“Buonasera, Your Grace.” She said it as politely and lightly as she could, which was no mean feat when she was dragging her spirit about like a millstone.
She could swear he’d stopped breathing when he heard her voice.
He pivoted abruptly.
For a long moment, they merely regarded each other from that distance.
“Buonasera, Miss Wylde,” he finally said just as politely. His voice was hoarse. “Won’t you please come in?”
Her heart was beating a little too quickly as she ventured forward.
Oh, what the very sight of him did to her breathing. What a sacrifice it had been to deny herself the sight of him, even if he was fully clothed.
As she came closer, she saw that he looked gorgeous, a bit hard done by, and fully his age.
There were shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was standing up a little, as if he’d just pushed it back with an impatient hand.
For that matter, she doubted she was looking as fresh and rosy as the eighteen-year-old or so daughter of an earl. She hadn’t slept much, either. All the exercise she’d been getting at night had helped her sleep, apparently.
When she wasn’t riding or being ridden by a duke, it seemed she worried about her future.
Mainly she’d lain awake with an ache so resonant it was a shock she didn’t at all times hum sorrowfully, like a woodwind.
She pulled out the chair slowly and settled in.
He had not prepared her station. There was, in fact, nothing of his usual crisp air of taking everything in hand.
He looked as though he’d fought a battle with himself and lost.
He looked the way she’d never before seen him. Almost defeated.
“I am glad to see you,” he said finally. His voice was a bit raspy. As if they might be the first words he’d said out loud to a human today.
“That is kind of you to say.”
She stubbornly refused to return the sentiment in kind.
Her soul still felt sore sitting here before him. Like an empty socket, with the wind whistling through it.
She wanted him to know that she would prevail, no matter what.
“Has your... health improved?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said quietly. “It was mytesta,” she added. She pointed. Well, her head was partially involved. She was not going to be a diva and point to her heart. She was English, not Italian.
“Ah. Did you speak to Mr. Delacorte about remedies?”
“He gave me a powder. I hesitated to try it, as he said it both cured headaches and sometimes caused visions.”
“Ah, but you like dreams, Miss Wylde.”
She hesitated.
Her throat felt tight. “Not always,” she said.
He said nothing. He’d clearly been miserable. Which in truth gave her no pleasure.
“Would you like me to leave you to your work, Your Grace?”
