Jackson flinched at the shrill shout that came from inside the house. “May I present the reason I was hiding, and the reason your arrival was not noted by the staff?”
Anna frowned as another shout went up, this one just as commanding, as condescending and authoritative. And female. Only one position in the house that filled all roles. “The dowager duchess, I presume?”
He nodded.
So did she.
“Very well.”May as well get this over with.
She walked through the open door and into a lushly furnished parlor with facing divans in cream damasks and a grand harp in the corner. The two people—an older woman with a pinched expression and a young man with a decidedly more pleasant one—gaped at her.
The woman reacted first. “How dare you enter Grandfellow Hall unannounced. Identify yourself at once!”
Anna instantly decided this woman—the Dowager Duchess of Grandfellow—with her overembellished dress, pile of graying locks neatly coiled around her crown, and curling lip would never accept her as the new duchess. All the better. There was no need to pretend, then.
“Which is it, Your Grace?” Anna asked without inflection. “Must I return to the hall and have your butler announce meproperly, or shall I take on the proper airs and save us all the shuffling about by announcing myself?”
The man stepped forward, his smile wide. “You must be the lovely Miss Greene.” He looked down at her right hand.
Anna belatedly remembered to raise it for his access.
The man’s blue eyes were dancing when he pressed a chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles. “Bravo!” he whispered.
Anna recognized those eyes, so like Jackson’s. The same straight nose, the same mocking lift to his mouth. “You are his brother.” Lord Figaro, if she remembered right.
The man winked. “Guilty as charged.”
“What are you muttering about?” the dowager duchess demanded. “Really, Figaro, who is this insulting woman?”
“Thiswould be Miss Annabeth Greene,” Jackson said, stepping into the parlor, his expression contrite.
Anna arched a brow in his direction. “Decided to use that backbone and join us after all, Duke?” she taunted.
Lord Figaro coughed beside her, though Anna swore she’d heard the words, “I love her.”
“Jackson.” There was a subtle thawing to the dowager duchess’s cold stare. “You have returned.” A sharp chill permeated the room as she turned her attention back to Anna. “I assume thisMiss Greeneis a wayward servant for whom you had the charitable mind to find a position?” The old woman sniffed. “She needs lessons in addressing her betters before she is fit for more than a visit from the local butcher.”
Anna smiled, making sure all her teeth showed.
Jackson came up beside her and laced his fingers with hers.
The small show of solidarity had her glancing up... straight into those blazing eyes.
“Mother, Figaro, may I present—”
The parlor door opened.
“—Miss Greene.” Jackson squeezed her hand. “My betrothed.”
There were gasps from the doorway.
A man in butler grays stood in the doorway with his mouth open, as if frozen in the action of announcing visitors.
The visitors: three older women in matching black bombazine, one holding a large volume in her arms.
Anna had seen two plays in her life, both low-quality productions by a traveling troubadour group that passed through Widmore every spring. The way the three ladies clutched their chests in unison, their gazes volleying back and forth between her and the dowager duchess, rather reminded Anna of the overly staged gestures.
Guess that madeAnnathe comedic device.
