Page 43 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

Letting her hand fall, Irene turned away. She left her room, reaching for her handbag and gloves on her way out the door, and strode down the corridor and stairs at a rapid clip. When she reached the ground floor, however, she’d barely taken two steps toward the foyer before the unmistakable scent of bacon wafted to her nose.

Her stomach rumbled again, and she stopped, sorely tempted. What was it the maid had said? Something about warming dishes on the sideboard. Perhaps, if she was the first one down, she could wrap some toast and bacon in a napkin and eat it on the omnibus?

Irene hesitated, but when she saw a footman emerge from behind a nearby baize door carrying a tray laden with warming dishes, she made up her mind and followed him down a short corridor to a room of sunny yellow walls, white plaster work, and dark mahogany.

The footman noticed her behind him, and immediately moved to the side of the doorway to allow her to enter first, but she’d barely taken a step across the threshold before she discovered she was not the first arrival. Torquil was seated at the head of the table, knife and fork in hand, reading the newspaper folded back beside his plate. “Oh,” she said and came to a startled stop.

He looked up, and at the sight of her, he was on his feet at once, setting aside his utensils and napkin to offer her a bow. “Miss Deverill.”

After their heated exchange last evening, she had not seen him again, nor had she had any desire to do so. Recollections of his resentment regarding her profession and her own simmering frustration had kept her up half the night. Encountering him now made Irene acutely uncomfortable, and she wished she’d stuck to her original decision to forgo breakfast.

He seemed to be having similar feelings, for he shifted his weight and glanced past her, as if he hoped more people would begin arriving.

“Duke.” She bowed, a perfunctory nod of her head and dip of her knees. “I was just coming in search of food.”

She grimaced inwardly at her choice of words, appreciating that she’d just described herself as something akin to a scavenging animal, but if Torquil noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he gestured to the seat to his right. “Will you not sit down?” he asked when she didn’t move.

“I . . . no . . . I just . . .” She paused, unable to think of a way to explain her intent had been to take her food with her. Her idea seemed terribly gauche all of a sudden. The clock behind her in the corridor chimed once, and she seized on the sound as the perfect excuse. “Heavens,” she said in a strangled voice, “half past eight already? I’ve no time for breakfast now.”

Giving another quick bow, she started to turn away, but his voice stopped her.

“If it is my presence that distresses you, I will leave, of course.”

She winced, aware that he sounded almost eager for the prospect, and forced herself to stop and turn around. “No, please, finish your breakfast. I am not distressed. Not exactly. I mean . . .” She stopped again, aware she was stammering, unable to help it, and feeling like a prize idiot in consequence. “It’s just that I’m so . . . so late. I am . . . I am always in my office by this time . . . by now. Always,” she finished lamely.

A puzzled frown knit his brows. “Does it matter if you are a bit tardy? You do manage the company.”

“That’s true.” She gave a little laugh, one that sounded a bit desperate to her own ears. “But my staff will be arriving at any moment to begin work, and when they do, they will not find me there. They will worry.”

“But since you cannot be transported across town by magic carpet, taking an additional half hour to have breakfast will hardly make a difference. I cannot allow a guest of mine to go without breakfast, Miss Deverill,” he added before she could reply. “As for your concern that others will wonder where you are and will worry about you, that is a problem easily remedied. Boothby can telephone them.”

“You have a telephone?” The moment the question was out of her mouth, she sighed. “Of course you do.”

“It’s a convenient device.”

“Not very convenient. Most other people don’t have one.”

“Enough do to make it worthwhile. My club, my solicitors, my home in Dorset all have telephones, as do several of our friends, including you. I observed the telephone in your offices when I was there. Please, do sit down.”

Deprived of her only excuse, Irene accepted with good grace. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

He turned to the footman, who was at the sideboard, arranging warming dishes. “Edward?”

The servant moved to his side at once. “Your Grace?”

“Have Boothby telephone to Miss Deverill’s offices and inform them she is delayed, and will be arriving in about an hour. The number to give the exchange is . . . ?”

At his inquiring glance, she turned to the footman beside him. “Holborn 7244.”

The servant departed, and Irene accepted the chair Torquil pulled out for her.

“Would you like tea?” he asked, gesturing to the sideboard behind him. “Or coffee?”

“I can wait for my tea,” she said as he turned to fetch her a cup, his solicitous manner making her even more discomfited, for it was so clearly for the sake of politeness and nothing more. “Surely the footman will be back in a moment. There’s no need to serve me yourself, Duke.”

“On the contrary,” he said over his shoulder as he poured tea for her from the pot on the sideboard. “The duty to wait upon you falls to me as your host, since no servant is present. And I never ignore my duty. Milk and sugar?”

“A little of each, thank you.”

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