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21
After wandering about the gardens for the better part of an hour, her only company the frogs chirping in Granby’s pond, Romy made her way silently through the same side door she’d used earlier in the week. She didn’t want to run into any of the other guests.
The lights had been dimmed and the hallways mostly deserted as the staff busied themselves at the ball. The small army of servants, headed by Owens, would want to make an impression on their future duchess.
Her heart constricted painfully.
All she’d done was tell a gentleman the length of his coat was incorrect. A good deed, of sorts. And look where it had gotten her. She couldn’t wait to return to London and pick up the threads of her life. Designing dozens of new wardrobes would certainly push Granby from her thoughts. She turned the corner to take the stairs and stopped.
There were no stairs.
“Bollocks.” She didn’t recognize this part of The Barrow and would have to find her way back, delaying her return to her room where she meant to eat a large tray of the tiny frosted cakes she’d been served at tea today. The ones with pink icing were her favorite.
The Barrow was a huge estate, much larger than Cherry Hill, and riddled with dozens of rooms and a warren of hallways. It was surprising she hadn’t gotten lost before now.
Light shone down one hall, and she moved toward it, thinking if the servants had lit the lamps, the corridor probably led to a main part of the house. Quickening her steps, Romy caught sight of dozens of portraits lining the walls. She was in the family’s portrait gallery, a section of The Barrow she’d passed on her way to dinner.
Sconces threw shadowy light against the walls as she made her way forward, pausing every few steps to peer at Granby’s ancestors.
He didn’t resemble any of them.
The severe looking gentleman with an earring dangling from one ear and a starched ruff around his neck had a full head of red hair. Next was an elderly woman sitting in a chair, an embroidery hoop dangling from her fingers, looking miserable. Two more paces and Romy stood before a large portrait of an ebony-haired woman in a field of wildflowers. The artist had been very good. Romy could even see a small bee sitting on a forget-me-not in the foreground of the painting. A pebble-strewn beach fell away to a bubbling stream.
Standing before her with a daisy held in one hand was a dark-haired toddler.
Granby.
Romy recognized the area immediately, though there was no footbridge behind the woman. It was the stream where Granby had first kissed her.
“My mother, Emelia.”
The deep rasp came from further down the corridor.
Startled, Romy stumbled backward, nearly falling on one of the benches lining the opposite wall.
A massive shadow caused the sconces to flicker before the darkness morphed into a tall, muscular form. Her heart fluttered softly in response to his appearance. Why wasn’t he in the ballroom, spinning Beatrice around or announcing her as his future duchess?
Instead, he was here. With her.
“Your Grace.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Granby’s voice was low and husky, curling around her waist like a wisp of smoke.
“My apologies, Your Grace, for disturbing you. I took some air in the garden and then—”
“Stay, lovely Andromeda.” The words shivered against her skin, holding Romy firmly in place. Granby had discarded bits of his formal wear. The cravat was gone from his neck, the buttons at the top of his shirt undone, exposing the hollow of his throat.
Romy found it difficult to look away from the small triangle of skin. Dark hair sprouted from the spot, which made her consider what the rest of Granby looked like without his shirt.
Warmth shivered across her stomach, pausing to caress her thighs.
The errant bit of ebony hair, the piece that was far too long, fell into its usual place over his left eye, but he made no move to push it away. Light bathed his savagely cut features, creating delicious hollows around his cheeks and jaw. The dark eyes shone with sadness, all signs of his earlier playfulness gone as he brought the glass of amber liquid he carried to his lips.
He resembled nothing so much as a dark, wounded angel, drinking scotch and haunting the dim corners of The Barrow.
“She ran away with her lover.” A wealth of pain tinged the words as he looked at the painting. “Leaving me to be raised by him.” Granby waved his glass at the portrait of a man with a head of honey-colored curls and blue eyes. He would be considered handsome if not for the cruel sneer decorating his lips. “Thisprickis my father. Horace Warburton, Duke of Granby.”
The vulgarity didn’t shock Romy; she’d heard far worse from her brothers. It was the vehemence coloring Granby’s words. She’d been under the assumption Granby esteemed his late father. She hesitated. “I thought you bore your father a great deal of affection.”
