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Kenver smiled at her. “Don’t the old stories say that time runs differently inside faery mounds?”
“Centuries passing like weeks?” Sarah replied.
“And the wanderer comes out to find everything changed.” Kenver’s hazel eyes gleamed, as if he shared her wish for a brush with magic.
“So he could be an ancient wizard!”
“Who moves into a derelict house and plants a vegetable garden?” asked the duke.
His wife smiled. “Where is your love of the fantastic?”
“Overwhelmed by the mare’s nest Uncle Percival left behind.” He looked across at Sarah and Kenver. “The previous duke created more chaos than I could ever have imagined.”
“An odd sort of legacy,” said Kenver.
“Indeed.”
“We will find a place for Merlin,” said the duchess. “Some employment perhaps.”
“Enchanting the cabbages?” the duke murmured.
“I might be able to help,” said Kenver. “I know the people hereabouts.”
Cecelia gave him an approving nod, and Sarah glowed at this additional evidence of his kindness. Sitting next to him in the carriage, their legs pressing together when the vehicle hit a bump in the lane, she could think of nothing but his kisses. Surely there was a way to make theirs a proper marriage? Poldene had many rooms. If they just insisted on having their own—together. But Lady Trestan turned the least hint of opposition into war. And she was ruthlessly good at it, sharp as a swarm of stinging wasps. With years ahead of them in the same household—Sarah suppressed a shudder—it was best to move carefully. Assuming she didn’t go mad in the process.
The conversation shifted to estate management. Kenver showed his sure grasp of the topic, and Sarah watched him and Cecelia impress each other with their ideas. The duke seemed to enjoy the spectacle as well.
Kenver was summoned by his father when they returned to Poldene. Sarah retreated to her room. The duke and duchess went arm in arm to their own quarters. “Do you intend to keep feeding that trespasser?” he asked her when they reached their suite.
“Did you see how thin he is?”
“Yes.”
“So you can’t object…”
“I am not objecting, Cecelia. I simply like to know what’s in your mind.” He drew her to the small settee before the fireplace and pulled her down beside him. “It seems we are in for another tedious visit.”
“Isn’t that what you always do in the summer? Make country visits? When you are not in Brighton, of course.”
“I went to house parties where the hostess took care to gather lively, interesting people. And to arrange all sorts of original entertainments to keep us busy. It was rather a competition.”
“It sounds as if they spoiled you.”
“That was the point.”
“I never went to any of those,” Cecelia said.
He looked surprised. “Surely you were invited?”
“Papa may have been. I suppose? He would have refused. Aunt Valeria? No, I don’t think so.”
“Since she makes no bones about despising society. And pretends to be deaf.”
Cecelia nodded. “Neither of them would be interested in house parties certainly.”
“So you were trapped in London all summer? I didn’t notice. I beg your pardon.”
“I wasn’t ‘trapped.’ I remained in our comfortable house. And there was always a great deal to do.”
