Page 118 of Courting the Wrong Duke

It did not explain why his smile pleased her. Nor why she had spent part of the carriage ride wondering whether he would look better than he had that morning.

He did.

That was unfortunate.

“Rosalind?”

She looked up to discover the dowager watching her expectantly while William appeared to be making a valiant effort not to smile.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked whether you would like to see the house.”

“Yes, of course. I would be delighted.”

William began to rise, but his mother waved him back into his chair. “You may survive without Lady Rosalind for twenty minutes.”

“I was not aware my survival was in question.”

“I have raised you. It frequently is.”

Rosalind laughed as the dowager slipped an arm through hers and led her away.

The tour proved considerably less formal than she expected. Rather than reciting dates or the history of every painting they passed, the dowager supplied stories about the family who had lived there: the window William had broken with a cricket ball, the sitting room Algernon had once attempted to forbid his younger brother from entering, and the alcove where both boys had hidden from an especially tiresome tutor.

It was strangely intimate, being shown the memories contained within the house rather than merely the house itself.

Eventually they reached the portrait gallery, where the late duke’s likeness brought Rosalind to a halt.

She had seen it before, though never with the knowledge she carried now. William had inherited something of his father’s eyes and expression, while Algernon bore the stronger resemblance. Looking at him, Rosalind found it difficult to reconcile the cruel father Algernon remembered with the gentler man William had loved.

“My husband was a difficult man,” the dowager said quietly.

Rosalind did not offer an easy reassurance. After what William had confided, one would have felt inadequate.

“There were good years. Good moments too. I would not wish to pretend otherwise simply because there were painful ones.” The dowager studied the portrait. “Marriage teaches one that people are rarely only one thing.”

It seemed to Rosalind that William had come to much the same realization only hours ago. The father he had loved and the father Algernon had feared were not separate men, however difficult that truth might be to accept. Neither version erased the other.

Before Rosalind could answer, the butler approached.

“Your Grace, Lady Whitcombe has arrived.”

The dowager blinked. “Lady Whitcombe?”

“For your game this afternoon.”

“Oh, heavens. I had entirely forgotten.” She pressed Rosalind’s hand apologetically. “We play cards every Wednesday, and she will never forgive me if I leave her sitting alone.”

“Please do not concern yourself.”

“Go through the conservatory and into the gardens. I shall join you as soon as I can escape.”

Rosalind assured her there was no need to hurry and continued alone.

She had nearly reached the conservatory when the faint sound of someone crying drew her attention to a half-open door farther along the corridor.

Augusta sat beside the window, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.