As Jules walked them past a long wall of terrace doors, the plaster walls gave way to aged brick and a cobbled floor. Despite a few high up windows for light, the gallery corridor was dimly lit, and the temperature dropped immediately.
Their surroundings easily distracted her. “Where are you taking me, exactly? Are you going to lock me away in one of your dungeons? Feed me to your dragons, perhaps?” Her lips tilted up slightly. “Do you store wine down here? Or perhaps something more interesting?”
“Yes. To all of it.” He bit back a grin at her irreverence. “But I’ll show you the gallery first.”
Feeling a shiver run through her frame, Jules drew her closer. He could have sent for her wrap before taking her down here, but in her present mood, he hadn’t wanted to give her any excuse not to listen to him.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.” Had she leaned into his warmth, though? Regardless, he’d not complain. “Now tell me how you came to be promised but not promised.”
They had arrived at the first painting, and Jules halted their progress so she could study it.
“Your father?”
“Yes.” Jules swallowed the many emotions that never failed to assault him when he stared into the eyes of his father’s portrait.
“You look just like him.”
He’d known this for a very long time and he’d always been proud of the fact. Same brown hair—minus the grey his father’s had had in the last years of his life. Same eyes, but most importantly, the same build. The same posture. His father had been a great earl in a long succession of those who’d held the title before him. But he’d been an even greater man.
As Westerley, Jules’ father had never once failed to live up to his title, his birthright, his code of honor as a gentleman. If Jules had done the same, his father would still be here.
Shame, which ought to be familiar by now, squeezed his chest.
“Lady Felicity is not only lovely but kind. Your sisters like her very much.” Her words cut off his thoughts, and Jules just barely stopped himself from cracking his neck.
“The friendship between Lady Felicity’s father and mine goes back longer than I have been alive. It wasn’t unusual for our families to spend the holidays together.”
“I like her.”
“You conversed with her? In the orangery?” On some level, he’d not expected Miss Jackson to get on well with the other young ladies.
It hadn’t been a fair assumption to make.
“Creating the floral arrangements today was an invigorating activity. The orangery.” She fluttered her free hand in the air as though searching for her next words. “The colors and the scents and the air. I could spend all day in there. And it’s not only beautiful but practical.”
“My grandfather built it with practical purposes in mind. It supplies herbs and fresh fruits and vegetables for us and many of our tenants throughout the year. My father added on to it. You can see where the roofline changes.”
“Your sisters mentioned that this afternoon. They have been more than gracious to me.”
“Of course, they are.” Only the moment he spoke, an ugly truth had him feeling protective of her. Was she accustomed to being ignored by other ladies in social circumstances? He’d assumed as much himself but felt an unsettling guilt now that he was coming to know her. “I am rather proud of the young women my sisters are becoming.”
“Becoming?” Miss Jackson slid him a smirk. “In case you haven’t noticed, they already are.”
Indeed, she wasn’t wrong in this.
Although Tabetha was far too excitable for her own good and Bethany too much the opposite. “It’s difficult to acknowledge this, as their guardian,” he admitted.
“Lady Felicity gets along well with them.”
Ah, yes. They were back to her seeing him as dishonorable. “Tabetha and Bethany are closer to Felicity than most of our cousins.” Jules extended one of his fingers until the knuckle shifted. His sisters were not going to be pleased with him when he announced his betrothal to Miss Jackson. “Our mothers have always joked about a match between their children. I’m certain that if they’d had any sons, it would have been the same for my sisters.”
“How long ago since your father passed?” She’d been staring at the portrait while they’d conversed but turned toward the next painting, which was of his mother.
“It will have been exactly five years on the tenth of April.” His gut clenched at the memory. No matter how much time passed, he never failed to experience the same sensation of guilt at the mention of his father’s death.
She turned to look at him and, even in the shadows, he saw the regret in her expression. “I don’t remember the exact date of my mother’s death.” She tilted her head. “She was ill for a long time and before that, we didn’t get on all that well.”
