“Yes, Your Grace?
“The tales you have heard. Concerning my birthmark. Concerning my preference for solitude.” His fingers tightened upon the wood. “They are not inventions. I am precisely what society believes me to be—a man best left to his own company. I would advise you not to forget it.”
A brief silence followed.
“And if I decline to accept society’s assessment?” she asked quietly.
Christian closed his eyes.
“Then you would be singular in that refusal,” he said at last, and left before she could reply.
Chapter Three
“You cannot possibly expect me to remain in this bed for the entirety of my convalescence.”
Mrs Blackley, who had kept Thornwick Castle in admirable order for many years and survived the tempers of three successive Hales, regarded Fiona with the composed patience of a woman well versed in aristocratic obstinacy.
“I expect nothing, miss. I merely convey His Grace’s instructions.”
“His Grace’s instructions.” Fiona propped herself higher against the pillows, resolutely ignoring the twinge in her ankle. “And what, precisely, are those instructions? That I am to moulder away in this chamber like some forgotten piece of furniture until the roads clear?”
“His Grace believes rest would materially assist your recovery.”
“His Grace may believe what he chooses. I am not one of his tenants to be directed at will.”
Mrs Blackley’s lips curved—just perceptibly. “No, miss. You are a guest. Which is precisely why His Grace is solicitous of your comfort.”
“My comfort,” Fiona declared, casting back the covers with unnecessary emphasis, “would be greatly improved by a changeof prospect. A short walk—assisted, supervised, conducted with due solemnity if required. Anything rather than lying here studying the ceiling and debating whether that water stain resembles a rabbit or a particularly malevolent cloud.”
“A rabbit, miss. The late duchess was of the same opinion.”
Fiona blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The water stain. The late duchess—His Grace’s mother—occupied this chamber during her final illness. She maintained it was a rabbit.” Mrs Blackley’s voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “She had a fondness for discovering shapes in unlikely places. Said it kept the mind engaged when the body would not oblige.”
A faint thread of long-contained sorrow ran beneath the words. Fiona found her indignation faltering. She pictured the Duke in this vast, echoing house, and wondered how long it had been since his mother’s voice had filled these corridors. Whether anyone had ever sat beside him and searched the plaster for rabbits.
“Mrs Blackley.” She moderated her tone. “I do not wish to be troublesome. But I am ill-suited to idleness, and another day confined to this bed will try my composure beyond endurance. Might there be a room—some small parlour or library—where I could sit without being entirely entombed?”
The housekeeper hesitated.
Fiona pressed on. “I give you my word: I shall conduct myself as the very model of a patient. I will not attempt the stairswithout assistance. I will not invade His Grace’s study armed with fireplace implements. I shall sit quietly and read—or gaze pensively from a window, if that is the approved occupation of convalescents.”
“You accosted His Grace with a fireplace implement?”
“Only once. And it was employed more as a walking aid than as an instrument of assault.”
Mrs Blackley regarded her steadily for several moments. Then, with the air of a woman making a decision she suspected she might later reconsider, she inclined her head.
“There is a small sitting room at the end of this corridor. It overlooks the gardens—such as they may be in this weather—and a fire can be laid. If you will permit yourself to be carried—”
“I will permit myself to be assisted. By Molly, if you please. I have taxed His Grace’s arms sufficiently for one acquaintance.”
Another faint curve touched Mrs Blackley’s mouth. “Very good, miss. I shall send your maid at once.”
***
The sitting room was, Fiona discovered, rather lovely.
