“Good day, again, Miss Wylde.”
“Good day again, Your Grace, Duke of Valkirk.”
He flicked a wry glance up at her. A sheet of foolscap lay before him, and a glance—she saw a salutation, what appeared to be a column of numbers—made her think he was writing a letter to his Man of Affairs.
The pages of his manuscript were stacked andpushed to the far side of the table, as if he couldn’t bear to look at them.
She settled herself into her chair.
“How is your work on your life’s story proceeding?” she asked. Rather wickedly.
“Apace,” he said shortly. He flicked his eyes up to her again, went still, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows. He was distracted.
“‘Apace.’ What a usefully vague word that is. I suspect it means ‘not at all.’”
This ought to have won her a reasonably good-humored scowl at least. But he seemed lost in thought. Between his fingers the quill pen was poised, the feather trembling, as though impatient to return to the work of writing.
Then he leaned back and regarded her, his brows knit.
“I think I ought to learn the word for ‘sword,’ Your Grace. Because I suspect that was the difference in your success and mine, when it came to Giancarlo.”
He snorted.“Spada.”
“I wondered if—”
“Miss Wylde,” he said so abruptly she froze.
He didn’t speak immediately. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
“I should like you to know,” he began, as though he was picking his way through unknown terrain, “that I am not in the habit of threatening anyone with sword violence as a first line of defense, especially an unarmed man. I will assess a situation and, if it seems necessary, step in and at oncebreak a man in half like a bundle of twigs. I will do that without announcing my intention or issuing threats. I don’t believe in wasting words or actions.”
She went breathless.
“A bundle of twigs?” she repeated softly.
“Yes. That is to say...” He took a breath. “I regret the means by which I accomplished my ends today. I do not regret the ends.”
She sat quietly a moment.
“Perhaps it is just you were out of practice in threatening composers. One often overshoots the mark when attempting something new.”
“Nevertheless.”
She wanted a smile from him, but given his mood, it seemed clear she wasn’t going to get a complete one, just one of those little taut affairs.
“Perhaps you were simply overcome with emotion at witnessing a friend in distress, Your Grace.”
There was a little silence.
“Ah, yes. ‘Overcome with emotion.’ That sounds like me.”
She smiled at him slowly. He was regarding her with a little furrow between his brows. He didn’t take up the word “friend.”
She was as absurdly glad as if she’d gotten away with an epithet in the drawing room.
Finally he returned his attention to his foolscap and said nothing more, which she took to be her cue to write her sentences.
After tapping her quill to her chin, she thought of a sentence, and began to scratch it out.
