Page 22 of The Duchess Games

“You didn’t. I’m merely waiting for the traffic outside my bedroom door to disperse,” he replied drily. “Do come in.”

It was monstrously improper.

Of course, she stepped inside.

There were advantages to not being part of the ton, to never being on the Marriage Mart. To being a spinster.

The library had dark Tudor beams and crooked floors, but they were covered with lush carpets. The fireplace mantlepiece was flanked by marble knights. “It did seem a bit… lively upstairs. Are house parties always like that?”

He snorted. “Yes. Although I have never feared someone might actually camp out and sleep in the hall outside my chamber before. Lady Siddal is… determined.”

“Are they all waiting for you then?” Cat asked curiously.

“A compromising situation is more permanent than these games of my mother.”

She made a face. “I should not like to spend my life with someone who had to be tricked into it.” Although she imagined the power and wealth due to a duchess was compensation enough for many, especially when options were scarce on the ground. That she could understand perfectly well.

“They are mirrors,” he said. Something about a dark quiet room in the middle of the night invited confidences. “They are displeased when I am displeased. They sigh when I sigh, laugh when I laugh. As do their brothers. And their fathers. It’s exhausting.”

“I promise not to laugh unless you say something very funny.”

“Your kindness is noted.”

She grinned, she couldn’t help it. “If you don’t want to be treated like a duke you should probably stop sounding so very duke-like. Do you remember how to laugh, Callu—Your Grace?”

“I know how to do a great many things,” he intoned, and she fancied he might be teasing her. Just a little. “I have had tutors since I was in leading strings. I have had lessons in horseback riding, dancing, Latin, medieval art.”

“That sounds useful,” she snorted. “No wonder it’s driving you to drink.” She nodded to the glass on the table. The candlelight sparkled through dark amber liquid. She sniffed. “But driving you to drink brandy? That I would never have guessed.”

“Don’t tell Armstrong,” he muttered.

“Is he the new revenue man?” She had not met him but she knew he was in the house, a guest who could unravel her whole life.

“It is. And I doubt he’d look kindly on my contraband.”

He’d look on a duke’s contraband just fine. Cat’s, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether.

“People will insist on giving me gifts,” he grumbled.

“I did not bring you a single thing,” she told him cheerfully. In fact, she meant to take something from him instead.

“Good.”

She knew he would not think that for long. She should go to bed right now, before the soft darkness of this library lulled her into a very false sense of security.

“Why are people giving you illegal brandy?” she asked instead. “That seems… out of character.”

“So that I might remember them,” he sighed. “And since I can afford the taxes on liquor, they want to prove they are resourceful or interesting or some such rot.”

And he hated it. That much she could see.

But self-pity was only good for giving you a sour belly, as her mother had often said.

“Poor you,” Cat dropped into the chair beside him without an invitation. He still looked sad; it was there in his eyes, in the tired set of his mouth. “I suppose a friend would help you with your troubles.”

She snatched up his glass and tossed back a large mouthful. He was so startled that he forgot to look sad, for just that moment. Cat cleared her throat which was currently on fire. And not in a pleasurable way. “That is terrible brandy,” she accused.

Callum’s mouth twitched. “Unfortunately, it is.”