Page 9 of The Duke’s Last Love

She reached the door. “You need not remain upstairs until she has gone, Tristan. She has shown no inclination to pursue you.”

“I had not supposed otherwise.”

“Then we understand one another.”

She left. Tristan stared at the closed door. That made two women who had informed him they understood him in less than a day. Neither had made it sound flattering. He returned to the report and wrote instructions for Collins. The gate needed replacing. He could at least settle a matter in which everyone agreed on the desired outcome.

When he had finished, he went downstairs. The library stood on the western side of the house. As a boy, he had preferred it in winter, when the afternoon sun reached the carpet and the fire was lit before tea. Now it was empty. One of the windows had been opened, and a curtain stirred against the corner of a chair.

He crossed to the shelves nearest the garden doors. There were books on agriculture, drainage, fruit cultivation, and several volumes his father had bought because someone at dinner had recommended them. Tristan ran a finger along the bindings until he found an illustrated work on British plants. He drew it out. The book opened stiffly. A sheet of old notes lay between two plates, the handwriting small and crowded. He closed it again.

Whitmore appeared in the doorway to ask whether the book should be taken to Lady Lydia. The sensible answer would have been yes, of course, he should have sent it up, closed the library, and been done with the subject. ; A man who meant to keep his distance did not leave invitations lying on tables. “No,” Tristan said. “Tell her it is here. She may wish to look at the others.”

He left the book on the table beside the shelves and went to the dining room. Mrs. Bell was directing the removal of a spotted cloth. She greeted him with a nod and continued instructing a maid until the woman had carried it away.

“The table is to remain where it is,” Tristan said.

“So Mr. Whitmore informed me.”

“Has my mother attempted to move it again?”

“She has considered the matter.”

He inspected the supper arrangements, listened to an explanation concerning the fish, and approved the use of another room for guests who wished to sit away from the dancing. When there was nothing left requiring his attention, he returned to the library. Lydia stood at the table with the botanical volume open before her.

Her gloves lay beside her sketchbook. One bare hand held the page flat, graphite shadowing the side of her middle finger. A loose strand of golden hair had caught against her cheek. He noticed all of this before she lifted her head, which irritated him because none of it was useful.

The library suited her in a way the ballroom preparations did not. Nothing in her posture asked to be admired. She had claimed a square of sunlight, opened a book, and left the rest of the room to arrange itself around her concentration. He had seen beautiful women look beautiful on purpose. Lydia, intent on a disputed leaf, made beauty feel incidental, which was considerably harder to ignore.

“Your Grace.”

“Did Whitmore find you?”

“Yes. Thank you for telling me about the books.”

“The illustrated one was my father’s.”

“It has some very fine plates.”