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“Good evening, Mr. Coburn.” Felicity descended the last flight. “I am sorry to hear you are unwell.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.” He glared at Shaddock, who beat a hasty retreat. “It is nothing to speak of, Your Grace.”
What could they all be thinking, addressing her as such? “Mr. Coburn, I do not bear that title.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” He bowed with several odd jerks to his head, which set the folds of flesh beneath his chin to wobbling, then lead the way down another corridor. This was lighter in aspect but was as timeworn as the rest of the house. While the walls were not paneled in heavy wood, they were hung with fabrics in desperate need of a dusting or a disposal. Another painting caught her eye. “Mr. Coburn?” He turned, and seeing where she had stopped, blanched. “Are these wolfhounds?”
“They are, ma’am,” Mr. Coburn replied. Like Shaddock, his brow erupted in dew. “Of a sort.”
“I see.” She blinked as if to draw the image into focus. “And are they playing piquet?”
“Eh.” The butler gestured, then hopped several steps down the hall. “The Duke of Lowell has whimsical ancestors. Please, if you would follow me to the Bassett Room, Your Gr—ma’am?”
Felicity followed him to a spacious drawing room. A large, Brussels weave carpet spread across the floor, and a carved white marble fireplace glittered in the candlelight. While the tones in the room tended toward brown and beige, the drapes were a rich, cream velvet. From the doorway, she saw that the duke was already standing, dither it. She fussed with her gloves and smoothed the sash at her waist. A surge of nerves made her fingers tremble and her palms dampen in her gloves. What was she doing, going down to dinner as though she were merely paying a visit? What was she doing, wearing a gown that revealed her shape for all to see?
“May I say, ma’am, that you are a vision.” Coburn bowed in that jerky way of his.
“You are most kind, Mr. Coburn,” Felicity replied. Her nerves settled, and she smiled at him; he blushed a painful-looking scarlet.
Coburn entered the drawing room and cleared his throat. “Her Gr—Her Ladysh—”
“Miss Templeton will do, Mr. Coburn,” she whispered.
“Madam,” he hissed. “I could never—it’s worth my life should I disrespect you in any way.”
The duke came toward them, and nothing in his manner demonstrated that he had remarked the change in her dress. He looked as magnificent as he had the night before, dressed for the meal in black evening clothes, and if it was possible, this evening’s Cravat achieved even greater Perfection. She curtsied, as she had in the mirror, to please herself alone, and as she rose, she noticed the butler was holding his head at that odd angle common to all in the Hall.
“I cannot help but observe, Mr. Coburn, that there is a stiffness to many of your movements,” Felicity said. “May I offer a receipt for a poultice to Mrs. Birks, on your behalf? I perceive that many in this house suffer from a similar complaint.”
“See to the drinks, Coburn,” the duke interrupted, leading her over to a scattering of chairs. A scattering, as it seemed each had been dragged from all corners of the room into proximity to the hearth. Added to this, none of them matched: at least three were inappropriate for a drawing room and looked better suited to the breakfast parlor. Bates and O’Mara waited, both dressed with the same degree of ceremony as was the duke.
Mr. Coburn offered her a tot of sherry. She took it and set it down straightaway. “I am afraid I do not imbibe,” she said. “Apart from a small glass of wine with dinner. I hope I do not offend.”
“No.” The duke gestured to a chair, an oversize affair that Felicity hoped she would not fall into and disappear. She perched on the edge.
“We, too, partake only at the meal, Miss Templeton,” said Bates.
She folded her hands in her lap. “Had you a pleasant day, Your Grace?”
“Pleasant?” Alfred asked, as if unfamiliar with the term.
“Busy, then? For I saw neither hide nor hair of you.” It sounded as though Bates muffled a laugh, and the duke’s eyes sparkled.
“Busy, yes. Estate business and such.” He had taken one of the spindly chairs, and it groaned as he sat back and crossed his arms. “Pack concerns.”
Pack? As in packing…for transport? Or parcels? Felicity shook her head, confused. Yet another inscrutable comment to ignore. “I am conversant with the workings of an estate, although Templeton House is nowhere near as vast as this. We were concerned with animal husbandry. Is this humorous, Mr. Bates?”
O’Mara intervened. “Mrs. Birks mentioned your wish to visit the stables to His Grace, ma’am.”
“They look very impressive,” Felicity said. “And also very far away.”
“You may make free with the cattle,” the duke said. “They are used primarily for work and get little chance to stretch their legs in a hack.”
“I would be delighted. And is there a specific reason that the yard is set so far from the house?”
“There is a reason,” the duke replied. “It is specific.” No further explanation was forthcoming.
Silence reigned. Once again, the onus of conversation fell onto her shoulders. The duke was sitting there, sending said shoulders smoldering glances. This made up in some small way for his lack of rapture when she entered the room. It was as thrilling as it was unnerving.
