Page 14 of The English Duke
“Why should I worry? You do it so well for both of us.”
She didn’t have a response to Josephine’s barb, but it didn’t matter. Her sister carried on with her self-absorbed monologue.
“Of course, the duke is lame, but a title could go a long way to making a woman forget certain things. What a pity he isn’t as handsome as Mr. Burthren.”
Josephine was wrong. The duke wasn’t lame. How rude of her to call him so. He’d been injured, which was obvious. He was in pain, which was a certainty as well, at least to anyone who cared to look. He was also proud and didn’t like for people to see him maneuver with his walking stick.
What had happened to him?
Her father had told her that Hamilton had recently come into the dukedom at the unexpected death of his older brother. She didn’t know any more than that. Nor had she ever considered he might be handsome or arresting. Or that she would have such a profound reaction to him.
“I’m going to go sit with Gran,” Martha said, determined not to think of the duke any further. “I’ve asked the housekeeper to bring us a dinner tray.”
“I think that would be the height of rudeness, Martha. I think we should take dinner with our host.”
She didn’t remind Josephine that the Duke of Roth wasn’t happy about them being there. Insisting on sharing a meal with him would be like poking a stick in the eye of a wounded bear. No, it was best if they simply kept to themselves.
Josephine, however, wasn’t happy about her decision. She sent her more than one annoyed glance as they made their way down the corridor to the Florence room.
To her surprise, her grandmother was sitting up in bed, watching as Amy was unpacking a trunk.
“When did you have a trunk loaded onto the coach?” Martha asked, surprised.
“One must always plan for contingencies, Martha.”
“It looks as if you’ve planned for a week, Gran, if not a fortnight.”
Her grandmother only smiled at her, the color back in her cheeks.
“Are you feeling better?”
“A trifle,” Gran said.
Attired in one of her lace-trimmed nightgowns, her grandmother looked none the worse for wear propped up in the grand Italian-style bed. The mahogany headboard behind her was richly carved with grapes and vines, the dark wood a perfect backdrop for her snowy white hair and blue eyes.
If she didn’t know any better, she would think Gran was feigning illness. Yet it would be so unlike her grandmother that Martha immediately dismissed the thought. Perhaps the trunk was only a sign of Gran’s practicality showing once again.
When the knock came, Martha answered the door. A maid stood there with a tray of tea and crackers.
“I was feeling a bit peckish,” Gran explained. “It will tide me over until dinner.”
Josephine plopped down on the chair next to the window.
“She won’t let us go down to dinner with the duke,” she said. “She’s a martinet, Gran. You have to do something about her.”
“We haven’t been invited to dinner, Josephine,” Martha said, conscious of the maid’s presence in the room.
Thankfully, Josephine didn’t continue with her complaints. Instead, she began to describe the wonders of her room to Gran, who listened with great interest.
Gran really did look as if she felt better. Had the spell at the top of the steps been something temporary or had it been a warning sign of another, more serious, condition? Hopefully, the duke’s doctor would allay her fears and they could return home to Griffin House tomorrow.
“He’s not married, is he?” Josephine asked. “I’m certain we would have heard about a duchess if he were. Of course, there’s his atrocious limp.”
Truly, didn’t Josephine notice the maid?
The girl left, no doubt ready to tell tales of the York women and their gossip.
“Surely His Grace will ask you to dinner soon enough, Josephine,” Gran said as Martha returned from the door. “And find you charming.”
