Arabella tilted her head. “He is said to be charming,” she began, “and is rarely without company, though not particularly close to any of it.” She continued, “From what my husband has gathered, he is a man who enjoys admiration but does not readily return it.”
Charlotte’s lips pressed together thoughtfully. “That sounds rather… tiresome,” she said.
Arabella laughed lightly. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “He may also be somewhat arrogant, and he is known to flirt rather freely, though he remains within the bounds of gentlemanly conduct.” She added with mild curiosity, “At five and thirty years of age, one must wonder why he has not yet chosen a wife.”
Charlotte’s gaze drifted briefly, her thoughts turning inward once more. “Perhaps he has not found one who meets his expectations,” she said. Then, after a moment, she added more quietly, “I cannot help but wonder whether I shall meet them myself.”
Arabella reached across the carriage and touched her hand reassuringly. “You are not applying to be his duchess, Charlotte,” she said with a smile. “Only to serve as a companion to his grandmother.”
“Even so,” Charlotte replied, a hint of her usual wit returning, “one cannot entirely discount the influence of a duke within his own household.”
“That is true,” Arabella admitted. “But you shall likely be interviewed by the housekeeper, or perhaps another member of staff, and be done with it.” She squeezed Charlotte’s hand lightly. “There is no need to imagine yourself under the scrutiny of the entire aristocracy.”
* * *
They were greeted promptly by the butler, Mr. Baxter, whose expression was as composed as his posture.
“If you would be so kind as to follow me.” His tone was courteous but efficient, as though he had guided countless visitors through these halls and found little reason to be impressed by any of them.
Inside, the manor proved no less grand, with high ceilings, polished floors, and tasteful furnishings that spoke of both wealth and restraint. Charlotte took it in with quiet appreciation, though she was careful not to appear overly curious. They were led into a parlour that was both elegant and inviting, and Mr.Baxter gestured for them to sit before departing without another word.
Charlotte had scarcely settled when the door opened again. “Miss Brown, if you will follow me,” Mr. Baxter said.
Charlotte rose at once, smoothing her skirts.
Arabella caught her hand briefly. “Good luck,” she said warmly.
Charlotte squeezed it in return. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves.
She followed the butler from the room, her expectations of a brief meeting with a housekeeper firmly in mind.
Instead, she was led down a corridor and brought to a set of heavy doors.
Mr. Baxter opened one and gestured her inside. “The Duke will see you now.”
The Duke?
Charlotte stepped into the study and halted just slightly at the sight before her. The man seated behind the desk was undeniably handsome, though the term felt insufficient for such a commanding presence. He was tall even while seated, his broad shoulders filling his coat with ease, his dark hair neatlystyled, and his green eyes, though currently fixed on the paper before him, striking even at a distance.
She dropped into a proper curtsey. “Your Grace,” she said politely.
He did not rise. Instead, he made a brief, almost dismissive gesture toward the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
Charlotte blinked once, then complied, taking her seat with quiet dignity. He continued writing, utterly ignoring her presence, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. She folded her hands in her lap, her posture impeccable, though inwardly she bristled at the deliberate disregard.
At last, he finished, setting the pen aside before lifting his gaze to her. He smiled then, and Charlotte’s breath caught, not from admiration, but from the unsettling nature of it. The smile was not warm or welcoming; it was measured, sharp, and… dashing.
“Miss Brown,” he said. “Let us begin.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“My grandmother’s memory,” he began, “is not what it once was.” His tone was even, controlled. “She is neither foolish nor deliberately troublesome, but her faculties have… declined.”
Charlotte listened attentively, though a quiet thought stirred within her.
How many others have sat where I am now, and dismissed the dowager as difficult or inconvenient rather than in need of care.
“She is no longer permitted to go on promenades,” he continued. “The last time she did so, she addressed the Duke of Albury as though he were her late husband.” His expression did not change, though something in his voice tightened. “Such incidents are to be avoided to preserve her dignity.”
