“The opera singer?”
“You’ve heard of her.”
“One can hardly be British without having heard of Madame Guillaume, Miss Wylde. Rest her soul.”
Mariana nodded. “Yes. Well, she used to come into our shop. She heard me singing one day and was quite taken by it. She said I had genuine talent.” It was still a magical moment to Mariana, and one she never tired of reliving in her mind. “She offered to give me voice lessons in exchange for bits and bobs to do with her shoes. She did so love her shoes, but she loved gambling even better, and she was often a bit short.”
“How serendipitous. Lucky,” he clarified.
She sucked in a breath. Shehadn’tknown that word. He was effortlessly astute. She found it both bracing and unsettling. Lord, how he must have frightened the soldiers into behaving.
“She was kind, and I do miss her. She was sosophisticatedand good fun—Mrs. Pariseau reminds me a bit of her—and I suppose I learned diction from her. Copied her, like. Cadences, accents, little habits and fancier manners, that sort of thing. From the people I met who came to visit her in her flat, too. Later, in the theater, when I began getting roles, some of the patrons were very well-spoken.”
“Yes. Both Lord Kilhone and Lord Revell, for instance, went to Eton and Oxford, where one is nothing if not well-spoken,” he said pointedly.
She thought of “bewitching” and “beautiful.” Did that count as being “well-spoken”?
She stared at him coolly. “In short, one mightsay I owe my career entirely to gambling. One never knows what sort of luck a vice will lead to, Your Grace.”
He was still for a moment. Then offered her a slow, sardonic nod. Conceding a point to her.
Dear Mama—the duke’s face is a bit long, and so sculpted it was like he had no choice to go on to be something insufferably important just so they could carve a marble bust of him and install it somewhere public, where it could sit in judgment of all the passersby. I could lay my hands against the hollows beneath his cheekbones, but I might cut my palms on the corners of his jaw if I did. He is regal, but I’m not certain he is handsome. His eyes are very fierce. It’s only just after three o’clock and I think his beard is about to make itself known.
She gave a start when he suddenly dipped his quill and began writing words in a column.
“Who are the woman and the boy in the miniatures?”
It was what she’dreallywanted to know from the beginning.
He went still. His eyes flared in surprise.
He leaned back in his chair slowly.
Then studied her with a little speculative scowl that transformed into reluctant and amused respect.
“Do feel free to go on underestimating me, Your Grace.”
He studied her like she’d been studying him. She wondered if her face yielded up anything new or interesting. If it did, he didn’t of course reveal it.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “As I’m a man of my word, I will tell you. My wife, Eliza, who passed away five years ago.”
“Thank you for telling me.” She paused. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
It was what one said. He’d doubtless heard it thousands of times.
But she was suddenly held motionless by a realization. The war had ended five years ago. His wife had died five years ago.
The things that had formed the foundation walls of his life, in one fell swoop, had disappeared five years ago. She wondered if a man like him had ever felt off balance.
He nodded his thanks. “The boy is my son, Arthur, who is twenty-two. Probably about your age,” he hazarded.
It was pretty risky to guess a woman’s age, but at least he’d come in with a low number.
“I’m twenty-five.” She could not see a reason to be coy about it, as it could be of no interest to the duke.
“Ah,” was all he said. Because that was exactly how much it interested him.
“She was pretty. Your wife.”
