Page 16 of A Duke in Autumn

A footman opened the door, and came in.

“My Lady, you have a caller.”

He proffered a calling card, and Eugenia took it from his hand.

‘Morris Woodfield, Duke of Oakthorpe.’

Her heart pounded in her breast. He was here! She looked at her hand, where it held the card – pencil smudges coloured her fingertips, and some stained her skirts.

“Oh! I must change – I am not suitably attired to receive callers. Please, give me a moment to slip upstairs, then show him in to this parlour, and inform him that we will be with him very soon. Then have refreshments sent here, and also inform my mother of his arrival. I will be back down as soon as possible.”

The footman nodded, and turned to leave the room. Eugenia grabbed the book and drawings from behind the cushion, her fingers slipping as she did so, the paper twisting beneath them, so that she barely prevented it from falling to the floor, then scurried from the room, and up the stairs.

She rushed into her rooms, and tucked the book with the landscape sketch on top into the bottom drawer of the dresser, amongst a tangle of shawls and keepsakes, calling for Nell as she did so. It took far longer to get her changed than she wished, but tiny buttons took forever to undo, and even longer to do up on the other gown. And then Nell insisted on tidying her hair!

But, at last, she looked presentable. She took a deep breath, and went to the door – hopefully her mother had been able to go to the parlour immediately, and the Duke would not feel as if he was being rudely ignored. Although, the thought popped into her mind – the man was so utterly annoying, almost every time that she saw him, perhaps he deserved to be left waiting. That thought left her almost gasping at how far it was from correct behaviour. She had, she thought, gone quite mad since coming to Bath.

~~~~~

Morris stood in the elegant entryway, so much like the one in his great great-aunt’s house next door. Obviously, when this row of houses was built, they had all been done to a very similar plan – and little had changed since then. He wondered if they would receive him, given that he had called without warning – but it seemed likely that they would – people rarely turned a Duke away from their door.

The sound of a door opening and closing came from further into the house, then the sound of rapid footsteps. He waited, and a few moments later, the footman returned.

“This way, Your Grace. Please make yourself comfortable – the ladies will be with you shortly, and a maid will bring the tea service.”

The parlour he was shown into was large, decorated in gold tones with burgundy furnishings, and the windows took full advantage of the sun at this time of day. He went forward, to the couch which had been placed right where the warmth would be greatest, and dropped onto it, leaning against the large cushion which was placed at one end.

He started upright again, immediately, for the act of leaning on the cushion had produced a very odd sound, much like paper being crushed. He lifted the cushion carefully, and the cause was instantly evident. A sheet of paper, now slightly crumpled, lay there, as if it had been tucked behind the cushion. A sheet of paper upon which was a single drawing – an elegant representation of a ball gown, created by a skilled and sure hand.

A broad smile crossed his face as he lifted it, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket, then put the cushion back in place.

Chapter Eight

Eugenia stepped into the parlour, almost immediately behind her mother. The Duke rose from where he had been sitting on the couch, appreciating the warmth of the sun, as she had earlier. He came forward to greet them, and her mother met him with her most charming smile.

“Your Grace, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

He bowed to each of them, and as he took her hand to do so, Eugenia felt a sudden rush of heat through her entire body. How did he do that? How did he make her feel so discomposed?

“Your Grace, Lady Eugenia, thank you for receiving me, when I had not sent forewarning of my call. I realised that I have been remiss – as we are neighbours for the nonce, I should have called upon you long since. Please forgive my tardiness on the matter.”

The Dowager Duchess regarded him with an approving eye.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

At that moment, a maid appeared in the doorway.

The Dowager Duchess waved her towards the side table, which was set close to the couch and chairs, then moved forward to seat herself as the maid set the tea service tray on the table. Eugenia followed, and settled onto the couch, out of habit, for it was her favourite spot in the room. Only once she was seated, did she realise that she had chosen the exact spot that he had been sitting, which fact was brought home to her by the greater warmth beneath her. She flushed at the realisation, and glanced up, to find him watching her, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. He sat, choosing to sit beside her on the couch, and every part of her felt aware of his presence, mere inches from her. Her mother reached over, and poured the tea, the ritual of it seeming newly significant in the silence of the moment.

“How do you prefer your tea, Oakthorpe?”

“Just with a little lemon, if you would, Your Grace.”

The Dowager Duchess added a slice of lemon to the saucer, and passed him the cup, before preparing Eugenia’s and her own. They sipped for a moment, and Eugenia found herself at a loss for conversation – a most unusual circumstance! Her mother, however, seemed completely at ease.

“Are you enjoying your sojourn in Bath, Oakthorpe? At this quiet time of year, I would not have thought that there was a great deal here to keep a gentleman entertained.”

His eyes flicked to Eugenia for a moment, and heat filled her at the look. But he turned his gaze back to her mother, and replied equably.