Page 98 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

Jessamine whisked into the garden, where perfectly starched, impossibly white linen tablecloths were being spread across tables. Footmen carried platters of cold meats and cheeses and bread to the table, and Jessamine’s stomach rumbled at the sight.

Later, she told herself.

Recently, she had become increasingly peckish. Andrew, when he noticed, had been assiduous in his attentions, and the poor kitchen staff was probably rushed off their feet with her newfound cravings. Once, she had craved goat’s cheese so badly, a boy had been sent off in the middle of the night in the hopes some other household might have some for her.

At the memory, she chuckled.

“What do you think, Your Grace?” the butler, Foxwell, asked, coming to stand beside her.

It had taken time to soften him, but somehow she’d managed it. Perhaps it was her dedication to William. Old retainers were hard to come by, and he had served the family well.

Either way, they had formed a special sort of bond over the past few months, united in their goal of encouraging Andrew to take a little more enjoyment in the usual Society events.

One day, Jessamine was certain, they would succeed. For now, he grumbled, he delayed, he rolled his eyes, but he came and stood on the fringes, smiling as he watched Jessamine.

It was a beginning.

“I think it’s wonderful,” she said honestly, looking over the arrangements for the garden party.

The musicians had arrived and were standing in the shade of a pavilion, tuning their instruments. Andrew might not have had a privileged life in many ways, but he was truly privileged now.

Strange to think she had come so far, from the very depths of the Scottish Highlands to here, in one of London’s grandest homes.

“We are determined to ensure everything is to Your Grace’s tastes,” Foxwell said stiffly.

Jessamine patted his arm. “And you have always done a wonderful job. Where’s His Grace?”

“I believe he’s in the study. Preparing.” Foxwell gave Jessamine a significant glance.

They both sighed, but Jessamine’s sigh was affectionate rather than exasperated. Much as she loved her newfound status in London, especially now even the unfriendliest gossips had accepted her as one of their own, Andrew still prized his alone time.

“The guests will arrive soon,” Jessamine said. “I’ll fetch him.”

“Allow me,” Foxwell said.

“Really,” Jessamine said, stopping him with a grin. “Do you think me incapable of walking through a few rooms? I promise you I will not struggle to find him.”

Then, before Foxwell with all his care, could prevent her, she danced away.

Just as Foxwell had said, Andrew was in his study, fingers steepled as he examined papers on his desk.

At her entrance, he glanced up, and his face softened into a smile. “Mina. What are you doing?”

“Coming to collect you.” She perched on his knee. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing to interest you. Just some letters from tenant farmers.”

“Ah.” Jessamine curled her foot up his leg, rubbing his calf. “And you would rather be doing this than engaging with the garden party?”

His arm slid around her waist. “Why would I worry about it when my capable wife has everything under control? My tenants deserve timely replies.”

“And there is no other time to be doing it?”

“Mm.” He pressed a kiss to her neck, pretending to think, as though he was playing for time, though she knew he wasn’t. Just as he knew they would, shivers ran down her spine. “And what if I lost track of time and didn’t have to make polite conversation? What a shame that would be.”

“They are our friends.”

“And I like them very much, in small doses.”