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“Nae, Wofford. She willna be here long enough to enjoy a cup of yer most excellent tea.”

Wofford prided himself on his tea-making skills the way an artist took pride in a portrait. With the haughty aplomb of the Prince Regent, the servant regally lifted his nose. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Fletcher could’ve told the loyal servant to toss the baggage waiting in the floral drawing room out on her haughty hind end, and he would have done so without a blink and the same enunciated, “Very good, Your Grace.”

Marching along the corridor, Fletcher rehearsed precisely what he intended to say to his irksome mother. He’d just remembered a seldom-used—never used, truth to tell—cottage in Scotland she might be banished to. Just the threat of sending her there ought to be enough to curb any further interference.

Throwing the door open, he strode in. “If ye think ye can waltz into my home without prior notice…”

His words trailed away at the serene vision before him.

Rayne sat primly on the floral chintz settee, her hands folded in her lap and a basket near her feet on the floor. The primrose yellow gown she wore enhanced the coppery strands in her hair that her bonnet didn’t cover. Her color high and eyes bright, she looked as lovely and fresh as a dewdrop on a rose petal.

However, at his abrupt entry, the color drained from her face, and her winsome smile faded.

A wide-eyed, pale-faced maid wearing a soft gray gown sat straight as a poker in a chair in the corner of the room. The curious servant’s mouth sagged, and her eyebrows climbed high on her forehead as she looked between Fletcher and Rayne.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Back and forth like the pendulum of a well-oiled clock.

“Och, it’s ye,” Fletcher offered clumsily, still slightly taken aback to see Rayne sitting in his salon when she’d been so adamant, she’d not accept his invitation. Was she here because of his request she draw the wisteria for Pritchard?

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t think to send a note around.” Her guarded focus shifted to something behind him. “I misunderstood. I thought the invitation to sketch in the gardens was an open one. You did ask that I draw the wisteria for Mr. Pritchard,” she reminded him primly.

Och, so that was the reason. Or…perhaps it was a viable excuse she could use to explain why she was here—a benevolent act for a grieving man. No one could find fault with altruistic intentions.

What twaddle. Of course, they could find fault.

“Please forgive the interruption. I’m sure you are very busy.” Glancing over her shoulder, Rayne canted her head toward the goggling maid. “Maisy, we shan’t be visiting the duke’s gardens today after all.”

Rayne made to collect her basket and rise.

Holding his palms out in a staying motion, Fletcher advanced to meet her.

“Nae, lass. I thought ye were someone else. Please forgive my brusqueness.” He lifted her hand, pulling her to her feet and lightly touched his lips to her glove-covered knuckles. She was all propriety today.

Gloves and a bonnet.

Was that for his benefit or to waylay any possible gossip?

“Ye are always welcome.” He lowered his voice so the maid couldn’t hear him. “Day or night.”

Twin spots of color appeared on Rayne’s cheeks, but a radiant smile wreathed her face, and she made no move to take her hand from his. “Thank you. Are you positive I’m not interrupting?”

“Never. I’ll always make time for ye.”

“I can come back another day,” she said, glancing toward the doorway. “I just thought if I’m to draw the wisteria, I needed to do so sooner rather than later. The blossoms are already fading.”

“I am positive Mr. Pritchard will be moved by your kindness,” Fletcher said. He was positive.

“Where is His Grace? Down here? There?”

Shite.

Fletcher pointed his gaze ceilingward, begging for patience from the Almighty.

“I demand you take me to him at once.”