His attention returned to the gown, and some private conclusion passed behind his eyes. She had thought he might turn her out; instead he sighed deeply and opened the door wider. “Follow me, ma’am.”
Winchester Manor opened into a cool marble hall on pillars of pale green scagliola, the floors so polished she could see the shabby edge of her hem in them. Her slippers clapped harshly in the silence as he led her through a baize door into a narrow waiting room plainly meant for tradespeople with hard wooden chairs lined along the way and a dark wooden bureau shedoubted held anything interesting. “Wait here. I shall inform His Grace.”
Isadora sat, heart pounding, clutching the carpet bag and wishing it were proper luggage. A young lady of quality did not travel the countryside alone, and most certainly did not arrive unannounced at a duke’s house. Still, it couldn’t be helped. She could only hope he had a kind heart and agreed to see her; within the hour she might be on her way to London, to her sister. The thought was some comfort, at least.
After an interminably long wait, he returned, nose slightly upturned. “His Grace has permitted you to approach. I trust you will not forget your manners.”
Relief came too sharply. She rose at once. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, and scurried behind the butler up a set of very grand stairs and through to a large library on the second floor.
For a breath, the room took her attention whole. The library was inhabited by centuries. Morocco leather, beeswax, woodsmoke, the dry vanilla scent of old paper. Books twined the walls in shadowed ranks; the Turkey carpet faded beneath generations of boots. Each yard of this space undoubtedly held more wealth than was spent on Isadora in her entire lifetime.
Then she saw the man by the hearth.
He had been there all along, so still he had seemed part of the room’s dark polish and discipline.
Until that moment, for Isadora, aDukehad been a word from newspapers and drawing-room gossip, something grand, remote, probably old and faintly ridiculous.
This one was nothing of the sort.
The Duke of Winchester made rank seem physical: the height of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark, exact elegance of his greatcoat. His hair was nearly black, with a blue gloss where the evening light touched it, and his eyes were the startling color of winter sky. An aquiline nose, a firm mouth, a jaw with the obstinacy of stone.
He was the most handsome man Isadora had ever seen, which felt grossly unfair after the day she had just endured.
Then those severe blue eyes lowered to her gown, and his nostrils flared. There could be no doubting he recognized the dress.
“Miss Isadora Fairbourne,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Gregson. That will be all,” came the deep rumble from the dark.
Gregson inclined his head and backed out of the room, shutting the door neatly behind him.
Isadora pressed a hand to her stomach, uncertain what to say. The duke stood with his back to a mantel carved with lions,shields, and other expensive declarations of conquest. Evening light struck the side of his face, turning one blue eye brilliant and leaving the other in shadow.
Instead of confronting her, he simply said, “You are not what I expected.”
That stopped her dead. “You were expecting someone?”
“On some days.” A ghost of a frown touched his mouth and was gone before she could pin it. “Sit, Miss Fairbourne. Tell me what brings you to my library uninvited, and try not to bore me. I so rarely have the pleasure.”
Some of the metaphorical wind left her sails, but she sat. Instructing this man to buy his own dress back because it was ‘faulty’ seemed even more ludicrous in the face of his impeccable civility.
“I… imagine you must be wondering why I’ve come,” she bumbled awkwardly.
“I confess to a little curiosity.”
Chin up, she announced, “I am here to procure a refund.”
He went quiet a beat too long. “Arefund?”
“For this gown.” She twitched at the skirts, wishing they were not such fine material or she were speaking to a duke. Perhaps she ought to have taken the complaint to the servant who’d sold it to her aunt—much too late for that now. “I was not aware it was so very dated. And you must see the color has lost its luster.”
His brow crept up. “You have come to sell me the dress you are presently wearing.”
Her cheeks went hot. “I’d change first, of course—”
“Considering bodily slavery has been unlawful for some time, I should hope so,” he said, utterly serious. “Regardless, I believe Mrs. Perry made it clear to the lady who bought it that the dress was nine years old and would need making up.”
Isadora flushed.Yes—and had her aunt not been such a miser, it might have been. Had she been allowed to make up one of her mother’s gowns instead, none of this would have arisen at all.
