Page 11 of The English Duke
“Tea would help,” Gran said, opening her eyes and smiling at Martha. “It’s nothing, child. I’m simply a little worn-out. That’s to be expected. If I could only rest for a bit, I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Burthren had escorted them here, smiled broadly, and then excused himself saying he would order refreshments. If they weren’t delivered in a few minutes, she would go in search of something for Gran herself.
“It’s an odd room,” Gran said, looking around her. “What did Mr. Burthren call it?”
“The Rococo Parlor,” Josephine said, taking one of the chairs near the sofa.
Martha stared up at the ceiling. An entire fresco was painted there, one of an elderly man leading a crowd of scantily clad women toward a mountain. Beneath the fresco, white stucco in fantastical shapes formed a border around the room, ending at columns on all four corners. The pale blue silk walls were decorated by a half dozen paintings, each a landscape filled with people either picnicking or resting beside a tree or near a brook.
Everywhere she looked, the detail was slightly more than she expected: statues of shepherdesses holding their skirts high as they beckoned sheep with tiny little horns, fanciful birds with long brass feathers adorning the tools next to the fireplace.
“It’s French, I think,” Gran said. After a quick look at Josephine, she didn’t say anything further.
“I think it’s a delectable room,” Josephine said, looking around her like a child who’d been granted entrance to a confectioner’s shop and told she could have anything she wished.
Would the duke join them? Martha doubted it. He’d not been pleased by their appearance and probably wished they’d disappear as quickly.
The poor man. She doubted he’d be happy about her compassion, either.
Gran suddenly moaned and slumped to her side.
“Gran? Gran? What’s wrong?”
She grabbed her grandmother’s wrist, felt a strong pulse, but wasn’t reassured because the older woman moaned again.
“What is it?” Josephine asked, coming to stand in front of Gran. “Is she sick?”
Her sister was always in command of the obvious. Martha bit back her annoyance and looked around the room.
“Go summon someone, please,” she said to Amy, gesturing to where the bellpull hung from the ceiling.
She bent and placed Gran’s feet up on the sofa. She rested her hand on her grandmother’s ankle, wishing she had a pillow and something to cover her. Wishing, too, that she wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by fear.
Jordan made his way slowly—since it was his only speed of late—to the Rococo Parlor.
The room had been a present from his grandfather to his wife, who’d evidently cherished both the gesture and the place. It was one of the smaller rooms at Sedgebrook and the decorations only made it seem more crowded.
Ever since he was a boy he avoided the room. Reese, for some reason, liked the parlor. Just because they were best friends didn’t mean they agreed on everything. Lately, they found common ground in precious little.
The grandmother was on the ornate couch being fanned by her maid. Both granddaughters turned to look at him when he entered.
Mary, one of the Sedgebrook maids, hesitated at the doorway. He moved out of her way, allowing her to enter with a tray of tea and refreshments. Mary was a good sort, an affable girl, someone who always smiled at him. Not once did she send him a glance of pity and unless he asked she didn’t offer to help him in any way.
His passage through the corridors and rooms of Sedgebrook was done like an arthritic octogenarian, but at least his servants didn’t look as if they were going to cry when viewing him.
Like Martha York was doing right now.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. York?” he asked.
She didn’t answer him. Instead, Martha spoke up.
“She isn’t feeling well at all, Your Grace.”
Martha had a curious voice. A little lower than normal, almost slumberous in tone, reminding him of a woman on waking in the morning. What a fool he was. There was no reason for him to think of rumpled sheets and marathon bouts of lovemaking, especially around the York woman.
He looked away and decided he wouldn’t glance in her direction again.
The younger girl—what was her name again?—stood and approached him.
