Page 60 of Never a Duke
Rosalind kept her peace all the way back into Town, but foreboding had cast a gloom over her perfect picnic. Ned asked the same thoughtful, thorough questions of Arthur that he’d asked of Rosalind, and like Rosalind, Arthur had little enough to offer in the way of information. Nobody had seen his sister taken up by the watch, she wasn’t in the sponging houses, and her friends hadn’t heard from her.
Ned drew the horse up under the porte cochere, handed Rosalind down, and walked with her to the foot of the steps.
“I will make an appointment to speak with your father. As soon as he can see me.”
Rosalind did not envy Ned that interview. “Papa will expect you to observe the formalities, and he will play the very devil over the settlements, but I know what my mother left me. I am quite of age, and the situation in truth should not require much discussion.”
Ned bowed over her hand. “I will do this correctly, because you are deserving of every courtesy and consideration. Perhaps you might ride in the park on Friday morning?”
How she loved the warmth in his gaze when he posed the question. “I most assuredly will, one hour after sunrise.”
He touched a finger to his hat brim. “Until Friday morning. Good day, my lady.”
Rosalind wanted to watch him drive off, looking so handsome and dashing at the reins, but Ned would wait for her to safely enter her house, and thus she parted from him. The news Artie had disclosed was alarming, but also encouraging.
More disappearances meant more potential witnesses and more clues, and thus more hope.
And as for the picnic…Rosalind removed her bonnet and gloves, reliving memories of blossom-scented breezes, intense pleasure, and the sweetest lassitude.
I am in love.She made that announcement silently, while examining her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard. Her hair was still a plain brown, her figure unremarkable, her attire boringly proper, but her eyes were sparkling, and her heart…
In her heart was knowledge and wonder and love.
“Just where have you been?” Papa stood on the landing halfway up the steps, his query disturbing Rosalind’s musing as effectively as a rifle shot. “The Wentworth whelp escorted you again, and for a woman who spent hours out shopping, you’ve returned without packages.”
“I often find nothing to suit me,” Rosalind said. “Mrs. Barnstable despairs of my finicky tastes, and for once, she did not have to accompany me as I browsed.”
“Finicky,” the earl said, descending the steps slowly. “Does Wentworth know how finicky you are?”
“He is a considerate escort, Papa, but I’m sure my preferences regarding gloves and scents hold no interest for him.”
Papa gave her a brooding examination, one that was supposed to intimidate her into babbling, for which he would then rebuke her.
Rosalind passed her father on the stairs and assured herself that she and Ned would have a very brief, passionate courtship. If Papa thought it odd that she was more interested in escaping his company than removing her cloak, he kept his opinion to himself—for once.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to discuss investments, Ned. What is on your mind?”
Duncan Wentworth posed the question politely, for Duncan was always polite. He was a cousin to the Wentworth siblings, a few years older than Walden, and decades more reserved. While Walden exuded consequence, Duncan exuded nothing so easily labeled.
Not arrogance, not impatience, not humility, though Ned knew him to be a humble man. With his wife and children, Duncan was quietly doting, and with his cousins he occupied a place both in the family circle and entirely unto himself.
In the role of tutor to Lord Stephen, Duncan had years ago created a bridge between the most difficult Wentworth—which was saying something indeed—and the rest of the family. Ned had watched that process with a mixture of awe and envy.
“Thank you for heeding my request,” Ned said. “May I offer you a drink?”
Duncan would never gawk, but in his reserved, understated way he was clearly inspecting Ned’s informal parlor—his family parlor.
“I’ll have a tot to wash away the dust of the road. You favor botanical art.”
Ned passed him a glass of brandy. “A man can’t very well admit to a preference for having flowers on hand, can he?” At a bank, fresh flowers were a touch of graciousness. In bachelor quarters…
“Who did the stitchwork?” Duncan asked, examining one of Ned’s more complicated flights of embroidery. “The blooms look vibrant enough to bear a fragrance.”
“I needed something to cover up the seam in the wallpaper, and like you, I thought the work pretty so I had it framed. Shall we sit?”
Duncan took a sip of his drink, regarding Ned over the rim of the glass. Ned had prevaricated about the origins of the needlepoint, and Duncan knew it.
