“Shouldn’t you put a stop to it?” It seemed appropriate to whisper in his ear, too, but Diana instantly regretted it because it felt too intimate when only mere inches separated them and he smelled divine.
She could sense his smile against her hair. “I should. And I had every intention of doing so—but it is just too entertaining.” He straightened, transforming into a commanding creature she had never seen before. One who looked every splendid inch the Duke of Harpenden as he glared at his warring servants with haughty disdain. “Are you aware that you are neglecting my guests?”
Dalton and Mrs. Townsend scurried away like ants to do his bidding, glaring at each other as they did.
“You are incorrigible.” But Diana couldn’t help laughing.
“I am—but this week has been light on levity.” The duke dissolved and Giles returned to stare pointedly at her closed fist. “It has also been light on gifts, so hand yours over this instant.” He held out his palm.
She passed him the clipping ofThe Tribune, making sure her fingers made absolutely no contact with his, for safety’s sake. “I thought you might wish to read last Saturday’s gossip column seeing as you missed it.”
She waited while he scanned it until Giles smiled, obviously touched at the piece she had written for Dahlia’s benefit but slaved over for hours for his sake.
“Tell her she brought the sunshine to my twilight.”
The intensity of his gaze unnerved her and made Diana self-conscious about writing something so romantic when she prided herself on not possessing a single sentimental bone in her body.
She shrugged, irritated that her cheeks had begun to heat. “Icouldn’t imagine the duke waxing lyrical about love, so I told the writer to make it short and sweet but believable.” A brief interlude with the duke clutching the lapels of a trusted servant, knowing he was about to die and giving one final redeeming instruction before he went with a bittersweet smile on his face. “I think they did a good job.”
“The writer?” He wasn’t fooled for a second. “Then kindly tellthe writerit is perfect. Thank you.”
Lost in his gaze and before she had the presence of mind to step away, he reached for her hand, laced his fingers with hers, and she felt the soft kiss he bestowed upon them everywhere.
Chapter Ten
An hour ago, at a little past midnight, gathering every box, ledger, letter, folio, and scroll into the center of the disorganized estate office at the back of the house had seemed like the most sensible way of tackling it. Now, as he stared at the utter chaos scattered around him, Giles sincerely wished he had been more methodical. But he had been angry. In a foul mood that not even Diana’s or Hugh’s presence could shift, he had suppressed it during dinner and that somehow made it worse now. Clearly, alongside everything else, he was more unsettled by the looming funeral on the morrow than he had realized, and still uneasy about riding out and dismissing Mr. Bryant, the steward, on his own doorstep when the snake had failed for the second day in a row to make an appearance at the house.
He wasn’t so much unsettled because the bully hadn’t had it coming, or even because Bryant hadn’t had any helpful answers to his questions of the past, but more because being so ruthless and curt did not come easily to Giles. He had always worked hard to be different from the duke in the way he treated those who worked for him, choosing understanding and benevolence rather than wielding his power like an executioner’s ax. Especially an employee who had served Harpenden for such a long time.
For the entirety of Giles’s life, the duke’s staff had changed with more frequency than the king’s guard. Aside from Carruthers, only Bryant and Agatha, the duchess’s former lady’s maid, had lasted longer than a decade, and even Agatha and her fifteen years of loyal service had been sent packing within hours of her mistress’s death. On that particular day, he had been too busy reeling from the news of his parentage to give poor Agatha much thought. But he had thought of her quite often in the four years since and worried about what had become of her. He would not give Bryant the same consideration. The man could rot in hell with the duke as far as he was concerned. Which was all well and good on a moral front, but on the practical it left him steward-less and drowning in a sea of papers he had to digest and understand fast in order to take full charge of the reins. Yet thanks to his need to blow off steam in private, what had been disorganized clutter was now a homogeneous mess and he had no earthly clue where to start.
But start he must, not just for the sake of Harpenden’s abused tenants but also to search for the truth of his past, so he bent for one of the rent books that had been tossed on a pile in a large wooden chest and flicked through it. Like the state of this office, there was no rhyme or reason to the contents, which were more a hastily scribbled set of jottings than an actual account of a tenant’s hard-earned rent. Apparently, as in everything he touched, the steward’s definition of record keeping left a lot to be desired. Finding the answers he sought in this shambles would be nigh on impossible.
Disgusted, Giles threw the useless notebook across the roomand growled, then for good measure kicked the chest as well, imagining it was Bryant’s slithering viper’s head.
“What on earth are you doing?” He spun around at her amused voice, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her leaning, arms crossed against the doorframe as if she had been there for quite some time.
“Trying to understand how the estate has been run this past decade.” A blatant lie when he knew the answer to that already. Badly.
“At half past two in the morning? You should be in bed, Giles. You have a tough day tomorrow.”
Despite her concern, Diana clearly hadn’t been to bed, either. Still fully dressed in the formfitting long-sleeved burgundy gown she had worn at dinner, she had a casual, rumpled, languid look about her that was very becoming. Poking beneath her hem were bedroom slippers rather than shoes; feminine, embroidered silk confections that would have been at odds with her no-nonsense character if he hadn’t known she had a particular penchant for fine things. Her hair was unbound. He had never seen her hair down before, and it fell almost to her waist. Wayward dark tendrils flecked with copper framed her face and shimmered in the lamplight, begging to be touched.
“So should you.” His words came out croaky, but he didn’t dare clear his throat in case she realized it was strangled because of her. “If anyone needs the benefit of some beauty sleep, it is you.”
“You need significantly more beauty sleep than me. Although, to be frank, even if you slept for a week you’d still look a fright.” It was a blunt barb, said with little enthusiasm, and she smiled as she sighed it away. “I knew I wouldn’t sleep straightaway, so didn’tbother. I never can on the first night in a strange bed—no matter how comfortable and grand the bed is. And mine is so grand it needs steps to get into it and has a curtained canopy sprouting ostrich plumes.”
He had put her in the old-fashioned Queen’s Room on purpose because he knew its grandiose ridiculousness would amuse her. The green theme also matched her eyes—not that that had a bearing on his choice. Not that he would admit to, at any rate.
“I’ll have you know ostrich plumes were de rigueur in olden times. No self-respecting lady-of-the-manor would dare sleep under anything not sprouting feathers.” What the blazes had made him say “lady-of-the-manor”? Especially as this manor was his and he certainly couldn’t risk it having a lady. Not without ruining the poor thing’s life.
“What do the lords-of-the-manor sleep under?”
“Bearskin, of course, or wolfskin or even lion skin if they traveled. Something ferocious that they wrestled into submission with their manly bare hands.”
“Complete with their heads, fangs, and dull, staring glass eyes, I suppose? Very restful.” She pushed herself from the frame and walked toward him, the soft wool of her dress molding to her curves and her long, shapely legs like a second skin, as if she had discarded the petticoats and stays that usually went beneath exactly as she had her hairpins. The unwanted image sent a bolt of lust directly to his groin. “Which of those terrifying beasts did you wrestle to their deaths?”
“Giles Sinclair is a lover not a fighter.” What the blazes had made him say that? And why were his features attempting to smolder as he said it?
