“Your Grace,” Lady Mary said.
“Duke,” Rosalind said boldly. She had been determined to try it, to tiptoe her way from Your Grace to Duke to the day when she would call him Conbatten.
He raised a brow but did not comment upon it, which she must take as approval of the idea.
Lady Mary had raised a brow too, though her raised brow did not seem as approving.
Miss Mayton said, “Your Grace, you will be pleased to know that you are not nearly as frequent a topic of conversation that you were last year. In the servants’ quarters, you understand. The maids were wild over you, if you will recall.”
Conbatten regarded the lady. Of course Rosalind could see that he did recall that Miss Mayton had informed him that the lady’s maids were admiring of his person.
“I suppose I ought to be downcast to hear it,” he said, “though I find myself rather sanguine to discover that I have made a departure from their thoughts.”
“It is Bess, you see,” Miss Mayton said. “They are quite taken with her and all thought of you has flown from their heads.”
“The dog I told you about, Duke,” Lady Rosalind said. “The one we rescued during our travels. She is lovely.”
“I am replaced by a stray cur found by the roadside,” the duke said. “That is somehow fitting.”
Lady Mary sported a rather wrinkled brow over the exchange.
Rosalind instantly perceived that the lady could not follow their conversation, as it referenced a prior conversation between herself and the duke.
“You see, Lady Mary,” she said to clarify, “as we traveled from Somerset we encountered a lovely little dog in terrible straits and took her into our carriage straightaway.”
“I see,” Lady Mary said, not looking nearly as interested in hearing more about Bess as anybody might expect.
“That reminds me, Rosalind,” Miss Mayton said, “of who else we encountered on our travels.”
“Oh yes, we met a very pleasant French lady,” Rosalind said. “Madame Tussaud. She makes wax figures.”
“We are going to the Lyceum on Tuesday to see her exhibit,” Miss Mayton said. “She will be delighted to see us, I expect. After all, a fellow Parisian was once desperately in love with me.”
“Poor Phillipe,” Rosalind said, shaking her head. “He thought his love was unrequited and hung himself in his garret. He did leave a lovely note, though.”
“As only the French can,” Miss Mayton said.
Lady Mary’s brows had come together and met each other atop her nose. “In any case,” she said, “Lady Hightower is always so kind to host a musical evening. There is nothing I like so well as playing the pianoforte.”
“Are you rather good, then?” Rosalind asked.
“Well, I…” Lady Mary stuttered.
“Oh, I see,” Rosalind said. “You do not like to ring your own bell. You must be very good indeed!”
“Do you suppose everybody who will play this evening is rather good?” Miss Mayton asked.
“Well, I am sure they must be,” Lady Mary said.
“And you, Lady Rosalind?” Conbatten asked. “Do you dare to ring your own bell?”
She smiled. Of course he would wish to know what he might expect when they spent a cozy night in. Did he picture her in his drawing room, elegantly playing for him?
“I only lay claim to originality,” she said. “I think I might, as I have been told it often enough.”
“You see, Your Grace,” her aunt said, “Rosalind does not become tied down to notes on a sheet. Her feelings guide her music.”
The duke seemed surprised to hear it. She supposed he would be—so many people took the notes on the sheet as a veritable bible, never to be trifled with. But then, the Bennington line had been gifted with a boldness of spirit that would not be so hemmed in. And also, she had never learned to read sheet music, on account of her various run-ins with their dour music master.
