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Mouth full of toast, Sophronie had frantically chewed while shaking her head, her gaze careening from one person to the other before crashing into the duke’s.
Blue-gray eyes wide, his grace looked every bit as aghast as she felt at the absurd suggestion.
“Nae, Grandmother Larimore,” he said with a good deal of vehemence and a trifle louder than even the hard-of-hearing woman required. “Miss Slater and I are no’ affianced. We would no’ suit. Besides, she is returnin’ to America at the end of the month.”
He’d turned a steely stare on his precocious aunts who’d caused the commotion—deliberately, Sophronie suspected. Both of their gazes held an unnerving, speculative gleam when they shifted them to Sophronie.
Surely they didn’t think she was interested in becoming a duchess. Not any duchess, but the cantankerous Duke of Waycross’s wife. A title held as much appeal to Sophronie as never seeing a horse again for as long as she lived. That would be hell on earth.
Praying that the floor would open and swallow her at breakfast had proved futile, so she’d resorted to the next best thing—avoiding Waycross. Naturally, she couldn’t do that indefinitely—not in his home. Besides, she’d go stir crazy staying indoors now that Papa appeared to be on the mend.
Tomorrow, she’d ask Doctor Dargavel when her father could travel, and mayhap she’d go for a ride around the estate. She’d approach the duchess and ask her rather than disturb Waycross with such a trivial matter. If denied her request, Sophronie intended to take a long stroll. She’d also write and post several letters explaining their delay.
She turned her mind to the task of selecting a book.
“Now, what would Papa enjoy?”
Slowly walking alongside the brimming shelves, Sophronie couldn’t help but be impressed. Tidy rows of books—many gold-embossed on their spines—filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Two walls held ladders on rails which permitted one to climb to the upper shelves. An intricate spiral staircase wound its way upward to a miniature gallery, behind which perched a stunning round stained-glass window in shades of yellow, blue, and green.
With the silvery moonbeams as a celestial backdrop, the window was breathtaking and cast a luminescent glow over the quaint balcony.
That was where she’d read if it were her home.
“I’m betting the boring stuff is up high,” she muttered to herself, craning her neck to look above her. “Or up there.”
She shifted her attention to the balcony again.
She’d explore that treasure later if they remained at Balston House long enough for her to do so. Curiosity about the charming gallery and her desire to put Balston House and the Duke of Waycross behind her rooted around her middle, each vying for dominance.
Running a finger along the books’ spines, she paused. “The history and evolution of horseshoes.” Fascinating, but not calming. “No, something more relaxing for Papa, I think.”
She settled on The Vicar of Wakefield.
“Now for me.”
“I recommend The Genteel Ladies’ Guide to Practical Livin’.”
Gasping, Sophronie whipped around and, holding the book for her father against her chest with one hand and the candle in the air with the other, stared at the balcony’s curved balustrade.
His shirt startling white in the muted light and unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the Duke of Waycross leaned over the railing. Moonlight bathed him in an iridescent glow, playing shadows across his craggy features.
Had he been watching her?
“Or,” he continued, his tone riddled with jollity, “The Gentlewoman’s Companion; or a Guide to the Female Sex.” He held the book in his hand and squinted at the title, then lifting a candle she hadn’t noticed until now, flicked open the cover and grinned.
Her tummy wobbled, as it had a disconcerting habit of doing whenever he smiled.
In a sonorous baritone, he intoned, “Containin’ Directions of Behavior, in all Places, Companies, Relations, and Conditions, from their Childhood down to Old Age.”
“Odious man,” Sophronie muttered to herself.
How dare he insinuate she needed decorum lessons when he had been barely civil during most of their encounters?
“I think one of my sisters might’ve been readin’ this, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind ye borrowin’ it.” He gave the book a doubtful glance.
“How…resourceful of you.” Resourceful her bottom. “Nonetheless, I shall pass on the offer, Your Grace.”
The light from the balcony she’d mistakenly believed was the full moon had been in fact a candle. Although where he’d placed it, except upon the floor, to cause the light to splay out as it had was beyond her. Now she was all the more curious to investigate the charming area.
