholm measures the world in centimeters of blue blood. She is incapable of seeing anything else.”
“I am aware. And yet, she is not wrong about the world, Your Grace,” Imogen whispered, her gaze fixed on the pavement.
“And what does that mean?”
“A Duke has a duty,” she said, the softness of his voice and her need for a friend emboldening her.
“That is debatable,” The Duke of Kirkhammer laughed. “If I am any evidence of that. What do you mean, Miss Lewis?”
“He requires an heir. A… proper Duchess. I am under no illusions about my place in his house, and that it is temporary. I must be smart and look ahead, for my future…”
Future… that is a laugh.
He reached out, briefly squeezing her shoulder once more in a gesture of friendship that was technically improper but deeply kind.
“Perhaps His Grace will find a Duchess one day, but that is of no import to you.”
“Of course not,” Imogen said as she began to sweat, despite the cold. “It was just in her tone, the way she speaks…”
“Do not start packing your bags just because a viper hissed at you,” he ordered. “His Grace is a many-layered man, much like an onion, but he is not a cruel one. Give him more credit than she does. He is a worthy employer.”
“I must get the boys home,” Imogen insisted, unable to meet his eyes. She felt that if she stayed a moment longer, she would break apart entirely.
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside and tipping his hat. “Take care of your governess, lads. She is a good one!”
“Yes, she is,” they said in unison as they walked away.
As Imogen reached the steps of the Welton townhouse, she looked up at the massive front door. It no longer felt like the entrance to a home. It felt like the boundary of a dream she was about to be shaken awake from, despite the Duke of Kirkhammer’s kind and pragmatic words.
Remember what you are.
Chapter Twenty
The following Tuesday, Ambrose reached for the handle of the morning room door. From inside, he heard the soft, melodic lilt of Imogen’s voice as she helped Arthur with his French declensions.
“That is good work, Arthur,” she said softly. “But try to put the accent on the E this time.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Lewis,” he repeated as he went through his declensions once more.
Ambrose froze. His hand hovered over the brass, his knuckles white. He stood there for a long minute, his eyes closed, simply breathing in the muffled sound of her presence.
I cannot hide away like a specter in my own house forever.
Just as the latch began to click under his unintentional pressure, he pivoted on his heel like a whirling dervish.
Or can I?
He retreated down the hallway with the desperate, hurried stride of a man fleeing a burning building. His boots struck the marble with a sharp, hollow rhythm.
Just last evening, he shared a drink with Morgan at White’s. Kirkhammer had been uncharacteristically talkative while nursing his brandy, his eyes meeting Ambrose’s with a look that bordered on pity.
“Enough with the small talk about Lord Featherton’s latest escapade with the actress,” Ambrose barked, effectively ending Morgan’s tall tale.
