Mr. Stone was punctual. Cheswell’s gallery had replied to her letter accepting Mr. Stone’s offer to look over the collection, telling her to expect him Monday morning at ten o’clock. At one minute to ten, Mr. Stone tapped the knocker on the front door.
Singleton admitted him, and this time showed him straight to the gallery, where Caro pretended not to have been lingering for the last half hour, waiting for him.
Mr. Stone’s brilliant smile struck with force as Caro turned from studying a painting, as though she was surprised to see him.
“Good morning, Duchess.” Mr. Stone made a gallant bow, while Singleton glided haughtily back down the stairs. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I was told by a man who knows much about such things that I should not address you thus. I should say Your Grace. But then, you might not like that either. Which designation do you prefer?”
For one wild moment, Caro almost told him to use her given name, but that would be highly inappropriate, especially for the nobody miss who’d beguiled a duke.
“Duchess will do, Mr. Stone,” Caro said, striving to appear unruffled. “Your Grace is rather formal.”
“Ah, she blesses me with informality,” Mr. Stone said to the air around him. “I did not dare to hope. As we are barely acquainted, I must remain Mr. Stone, that dull stick. Though one day perhaps we will be such friends that I will be Eamon to you.”
“Eamon,” Caro repeated before she could stop herself. She liked the feel of the name on her tongue. “Is it Irish?”
Mr. Stone lifted broad shoulders. “My antecedents are rather obscure. I know of no other Eamons in the family, and my father was Benedict, which is very English, I believe. I’ve never been to Ireland.”
His gaze had touched her lips as she’d spoken the name, and in the tingling heat that consumed her, she missed most of his explanation.
Flustered, she turned away. “Would you like to begin with the paintings?”
“That will do.” He spoke calmly behind her, his footsteps measured as he followed.
“I dug out Mr. Clive’s books,” Caro babbled. “He was our curator. They were a bit puzzling.” She’d felt at sea when going over Mr. Clive’s crabbed handwriting. Caro did not consider herself ignorant, but his shorthand had left her bewildered.
“Catalogers often have their own codes.” Mr. Stone spoke without worry. “I’ll look them over and see what I can find.”
“I’ve left them here.” Caro diverged her course to a table against the wall, where a bust of a Roman emperor watched over a stack of leather-bound ledgers.
“Ah, Vespasian,” Mr. Stone said as they halted. “One of the few fortunate emperors to die in his bed.”
“My husband admired him for taking his duties so seriously.” Caro lapsed into an affectionate smile. “He often spoke to him when we passed.” She caught Mr. Stone’s amused expression. “My husband was whimsical, not mad.”
“I quite understand.” Mr. Stone gave Vespasian’s balding marble head a pat. “Art is marvelous for listening to our troubles.” He regarded the books. “I believe I will look at the paintings first and peruse the ledgers afterward. To see if I agree with your curator’s assessments.”
Caro scarcely heard him. She realized they were standing quite close, and they were very much alone in the gallery.
Mr. Stone wore a frock coat similar to that of his first visit, though this one was a deep blue. It smelled faintly of warmth and rain, the outdoors, and something indefinable. His hair was damp from the mist outside, droplets glistening in the light of the few candles in the sconces above them. Caro had persuaded Singleton that Mr. Stone would need light to see the paintings, as the day was overcast, and not much sunlight penetrated the windows.
Mr. Stone fixed on her in a way that made Caro grip the table to keep her knees from buckling.
“Well.” She drew a breath, trying to clear her head. “Shall I leave you to it?”
“No.” The word was abrupt, almost sharp. As Caro stared, her heart thumping, he softened his tone. “No,” he repeated. “Stay.”
Chapter 5
She’d run. Eamon braced himself, waiting for her imperious duchessness to slap his face, declare him a menace to decent ladies, and stalk away.
Instead, she fixed him with a perplexed gaze, her eyes unwavering. Beautiful eyes, the gold flecks dancing in candlelight. Eamon wanted to gaze into them for as long as he could, to reach out and cup her face, to discover if the skin of her cheek was as silken as it looked.
“Why?” she asked him breathily.
So I can bathe my senses in you, so I can delight in you. I intend to marry you, after all.
Good Lord, where had that come from?
Maybe because of the stupid wager, which Eamon had brought up at the club to put off Wolfe’s curiosity?
