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He lifted the report, aligned it with the edge of the desk, and set it down again. “You will not use that conversation to win this one.”

She watched his hands before returning her attention to his face. “I want you to have a life you do not spend all your time arranging so nothing can surprise you.”

“And you have decided Lady Lydia is to be responsible for providing it.”

His mother drew a breath. When she spoke again, the softness had gone. “You will not find every woman willing to wait while you decide whether to notice her.”

“I have asked no one to wait.”

“Perhaps that is the trouble.”

Tristan picked up his gloves. Anything he said now would only prove her point, and he would not stay to supply it. His mother rose as he came around the desk. “What do you propose I tell the Pembrokes?”

“That you invited them to a ball. I intend to give one.”

He stopped beside the door. “I will behave courteously. You must not encourage them to mistake it for anything else.”

“I am asking you to give the girl a chance.”

He opened the study door. “Bring every eligible woman in England through this house if you like. I will not marry Lady Lydia.”

CHAPTER TWO

Lydia chose the darker blue gown for dinner because the duke would see it, though she admitted as much to herself only after her maid had laid it across the bed. It suited her well, with its modest neckline and simple sleeves. The color made her eyes look bluer without inviting undue attention. She had worn it in London and felt entirely herself in it. Tonight, feeling like herself seemed a rather more ambitious undertaking.

Her bedroom was lovely. Beyond the windows, the lawn sloped toward a stand of beech trees, and the afternoon light reached almost to the hearth. A small table stood near the glass, with a cloth to protect its polished surface. It would serve well for drawing.

The Dowager Duchess had thought of that. She had also thought of who might escort Lydia to the greenhouse, who might sit beside her, and how many accomplishments could be mentioned before their luggage reached the stairs. Her mother had not concealed the possibility of a match. After all, a thirty-year-old duke with an established household and an estate he apparently managed himself, was a man any sensible family would wish to see married to their daughter. During the journey Lydia had wondered whether he liked the country, whether he would mind mud on a wife’s hem, and whether the charm attributed to him might make it all too easy to fall in love.

She had hardly expected him to be enchanted with her at first sight, but she had hoped for a little warmth and a question or two. Surely that was not too much to ask.

None of it embarrassed her. She was nineteen, and she wanted marriage. She wanted children, and a household where her work could remain work and not become a charming accomplishment displayed after dinner. And, of course, she wanted a husband whose interest would outlast the wedding that solved a family’s problem. Those wants did not make her desperate, and they did not make every unmarried man a candidate. She had come to Ashcombe prepared to be curious. To be dismissed before her curiosity had been given leave to stir was a graver injury than refusal, and harder to forgive.

“Shall I unpack the drawing things, my lady?”

“Yes, please. On that table, if there is room.”

Her maid carried the case to the window. Lydia opened her sketchbook to the unfinished foxglove and meant to correct the angle of one leaf, but her mind kept returning to the Dowager Duchess offering Tristan’s services and his clipped reply. ‘So am I.’ He might have said it more quietly, or waited until they were out of earshot. Lydia would have spared him the excursion if anyone had thought to ask her.

She turned a page too quickly and folded its corner. The damage to the paper annoyed her almost as much as the man did. The duke was handsome. She had known that before arriving, though the knowledge had not prepared her for his height, the green of his eyes, or the disagreeable fact that his reserve made her curious. She also knew he was a widower and that several mothers in London regarded his continued unmarried state as a difficulty requiring their personal attention.

She had not known that her own family would become involved in resolving it.

“Will you need anything else, my lady?”

“No, thank you.”

Once the maid had gone, Lydia stood by the window and smoothed the creased page against the table. He might have been tired or his journey might have been unpleasant. She could understand resenting unexpected guests, but surely that was no reason to look at one of them as though she were an unpaid bill. The Dowager Duchess had known they were coming, and someone had ordered fresh water and flowers for their rooms. Whatever the duke had expected, the rest of his household had managed to welcome them.

Lydia closed the sketchbook. She would find her mother and learn how far these arrangements had gone. Perhaps the Dowager Duchess had mistaken their willingness to visit for an invitation to arrange her future. Lydia wanted the distinction restored before dinner gave their families another opportunity to decide for them. She took the book with her. Afterward, she might find a seat outside.

The corridor was empty when she stepped into it. A long runner swallowed the sound of her steps, and portraits of dead Ashcombes regarded the passage with a shared air of disapproval. She remembered the way Mrs. Bell had brought them, but the doors along the passage were so alike that she hesitated before choosing the one she believed belonged to her mother. Farther ahead, a latch moved. The duke’s voice reached her through an opening door. “I will not marry Lady Lydia.”

She stopped with her hand half raised. He had said her name distinctly enough to be heard at the stairs. When the door opened wider, Tristan stepped out, still looking into the room behind him, and then turned and saw her. Lydia lowered her hand. His glance went to the door she had been about to knock on, and his expression changed, though she could not have said precisely how. He drew his study door closed. “Lady Lydia.”

“Your Grace.” Her curtsy was exact and brief.

She wished she had brought her gloves. Holding them would have given her something to do besides press the sketchbook hard enough to mark her palm. Afternoon light lay across the runner; somewhere below, silver struck silver as servants laid the dining room. Any door might open, and any member of her family might find her standing here with the man who had just announced to the entire passage that he would never marry her. Lydia could accept his refusal but being publicly humiliated before she’d even decided whether she wanted him was quite another matter.