He said those words as an explanation for another man’s actions, but they applied to him as much as the real duke.
She nodded. “I’m also not hugely fond of the city. It is always so crowded, the air is never fresh and it smells of…”
She trailed off and he shifted with discomfort before he whispered, “Smoke. There are too many chimneys. Too much smoke.”
Her gaze lifted to his and she held there. He realized how much emotion had been in that one sentence. Too much. And she’d never know exactly why. He’d never be able to share that truth with her.
He laughed to play off the darker tone of a moment before. “But London is a necessary evil for men of rank. Still, I won’t be sorry when I depart. But what about you? You grew up in London, didn’t you?”
She smiled—he thought it was at the idea that he had done some research on her past. If she knew the real reason for his search, she would not be so happy.
“I did,” she said. “When our mother—”
She broke off, and for a brief second she exchanged a pointed look with her sister. Then she took a deep breath and started again.
“When our parents were gone, our grandfather came and collected us. He brought us back to London to live with him. He had a country estate, of course, but we rarely went there. He was not like you and me—he thought London was where the action was and despised the country.”
Clairemont nodded. Whenever she spoke of her grandfather, there was a tension there. He sensed it now in her sister, too. Mrs. Danford was now stiff as she continued stitching the fabric in her lap, her mouth a thin line. There was a story there.
One that had nothing to do with his case, and yet he wished to understand it nonetheless. Because it was Celia. And he yearned to know more. To be connected. Even if he knew it would end.
That realization pulled at him. He claimed to Stalwood and to himself over and over that this courtship of Celia was only to get closer to Danford and determine his involvement in the real Clairemont’s schemes. His death. But there was no denying that these moments were all abouther. Sitting with her wanting to take her hand was abouther. Wondering about her past, wanting to heal whatever pain had been caused…was abouther. There was no use pretending otherwise.
“Will you stay for supper, Your Grace?”
He jolted as Mrs. Danford’s voice pierced through his fog. He turned to find her staring at him, her blue eyes focused very firmly on his.
“I—yes,” he said. “I would enjoy that.”
She nodded and set her sewing back in her basket. “Excellent. I will tell the servants to set a place for one more. Since we have time, perhaps Celia would like to take a turn with you around the garden?”
Celia stared at her sister. “Yes. The flowers are just beginning to bud, it’s lovely outside.”
He tensed. To be alone with Celia again? There was no way to refuse that opportunity. Especially since once supper started he would have to force himself to be focused on Danford.
“Why don’t you get your wrap, Celia?” Mrs. Danford said, rising. Clairemont and Celia did the same. “We’ll meet you on the veranda.”
She sent Clairemont one last look before she slipped from the room. He turned to look at Mrs. Danford. “I assume you would like to speak to me about your sister.”
“I’m not very good at subterfuge,” she said, inclining her head. “Why don’t we walk to the veranda, and I’ll be direct.”
He nodded. “Lead the way.”
She did so, taking him down a hall toward a parlor that backed toward the garden. They stepped outside. The afternoon sun was beginning to turn golden as it slipped toward dusk and he sucked in a deep breath of the fresh breeze.
Mrs. Danford smiled at him. “You like my sister.”
He faced her. At least in this he didn’t have to lie. “I do.”
“That is good.”
“And yet you have hesitations when it comes to me,” he said.
“I do,” she said, a hint of surprise at his observation in her tone. “Imust. This is my sister, after all. But don’t take my concerns as an attack. Not so long ago, she was equally worried about my prospects with Gray and told him so more than plainly. Now they are becoming friends and she knows I’m happy.”
He forced his expression to remain benign. What this woman didn’t know, could not know, was that he, unlike Danford, had no intention of marrying Celia. Hecouldn’t.
“She is lucky to have someone on her side,” he said instead.
