Greenly, damn him, had ushered her inside before Ian had had a chance to slip away.
“Thank you,” said Miss Trelayne, stepping briskly inside. The entryway filled with the smell of rain, and morning chill, and something else, a smell he could not identify. Another memory unfolded. The two of them, lunging for the door in the same moment. The birds. He’d been struck by the same smell; a musky, personal, vanilla-y scent. Very feminine, intimate.
Ian frowned.
“Shall I take your wet things, miss?” the butler requested, unburdening Miss Trelayne of a burgundy coat. Ian wouldn’t have noticed the color, except the dress beneath was shockingly pale—a light blush color; too pink to be ivory, too white to be pink. The skin of a pomegranate pulled back to reveal the creamy sheath that protected the wet, succulent fruit.
Ian frowned more deeply. She should not put him in the mind of a pomegranate. Or of layers being pulled back. Or wet succulence. She should not remind him of anything except solutions.
Ian glowered at Greenly as he disappeared around a corner.
“Oh, hello, Your Grace,” said Miss Trelayne.
“Hello,” he muttered. Of all the benefits of being a duke, perhaps his favorite was that he could say as little as he pleased.
“I’m looking so forward to meeting Lady Tribble and the girls.”
“Yes,” he said.
Now there was even less to say. His sister was ridiculous; for as long as he could remember, he’d dreaded introducing her to people.
Awkward silence rose like water in a tub. Ian studied her. She looked less abashed than yesterday, more hopeful. Her hair was the same, as orange as the cylinder of a Dutch lily. Her eyes were an odd mix of blue-green, and she stared at him with the direct and alert look of someone who expected you to say something important. She was as straight and as tall as a candlestick.
“Howtallare you?” he asked suddenly. Ian stood six foot, two inches, and she was almost as tall as him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am well over six feet. Rarely do I meet a woman anywhere approaching my height.”
“I cannot say,” she finally said. “Not quite so tall as... six feet.”
He frowned at this. He was going to tell her that she should know her own height, that it was a remarkable thing, that it might be useful for dressmakers or bed builders, but Greenly was back.
“Shall I, Your Grace?” asked the butler.
“Carry on,” Ian said.
Their progress down the grand hall was as slow and foreboding as a funeral procession. He felt he should say something, duke or not. He should explain about Timothea and the girls, go over some expectations, remind her about gossip.
“Will you remain for the introduction, Your Grace?” Miss Trelayne asked, turning halfway back to him.
“I had not considered. I hope not, honestly. What do you advise?”
He’d not intended to reveal the breadth of his ineptitude, not right away, but Drewsmina Trelayne emanated a sort of... proficiency. A knowing. She had a reliable air that made him want to—
Well, to get his money’s worth while there was still time. She would not remain. No sane person would. He should’ve made a list of questions to ask her before she fled from the house.
“Let us make no plan,” she suggested lightly. “If the girls are as untried as you’ve said, nimbleness and versatility may be our most useful tool.”
“That sounds like a trick,” he mumbled.
“Call it what you like. The idea is to embrace the unexpected rather than recoil from it.”
“You mean embrace surprises,” he said. “I hate surprises. Unfortunately, no preface could be better suited to meeting my family.”
“Whatever do you me—?”
She was cut off by Greenly, who stood in the open doorway. “Miss Drewsmina Trelayne, here to see you, Lady Tribble, Miss Ivy,” the butler announced.
