“Yes,” Pierson exclaimed, already leading the way up the front steps while the three raggedly clad individuals paraded after him.
“Well. I never,” Fielding muttered, looking rather as if he might stomp his foot in protest at any moment.
Gabriella paid him no mind. She watched until the front door of Huntley House closed behind them, more curious than ever about what had just transpired.
Chapter 3
When Raphe woke the morning after arriving at Huntley House, the first thing he noticed was how comfortable he felt, his body completely relaxed in a liquid state of bliss made possible by the luxurious mattress on which he lay. And the delicious beef stew he’d had for dinner. That alone had been worth coming here for. Stretching his body, he opened his eyes and looked up, admiring the velvet canopy of the four-poster bed he presently occupied. It was his now: the bed, whatever furniture stood beyond it, the other rooms, the house itself . . .
What a peculiar thought!
He sat up and glanced about, his eyes shifting from the marble-topped bedside table to a footstool upholstered in a very expensive-looking fabric, to a crystal vase filled with porcelain flowers. He blinked. Why the hell would anyone want porcelain flowers? An absurd extravagance, to be sure.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Raphe stood up and crossed to the wardrobe. It squeaked open to reveal the few clothes he’d brought with him, all neatly hanging to one side. He straightened himself and selected a clean shirt and a pair of fresh trousers. Not the fashionable look expected from a duke, but it would have to do for now, as there was nothing else available.
A knock sounded, and before he could utter a word, the bedroom door swung open and his valet marched in. Raphe had forgotten about him. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?” the man asked.
“Err . . .” Raphe scratched his head. Christ, he sounded daft. Not to mention that he was naked—a fact that didn’t appear to faze his valet in the least. Raphe stepped behind the still open wardrobe door and put on his trousers. “What’s yer name again?”
“Humphreys, Your Grace. Max Humphreys.” Raphe pulled the shirt he’d selected over his head. “Right. Well I shan’t be needin’ ye, Humphreys. Now, if ye don’t mind . . .”
“But—”
“I’ve been dressin’ meself since I was a lad, Humphreys. T’would be bloody strange to let another man manage it fer me now.”
Humphreys stared at him for a fraction of a second as though he were some rare artifact one might discover on an anthropological dig. “Of course.” He didn’t budge.
Running both hands through his hair, Raphe let out a strenuous sigh. It wasn’t Humphreys’s fault that his new master was undeserving of his title—that he’d likely embarrass the Huntley name and everyone associated with it. It wasn’t his fault that Raphe felt more comfortable talking to washerwomen and laborers than with ladies and gentlemen.
The unbidden image of pale blue eyes framed by long dark lashes floated to the front of his mind. She’d been stunning, the lady he’d met on the street outside his new home yesterday, even if she had tipped her arrogant nose at him. But she hadn’t been quite as insufferable as her friend, whom Raphe had been sorely tempted to punch.
Instead, he’d enjoyed the sport of unsettling the lady, which in turn had riled the gentleman most effectively. He could still envision her creamy skin and her golden curls—the flushed lips that had somehow reminded him of the strawberries he’d once enjoyed as a child. Best of all, they’d had no idea who he was. That bit made him laugh.
“Your Grace?”
Collecting himself, Raphe focused his eyes on Humphreys, who still hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude to ye just now. All of this—it’s still quite fresh, an’ . . .”
“Frustrating?” Humphreys prompted when Raphe failed to finish his sentence.
“Quite.”
A pause followed. Humphreys gave a curt nod. “If that will be all, Your Grace, I would like to ask your secretary to make arrangements for a tailor to be brought round, along with a seamstress for your sisters.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Raphe said as he slid his foot inside one of the woolen socks that Amelia had knitted, “Have ye seen them yet today?”
“No, Your Grace, but—”
“Do me a favor an stop callin’ me that. Me name’s Raphe. Matthews if ye prefer to be more formal.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I cannot call you that, Your Grace. It wouldn’t be seemly.” He averted his gaze and Raphe decided to drop the issue since the man was looking horribly uncomfortable. “As for your sisters, I do believe they are presently having their breakfast in the dining room.”
“Well then,” Raphe said as he put on the other sock and his shoes, “Ye’d better lead me to ’em.” He was eager to see them both, to talk to them about the drastic change in their lifestyle and to hear their impressions. He also wanted to get on with the day, mostly because he was bothered by the way in which he’d left things with Guthrie. In order to have a clear conscience, he would have to ensure that the one hundred and fifty pounds he still owed the man on account of his father’s poor judgment was paid off as soon as possible—with an additional sum to compensate for walking away from the deal they’d struck regarding the fight. It was imperative that Guthrie found the amount large enough to forgive him the slight.
“Are you quite certain that it is wise of us to come here at this hour?” Gabriella asked her mother as they made their way up the front steps of Huntley House together with Gabriella’s aunt. “According to Anna,” she added, in reference to her maid, “the duke only just arrived yesterday. Should we not allow him more time in which to get settled before requesting he see us?”
“Nonsense, Gabriella. He will know to expect callers, and as his neighbor, I should like to see him first.”
“What your mother means is that she’d like to sate her own curiosity before Lady Hammersmith has the opportunity to do so,” Aunt Caroline remarked, while Gabriella’s mother gave the knocker a solid rap. “Gossip is, after all, such a valuable commodity.”
