Page 120 of Courting the Wrong Duke

He finally closed the book and rose.

His mother had mentioned taking Rosalind into the gardens after the tour. Enough time had certainly passed that he could join them without appearing to have spent the last half hour waiting impatiently for precisely that opportunity.

Rather than take the main staircase down, William found himself turning toward the smaller gallery on the upper floor.

He often went there when the house felt too crowded or his thoughts too loud.

The narrow room received afternoon light from a row of western windows, and unlike the grand portrait gallery below, it contained landscapes, sketches, and small watercolors collected over generations. No ancestors stared accusingly from gilded frames. No one expected anything of him there.

Today, however, he was not alone.

Rosalind stood before the far wall.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, surprise widening her eyes.

“Lord William.”

He stopped just inside the doorway. “Lady Rosalind.”

For a moment they simply stared at one another.

The doors behind him remained open, and the distant movement of servants carried faintly through the corridor, but the gallery itself felt strangely removed from the rest of the house.

“I hope I am not somewhere I ought not to be,” Rosalind said. “Your mother showed me much of the house before Lady Whitcombe arrived, and afterward I wandered farther than I intended.”

“You are perfectly welcome here.”

Her expression eased. “Good. Though I was rather surprised when I found this.”

William followed her gaze.

The painting hung upon the wall before them, the rolling countryside and broad peach-gold sky immediately familiar.

Rosalind looked back at him. “I thought your brother donated it to the exhibition.”

“He did.”

“Then what is it doing here?”

William suddenly felt rather more self-conscious than the question warranted. “I asked for it back.”

Her brows lifted. “You did?”

“Before the exhibition ended.”

“Why?”

He crossed the remaining distance and stopped beside her, turning his attention toward the painting rather than immediately answering.

It had seemed a perfectly reasonable decision at the time.

His mother loved the piece. Algernon had no particular attachment to it, and after hearing Rosalind explain what she saw in that solitary traveler and endless afternoon sky, William had found himself thinking about the painting rather more often than a man ought to think about a landscape.

So he had sent word asking that it be returned.

He had not examined too closely why he had been unwilling to let it go.

“My mother has always loved it,” he said. “I suppose after our conversation at the exhibition, I finally understood why.”