Page 38 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“How very in demand you are. It is being hosted by the Peacheys.”

“Oh, Good Lord.”

“Their daughter is getting married. The ball is in celebration of the couple.”

He paused once they were further away. The sun cast its golden light on him. It struck her how handsome he was, undone like this. “Should we attend?” he asked lightly.

“We could redeem ourselves,” she joked.

“Sensible.” A silence fell that was not entirely comfortable, and he broke it before she expected him to. “And how did you find your visit to Mr. Sinclair?”

“Pleasant, but I got a megrim.”

“Not from the man?”

“From the sun,” she quipped in return. “We are getting on well, if that is what you are wondering about. He has taken up painting again, in fact. He has built himself a studio.”

“How industrious of him.”

She did not offer anything further. It was not dishonesty exactly to say nothing more, only a private wish to leave Mr. Sinclair some small corner of himself that belonged to no one’s gossip—at least not until she had answers about his female visitor.

Gabriel’s jaw ticked, though his expression otherwise remained perfectly composed. “But yes, I am glad to hear it is progressing so well.”

“You say that, and yet...”

“What?”

She looked at the horizon. “Do you wish it were progressing faster?”

“Have I given you that impression?”

“You must answer my question first.”

“Ah. You would instruct me in manners as well as botany.”

“And hygiene, perhaps.” She tilted her chin at the dirt on his shirt and vest. “Though I suppose it’s rather a romantic sight, like in the stories.”

“You must read some funny stories—when you are not reading Shakespeare.”

“I never did thank you for that intervention at the musicale.”

He smiled, and it lit up his whole face, making him look younger. They were saved from whatever foolish remark might have come next by a footman, who called for his master from a proper distance away.

“Your Grace. Mr. Ashcroft has arrived and asks urgently for a moment of your time.”

Something shuttered behind Gabriel’s face. “The cousin, Mr. Ashcroft?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He is waiting in the entrance.”

Gabriel licked his lips. “Well then, show him to the study. I will be along directly.” He glanced at Rosalie. “Family business. I shan’t be long. Go and find your father.”

He excused himself toward the house, and Rosalie found herself drifting after him at a distance. She was not deliberately shadowing him, only wandering in the general direction of the house as he had directed her. It was hardly her fault that the doors to his study were on the way, and that they were ajar when she arrived.

You are eavesdropping for the second time today on conversations that don’t concern you, she scolded herself, leaning against the wall and inching closer, her hands running along the molding midway down. Your good breeding went all out of you the moment you kissed the duke. Now with these raised voices...

“I have only until April’s end, Your Grace. I swear it on my life. Margaret is unwell, and the physician’s bills alone have already run us nearly to ruin. These laws, and the grain... We are bleeding more money than can be brought in.”

“But you asked the same of me in December, Peter, when I went up to Cambridge for Christmas.” Gabriel’s voice, when it came, was quiet but carried weight.