“Excellent. No more wine, Imogene, if you please,” said the duke, stalking to the door.
Drew was given no choice but to follow him. He’d said very little throughout the meal. At the time, she’d allowed herself to believe he’d been stunned into silence, overwhelmed by how quickly the girls had progressed from disagreeableness to lively chatter. Now he strode down the corridor at a pace that could mean anything fromwhat an outragetothe house has caught fire. Drew hurried to keep up.
Perhaps, she thought, he had reconsidered her handling of Imogene’s entanglement with the boy in the shop. When the carriage had returned to Pollen Street, Imogene had stomped into the house with self-righteous indignation. Lachlan had climbed from the coachman’s box, determinedto go after her, but Drew had stayed with him, suggesting that enough had been said. It had been a quick exchange—he’d actually seemed a little relieved at her advice—and she’d not seen the duke since.
Now he paused in the corridor, looked right and left, and then poked his head into an open door as if he’d never seen it before. After a moment, he stepped inside.
“Leave us, Meredith,” she heard him call from within. The beleaguered maid fled the room in the next instant, her ash pail swinging wildly.
Drew paused outside the door, took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and stepped inside.
“I cannot believe it,” Lachlan declared from behind her.
She turned to the sound of his voice, and he swung the door shut with athwack.
Drew jumped. “I beg your pardon?”
“The girls. The talking. Even Timothea. There waslaughter. I simply cannot believe it.” He began to pace.
Drew blinked at him. He wasn’t angry, he was in disbelief—happydisbelief. She let out a breath and glanced around.
They were in a large airy room that encompassed two floors. Expansive paintings lined the walls like murals. There was little furniture, save scattered benches, presumably for gazing at the art. Fluted pedestals with marble busts stood in a grid in the center of the room, interspersed with life-sized sculptures of muscled people in togas, Romans in repose, and frightened horses.
“Where are we?” she ventured.
“Gallery,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Your home is a showplace, Your Grace. Tomorrow the girls and I shall embark on a tour.”
Lachlan stopped pacing and looked around. “My great-grandfather was an art enthusiast.”
He squinted at a sweeping landscape as if it were an advertisement for lye soap. “I haven’t gotten around to redoing it.”
“You don’t share the previous duke’s passion for art?”she asked, slowly pivoting. She was no connoisseur, but the value of such a robust collection would be significant.
“I don’t care about the London house,” he said. “My devotion lies almost entirely in Dorset.”
He crossed to the newly laid fire and stoked it with a poker, launching a swirl of sparks.
“And to the girls. It cannot be overstated. Today seemed... remarkable. They’re typical, ordinary girls. After all of their oddness. I’m overcome. Honestly. They are behaving normally after justa handful of days.”
“They were always typical girls,” she said, drifting in his direction. “I believe they have not been afforded the opportunity to do normal things. Most girls will have something to say about shopping or French tutors, even if it is to complain.”
“It is such a relief, you’ve no idea,” he said, jabbing the poker into its cage. He spun away, stalking the length of the gallery, hands in his pockets.
“It’s better, perhaps, not to boast of a victory too soon,” Drew cautioned. “Imogene is more forthcoming, but she is not happy. It may be normal behavior to step out with a young man, but her recklessness is very risky. And I worry that Ivy may not be ready for a Season this year. I hope this does not upset your agreement with the prince. But it would be a mistake to force her if she doesn’t want it.”
“I don’t care about the Season. The prince would be useful but not at the cost of the girls.” He came to a bench and hurled himself on it, an exhausted boxer after a fight. “I want to get this bit correct. Or at the very least, I wantnot to fail.”
“If I might suggest: Your desire to do right by the girls is the opposite of failing them. I am somewhat of an expert on adults who have failed children, and you are a good uncle to the girls, Your Grace.”
Drew came to a stop near his bench. Their proximity had begun to feel too natural. Wherever he was, she went to him. If she could not go to him, she looked at him. Had thegirls noticed how frequently she glanced at him? Admiring the way he joked with the footmen? And the shared looks. This had rapidly become second nature. If they occupied the same room, they punctuated any meaningful comment by locking gazes, by communicating without saying a word.
And that said nothing of what they were doing now.
She should not be here, alone with him. She should not stand beside him as he sprawled on the bench.
A proper lady would be put off by his casualness, by his poor posture, his deflated neck cloth, his boots akimbo; but Drew wanted only to stare, to admire, to laugh. He was so naturally uninhibited. It delighted her. She wanted to remember it for later, when she could recall the image and study it in detail. When she could imagine herself getting close enough for him to reach out a hand, take her by the wrist, and—
