“Determined,” she amended. “Persistence suggests obstinacy. Determination implies intention.”
“And what is your intention, Miss Hart?”
She considered, then answered plainly. “I am stranded under your roof through mischance. You have extended me kindness without obligation. I should like to know the gentleman responsible, rather than the legend others prefer.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, with the air of a man conceding ground he had no strength to defend, he crossed the room and seated himself opposite her.
He looked absurdly large in the delicate furniture—a wolf attempting to fold itself into a teacup. His knees nearly touched the edge of the settee, and he seemed unsure what to do with his hands, eventually settling them on his thighs in a posture of rigid formality.
“The gentleman behind the legend,” he repeated. “I fear he is unremarkable. No dramatic secrets. No hidden virtues awaiting revelation. Merely a man born with a conspicuous mark and an unfortunate talent for driving people away.”
“You have not driven me away.”
“You cannot depart. The roads forbid it.”
“A technical impediment only.” She poured tea into a second cup and placed it firmly in his hands. “If I truly wished escape, I should contrive it. I am told you possess a donkey; I might make my bid for freedom astride him.”
“Bartholomew bites.”
“Then we should suit one another admirably.”
A pause—then the faintest curve of his mouth. A fissure in granite.
“You are...” He paused, searching for the word. “Unexpected.”
“I shall accept that as a compliment.”
“It was not offered as one.”
“And yet I shall receive it as such. That is the advantage of interpretation, Your Grace—we are each at liberty to assign meaning as it suits us.”
He accepted the teacup she pressed into his hands, looking down at it as though he had never seen such an object before. His fingers wrapped around the delicate porcelain with surprising care, and Fiona found herself noticing, again, the size of his hands. The way they dwarfed the cup. The way they had felt against her arms, her waist, her shoulders, when he had carried her through the storm.
She looked away quickly, heat rising to her cheeks.
“You said you were travelling to Whitby.” His voice cut through her wandering thoughts. “To your aunt.”
“Yes. My aunt Prudence. She is arranging a match for my cousin Adelaide—or attempting to, at any rate. Adelaide is very beautiful and exceedingly trusting, and I am meant to provide ballast.”
“Ballast?”
“The sensible one. The practical one. I prevent her from accepting the first compliment as a proposal.” She shrugged lightly. “It is my role in the family. I am too plain for advantageous marriage and too clever for domestic contentment, so I am put to use managing everyone else’s affairs.”
The duke’s brow furrowed. “Too plain? Who conveyed such folly to you?”
“You describe yourself as though it were established fact.” His voice remained steady, but something in it sharpened. “It is not.”
“Your Grace—”
“Your eyes are the colour of a winter sky before snowfall. Your hair catches light like burnished copper. You possess a countenance that compels attention—not for conformity, but for intelligence.” He paused, as though stating nothing more controversial than the weather. “If others have failed to perceive this, it reflects upon them.”
She found herself momentarily without language.
No one had ever spoken to her like that. Her mother had pronounced her “handsome enough.” Her father had settled upon “sensible.” Her cousin Adelaide, in a moment of affectionate thoughtlessness, had once assured her she possessed “a face that would improve with age.”
And here sat this man—this so-called beast, this solitary duke, this terror of the northern cliffs—regarding her as though she were not merely adequate, but remarkable.
“You are staring,” the Duke observed evenly. “Have I misspoken?”
