“Your Grace.”
“You sent word.”
“I did.”
He stopped at an appropriate distance from her. The square was busy enough to discourage speculation yet private enough to allow conversation. It was a respectable setting, but one where they would once again be seen together. He wondered if that was why she had chosen it when asking him to see her.
“I trust all is well,” he said.
“That depends.”
He inclined his head slightly.
“On what?”
“On whether you believe that an ambush is an acceptable courtship strategy.”
His mouth curved. He was not certain of what she meant, but he had a reasonable idea, and if he were correct, it was most entertaining. He had half expected her to request such a conversation with him.
“I had not realized I had attempted one.”
“Yes, well, you have.”
“I should like to hear how.”
She drew a breath, steady but not angry.
“A modiste is arriving at our house this afternoon.”
“Yes, I do believe so.”
“For all of us.”
“Yes.”
She watched him carefully. He liked the way that she studied him without fear, clearly without concern that he might ask her why she was doing so.
“You arranged it, yes?”
“I did.”
“For new gowns.”
“That is what a modiste tends to make, yes. You have many questions for me today, Miss Fairleigh.”
“And you are not giving me enough answers.”
“On the contrary, I rather believe I am answering you each time. Is there something wrong?”
“It is too much, Your Grace.”
“But I believe that was the understanding we had.”
“The understanding,” she repeated, and though her tone was mild, he could hear the tension beneath it.
He folded his hands behind his back.
“For our arrangement. We agreed that I would take care of your family. I promised that I would, and I did not intend on breaking it.”
