It was, surprisingly, a second or two before he could think clearly.
But then he had it.
He wrote something on the foolscap.
“Tu non mi ami. È solo il lume di candela,” he said evenly.
She looked up at him curiously.
“You do not love me. It is merely the candlelight.”
She gave a laugh.
He pushed the sheet of foolscap over to her so she could see what he’d written. She dipped her quill and bent her head, and diligently began to copy the words, so that she would make them her own.
He picked up his own quill, to return to the work of writing to his solicitor.
He noticed a strand of hair clung to Miss Wylde’s cheek, and the sunlight through the rain-washed windows picked out little rainbows in it. He obviously had no choice but to look at that instead.
As she left, Mariana passed Dot in the hall bearing a tea tray laden with scones on a plate, a pot of tea, and a cup for the duke.
“Vicissitudes, Dot,” she whispered. “Viss-iss-i-tudes. It means whims.”
“Viss-iss-i-tudes,” Dot repeated slowly. “So fun to say! Like a snake. Ssssssss. I have a word for you, too. I learned it in the kitchen this morning. It’s ‘beleaguered.’ ‘Beelee,’ then ‘grrr’ like a dog growling, then a ‘d.’”
“Beleaguered,” Mariana repeated. “I like it! It’s a very strong word. What does it mean?”
“It means bothered or annoyed. I overheard Mrs. Durand say that Lord Bolt told her that the duke isbeleagueredby all the invitations he receives to dine with lords who want to marry their daughters off to him. She says he’s bound to marry one of them.”
Mariana was silent, frozen in place, for a long moment. Shocked by the fact that this, briefly, had taken the breath out of her.
“Well, that would beleaguer anyone,” she said, finally.
The duke made short work of the tea and delicious scones Dot brought in (the food here wasdivine), made use of the snowy napkin provided, then pulled his stack of work back toward him and dipped his quill.
He went still and frowned. Staring at the curve he’d drawn yet again.
Another epiphany struck.
He tentatively, almost angrily drew atop it two shorter, rounded peaks.
He now was looking at Miss Wylde’s lips.
He laid his quill gingerly down, as if the feather had grown talons. Might then spring to life and attack him.
He’d been spending the last two bloody days tracing the swooping curve of her bottom lip.
The duke has beautiful eyes.
That’s what she’d written.
He hadn’t sensed this approaching.
The legend of General Blackmore had it that he could hear the movements of an enemy army from a hundred miles away, like some sort of primordial forest creature sniffing the wind for wolves. It was an exaggeration. He had vision: he could cast his eye over a circumstance—limited munitions, cruel geography, depleted troops—and then apply inspiration and cunning to eke out a triumph. He had, time and again.
Perhaps he hadn’t sensed this thing with Miss Wylde because it wasn’t an advancing army, and battle was all he knew.
But if he’d been a deer at a watering hole, the wolf would have gotten him.
