Page 61 of Duke of Sapphire

Mr. Gedge stopped at a respectful distance. “Your Grace.” He looked at Henry, then at Charlotte, then—very correctly—back at Henry. “I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

“What is it, Gedge?” Henry said.

Mr. Gedge drew himself up. “Lord Ashford is here, Your Grace. He is asking to see Her Grace.”

CHAPTER 17

“The Earl is not pleased, Your Grace,” Mr. Gedge said. “He made that quite clear at the door.”

Charlotte went white.

Not pale. Not startled. White, the way a person goes when something cold moves all the way through them. Her hands were still at her sides and she had not moved, but Henry saw it—the way the color left her face in one clean sweep, the way her chin came up a fraction, which was what she did when she was frightened and did not want anyone to know.

He looked at her. She was standing four feet from him in his own garden, with Ian’s abandoned rabbit chase still in the air and the elm throwing afternoon shadow across the path, and she was frightened of a man who no longer had any legal authority over her at all.

Henry turned back to Mr. Gedge. “Where have you put him?”

“The blue sitting room, Your Grace. He declined refreshment.”

“I’ll be in directly.” Henry waited until Mr. Gedge had retreated up the path, then turned to Charlotte. “Stay here.”

She looked at him.

“You and Ian,” he said. “Stay in the garden. I will see your father.”

“That is very kind of you,” Charlotte said. “And no.”

“Charlotte—”

“No.” She smoothed the front of her dress, which did not need smoothing. “I am going to see my father.”

“You do not have to.”

“I am aware of that.” She met his gaze. “I want to.”

“Why?”

“I want to prove that I am stronger than he assumes.” She said it plainly, without apology. “There is a difference.”

Henry looked at her for one moment. Her chin was set. Her color was still not back, but her eyes were steady, and he recognized that expression. It was the one she had worn at the coaching inn when she had straightened off the bench with a sprained ankle and refused assistance. The one she had worn in the Scottish library when she had stood up and told him exactly what she thought of his proposal.

She was going in regardless of what he said.

“Fine,” Henry said. “But you let me know when you have had enough.”

Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“When you want him gone. You look at me. That’s all. One look.”

She opened her mouth. She closed it. Then: “That is very—" She stopped again.

“Efficient,” Henry offered.

“I was going to say organized.”

“Both, in this case.”

Ian appeared at the end of the garden path, slightly muddy from the rose bed, the soldier back in his hand. He looked between them with the evaluating attention of a child who had returned to find the adults doing something he had not been briefed on.