Page 33 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“What I am,” Grace said, resisting the urge to point out that there was nothing wrong with green eyes, “is overset. It has been a most exhausting day. And night,” she added after a thought.

The dowager shrugged. “My son’s wit was legendary,” she said, setting the conversation back to where she wished it. “You wouldn’t have thought it cutting, either, but that was simply because he was far too clever. It is a brilliant man who can make insult without the recipient even realizing.”

Grace thought that rather sad. “What is the point, then?”

“The point?” The dowager blinked several times in rapid succession. “Of what?”

“Of insulting someone.” Grace shifted the fan again, then shook out her free hand; her fingers were cramped from clutching the handle. “Or I should say,” she amended, since she was quite sure the dowager could find many good reasons to cut someone down, “of insulting someone with intention of their not noticing it?”

The dowager still did not look at her, but Grace could see that she rolled her eyes. “It is a source of pride, Miss Eversleigh. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“No,” Grace said softly. “I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know what it means to excel at something.” The dowager pursed her lips and stretched her neck slightly from side to side. “You couldn’t know.”

Which had to be as cutting an insult as any, except that the dowager seemed completely unaware she’d done it.

There was irony in there somewhere. There had to be.

“We live in interesting times, Miss Eversleigh,” the dowager commented.

Grace nodded silently, turning her head to the side so that the dowager, should she ever choose to turn her head in her direction, would not see the tears in her eyes. Her parents had lacked the funds to travel, but theirs had been wandering hearts, and the Eversleigh home had been filled with maps and books about faraway places. Like it was yesterday, Grace remembered the time they had all been sitting in front of the fire, engrossed in their own reading, and her father looked up from his book and exclaimed, “Isn’t this marvelous? In China, if you wish to insult someone, you say, ‘May you live in interesting times.’”

Grace suddenly did not know if the tears in her eyes were of sorrow or mirth.

“That is enough, Miss Eversleigh,” the dowager said suddenly. “I am quite cooled.”

Grace shut the fan, then decided to set it down on the table by the window so she would have a reason to cross the room. Dusk hung only lightly in the air, so it was not difficult to see down the drive. She was not certain why she was so eager to have the two men back—possibly just as proof that they had not killed each other on the trip. Despite defending Thomas’s sense of honor, she had not liked the look in his eyes. And she had certainly never known him to attack someone. He’d looked positively feral when he lunged for Mr. Audley. If Mr. Audley had been less of a fighting man himself, she was quite certain Thomas would have done him permanent harm.

“Do you think it will rain, Miss Eversleigh?”

Grace turned. “No.”

“The wind is picking up.”

“Yes.” Grace waited until the dowager turned her attention to a trinket on the table next to her, and then she turned back to the window. Of course the moment she did, she heard—

“I hope it rains.”

She held still. And then she turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I hope it rains.” The dowager said it again, so very matter-of-fact, as if anyone would wish for precipitation while two gentlemen were out on horseback.

“They will be drenched,” Grace pointed out.

“They will be forced to take each other’s measure. Which they will have to do sooner or later. Besides, my John never minded riding in the rain. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.”

“That does not mean that Mr.—“

“Cavendish,” the dowager inserted.

Grace swallowed. It helped her catch her patience. “Whatever he wishes to be called, I don’t think we may assume that he enjoys riding in the rain just because his father did. Most people do not.”

The dowager did not seem to wish to consider this. But she acknowledged the statement with, “I know nothing of the mother, that is true. She could be responsible for any number of adulterations.”

“Would you care for tea, ma’am?” Grace asked. “I could ring for it.”

“What do we know of her, after all? Almost certainly Irish, which could mean any number of things, all of them dreadful.”

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