And she was aware again of the hand clasping her own and the other spread at her back. She was aware again of the broad shoulder beneath her other hand and of the warmth and smell of him. She opened her eyes and took a step backward, dropping her arms to her sides.
“It is quicker to go back than to walk all about the lake,” he said. “Shall we return? Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you, your grace.”
“I understand that you took Pamela to visit the Chamberlains,” he said. “That was kind of you. She sees so little of other children.”
“I believe she enjoyed the outing, your grace,” she said.
“I’m sure she did,” he said. “You have danced with Chamberlain a number of times tonight. I believe he is taken with you.”
Fleur turned icy cold. But he did not need to warn her. She was quite capable of doing that for herself.
“He has been kind,” she said, “as have several other gentlemen, your grace.”
“Kind,” he said. “Yes. Miss Chamberlain is at the punch bowl, I see. Would you care to join her?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
A minute later, when she stood beside Emily Chamberlain and the duke had wandered away, she found herself forced to smile at the footman behind the punch bowl and assure himthat she was not thirsty, though indeed she was. Her hands, she feared, were shaking too badly to reach out for a glass.
“Is it not a glorious evening, Miss Hamilton?” her companion said. “I am so glad that the weather has held for the occasion.”
THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY HAD MADE SOMETHING of a habit since his return home of spending part of his mornings in the schoolroom, quietly observing the lessons there. Very often he would take Pamela afterward to the stables to play with her puppy before luncheon. Fleur had forced herself to accept the situation.
There were no classes the morning after the ball, Lady Pamela having had a late night. In the afternoon, Fleur took the child along the upper corridor before going into the schoolroom, showing her the paintings, pointing out a few important details. On the whole, though, she just hoped that Lady Pamela would absorb the beauty and perfection of the paintings without being burdened with too much technical detail, and want to try harder at her own. She had an eye for form and color, though a natural impatience of temperament always made her rush too much when she painted.
The duke appeared at the top of the staircase and walked toward them before they were finished. Fleur sighed inwardly. She had hoped to avoid seeing him at all that day—her grace and most of the guests, she knew, had gone outside strolling in the park. She hated to remember her encounter with him the night before—her terror as she walked with him along the deserted path, her feeling of nausea when she had been forced totouch him and allow him to touch her, the strange and unexpected magic of waltzing with him on the path, her eyes tightly closed, shutting out the knowledge that it was with him she danced.
Try as she would all through the night, it had been that dance she had remembered of all the magical moments of the evening—until she had drifted off to sleep and he had been bending over her and hurting her and telling her that she did it because she enjoyed it.
Lady Pamela smiled and took his hand and lifted her face for his kiss.
“Timothy Chamberlain’s birthday is next week, Papa,” she said. “I have been invited, with Miss Hamilton. A letter came this morning. Will Mama let me go? Will you come too?”
“That sounds like a rare treat,” he said, as Fleur turned away and entered the schoolroom. “I am not sure I’ll be able to come, Pamela, as we have guests here to entertain. I’ll see what I can do.”
He sat quietly through the afternoon lessons until Fleur dismissed Lady Pamela early.
The duke stood up. “You are going to Nanny in the nursery?” he asked.
“She is going to wash my hair,” the child said, pulling a face. “I would rather visit Tiny with you, Papa.”
“We already did so just before luncheon,” he said. “If Nanny says your hair needs washing, I don’t doubt that it does. Off you go.”
She went, dragging her feet.
Fleur busied herself putting books away and tidying them on the shelf. She had thought that he would go with his daughter, as he usually did.
“The paintings upstairs are limited in number and scope,” he said. “You should show Pamela the paintings downstairs if you believe she is interested.”
Fleur said nothing.
“Have you seen the long gallery?” he asked.
“Yes, with Mrs. Laycock, your grace,” she said.
“Ah, with Mrs. Laycock,” he said. “She is always the first to admit that she is not very knowledgeable about the works of art at Willoughby. Her talents run to more practical matters. The portraits in the gallery would give you material for a whole series of history lessons. And a child is never too young to learn about her family. Are you free?”
