But dreamers always awoke.
Trust was a fragile bridge between two people that once broken was not easily mended. Fragility underpinned it, doubt layered it, only time strengthened it.
Hoisting away from the door, she caught her troubled reflection in a gilded mirror.
One single untruth left seeds of doubt forever.
She straightened her shoulders and took one ponderous step towards the breakfast room, when a frowning gentleman abruptly bolted from the door…closely followed by another, nearly trampling her toes in his haste.
Furtively, she peeped in.
Jacketless, Rothwell lounged in profile to her, with toast, jam, coffee, and another gentleman, who scribbled away in a small book, expression harried.
“That will be all,” the duke instructed. “But I want a full report this afternoon.”
The poor man’s forehead crumpled but he merely mumbled a reply and near tripped over his feet to stand. With beleaguered eyes and coat flapping, he hoofed it from the table and Evelyn was forced to flatten herself to the open door for his harried departure.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she called, unpeeling herself from the woodwork and dropping a curtsey.
He glanced up and Evelyn’s foolish heart raced at the sight of his broad smile.
The oak-brown colour of his waistcoat lightened his eyes to a calm, fathomless lake, his damp hair gleamed, and linen sleeves billowed like a schooner’s sails. Yet a nasty swollen gash marred his left cheek and she wondered at the cause, couldn’t imagine this suave nobleman engaging in dawn brawls, especially as his manner appeared very much at ease this morning.
She so hated to ruin it.
“I…I wish to tell you everything, Your Grace.” There, it was said. No prattling.
A beat of silence until… “I do not wish to hear it today.”
What?
She’d garnered all her strength, steeled her wits, pushed her shoulders back, shoved in a ton of pins to smooth her hair, worn her best dress, and he did not wish to hear it!
The scurvy, blaggardy pestlehead.
“But…but…”
He rose to stand, all six foot of restrained vigour, tight buckskins and polished boots encasing long legs.
“Will I be disappointed or angry or upset by your confession?”
“All three, I suspect.”
“Then we will argue, and it will ruin a beautiful day.”
She peered to the window; it had begun to rain.
“I…”
“I have spent one hour and a quarter rescheduling my entire morning and I do not intend to spoil that labour with an ill-humoured discussion.” He sipped some coffee. “So, my one stipulation for the day is no probing questions or revealing of secrets until nightfall. For we are to sojourn.”
“We are?” Who was this creature and what had he done with the duke?
“The Art Academy is staging their annual exhibition at Somerset House and I’ve not had a chance to visit. I am patron of various artists that are being shown and thought it would be…pleasant for us both to attend.”
He must have buried the real duke in the garden under the pear tree, and she ought to prod his body to check it was solid but that may have consequences.
Closely following that delicious thought was how considerate and wonderful, followed even closer by whether anyone of the artistic fraternity would recognise her at the exhibition.
