Page 45 of If the Duke Dares
“May I call on you tomorrow before I leave town?” he asked as the coach pulled into the Crescent.
She glanced at him again, but quickly averted her gaze. “It’s best if you don’t.”
“Why? Aren’t we friends?”
“Yes, but I’ll be busy with my aunt. I have much to discuss with her and things to decide.”
He could understand that, but he sensed there was something more, that she was hiding something. She’d never been completely honest about why she wouldn’t even consider marrying him. Why she would risk her reputation—and more—to avoid him? He knew what she thought of his reputation and his friends, and that one of his friends had possibly done something specific to form her aversion. Still, it hurt, especially now that he knew her.
As the coach came to a stop in front of her aunt’s house, he realized he wanted to be worthy of her. He just wasn’t sure how.
“I hope things go well for you,” she said, sitting straighter. “At your mother’s house, I mean.”
He’d told Persey earlier that he’d never visited and then abruptly changed the subject to something inane. Had that been when they’d discussed their favorite syllabubs?
The door opened, and Acton climbed out of the coach. He held his hand up to help Persey. Her gaze met his—fleetingly—before she put her hand in his. The urge to pull her close, to kiss her again, was overwhelming, but she pulled from his grip as soon as her feet touched the pavement.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he offered.
The coachman had her valise in hand.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said with a brisk nod. Taking the valise from the coachman, she thanked him for a splendid journey and congratulated him on his management of the horseshoe incident. The coachman returned to the horses, leaving Acton and Persey alone on the pavement.
She turned to face Acton, but still didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. I will repay you for the gifts you gave me.”
He silently begged her to look at him. “I won’t accept a thing, so don’t even try.”
“I should have known you would say that. Goodbye, Acton.”
As she turned and went up the steps to the door, he said, “Good night, not goodbye, Persey.”
The door opened, and Acton glimpsed a butler before it closed. Then he was alone in the night, wishing he’d said something more.
But what?
Attempting his best scowl and wondering if Droxford would approve, he went back to the coach for the short ride to St. James’s Square. Acton felt strange going to his mother’s house, but she’d been trying to get him to visit since coming back into his life nearly a year ago. She definitely wouldn’t mind him staying there.
Still, he could go to the White Hart Inn.
The coach stopped in front of his mother’s house in St. James’s Square. After instructing the coachman on where to find the mews to stable his horse, Acton took his valise and walked up to the door.
He knocked, and a smartly dressed butler answered the door. Acton had expected he would wear Wellesbourne livery, but he did not. The man looked to be in his late fifties and was nearly the same height as Acton’s six feet. He had light gray hair and shockingly dark, bushy eyebrows. His blue eyes surveyed Acton with extreme discernment.
“You must be His Grace.”
Acton hadn’t sent word ahead. But he should have. Damn, he’d been too focused on Persey. “Yes. How did you know?”
The butler very slightly pursed his lips. “There’s a portrait of you in your mother’s sitting room.”
She had a portrait of him? “Is it recent?” Acton hadn’t sat for a painting for several years.
“Recent enough that you look the same. I believe it was painted about four years ago.”
Yes, that was about the last time. However, that painting had hung in his father’s study in London. Acton had taken it down because it was odd to look at himself on the wall. Now, he wasn’t sure where it was. Had it somehow found its way here? “Has she had it that long?” he asked.
The butler’s brow wrinkled ever so slightly then smoothed immediately. “Certainly.”
Were there two portraits?
