Page 57 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

She could do nothing but stare. What had Thomas done to earn such contempt? By all rights Thomas should be the one in a blackened mood. He probably was, to be fair, but at least he’d taken himself off to be furious elsewhere.

“His grace, it is, isn’t it?” Mr. Audley continued, his voice losing none of his derision. “I’m not so uneducated that I don’t know the correct forms of address.”

“I never said you were. Neither, I might add, did the dowager.” Grace let out an irritated exhale. “She shall be difficult all day now.”

“She isn’t normally difficult?”

Good heavens, she wanted to hit him. Of course the dowager was normally difficult. He knew that. What could he possibly have to gain by remarking upon it other than the enhancement of his oh so dry and wry persona?

“She shall be worse,” she ground out. “And I shall be the one to pay for it.”

“My apologies, then,” he said, and he offered a contrite bow.

Grace felt suddenly uncomfortable. Not because she thought he was mocking her, but rather because she was quite sure he was not. “It was nothing,” she mumbled. “It is not your place to worry over my situation.”

“Does Wyndham?”

Grace looked up at him, somehow captured by the directness of his gaze. “No,” she said softly. “Yes, he does, but no…”

No, he didn’t. Thomas did look out for her, and had, on more than one occasion, interceded when he felt she was being treated unfairly, but he never held his tongue with his grandmother just to keep the peace. And Grace would never dream of asking him to. Or scold him for not doing so.

He was the duke. She could not speak to him that way, no matter their friendship.

But Mr. Audley was…

She closed her eyes for a moment, turning away so he could not see the turmoil on her face. He was just Mr. Audley for now, not so very far above her. But the dowager’s voice, soft and menacing, still rang in her ears—

If that is indeed still his name.

She was speaking of Thomas, of course. But the counterpart was true as well. If Thomas was not Wyndham, then Mr. Audley was.

And this man…this man who had kissed her twice and made her dream of something beyond the walls of this castle—he would be this castle. The dukedom wasn’t just a few words appended to the end of one’s name. It was lands, it was money, it was the very history of England placed upon one man’s shoulders. And if there was one thing she had learned during her five years at Belgrave, it was that the aristocracy were different from the rest of humanity. They were mortals, true, and they bled and cried just like everyone else, but they carried within them something that set them apart.

It didn’t make them better. No matter the dowager’s lectures on the subject, Grace would never believe that. But they were different. And they were shaped by the knowledge of their history and their roles.

If Mr. Audley’s birth had been legitimate, then he was the Duke of Wyndham, and she was an overreaching spinster for even dreaming of his face.

Grace took a deep, restorative breath, and then, once her nerves were sufficiently calmed, turned back to him. “Which part of the castle would you like to see, Mr. Audley?”

He must have recognized that this was not the time to press her, and so he answered cheerfully, “Why, all of it, of course, but I imagine that is not feasible for a single morning. Where do you suggest we begin?”

“The gallery?” He had been so interested in the paintings in his room the night before. It seemed a logical place to start.

“And gaze upon the friendly faces of my supposed ancestors?” His nostrils flared, and for a moment he almost looked as if he’d swallowed something distasteful. “I think not. I’ve had enough of my ancestors for one morning, thank you very much.”

“These are dead ancestors,” Grace murmured, hardly able to believe her cheek.

“Which is how I prefer them, but not this morning.”

She glanced across the hall to where she could see sunlight dappling in through a window. “I could show you the gardens.”

“I’m not dressed for it.”

“The conservatory?”

He tapped his ear. “Made of tin, I’m afraid.”

She pressed her lips together, waited a moment, then said, “Do you have any location in mind?”

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