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“Good day, Mr. Stone.” She glanced at the bandage on his hand. “How are you faring this morning? I hope you were able to get some sleep and that the pain wasn’t terribly unbearable.”
The only thing that pains me is my cock when I’m around you. “Not at all. I hardly even noticed it, thanks to your gentle care.”
She smiled, and suddenly the day turned even brighter, even though a glance out the window showed a rather dreary day, along with the threat of more snow. But then, that could work in his favor, for it would take the ‘heir’ even longer to arrive.
As they took the same seats from the evening prior, with Lady Olivia at the head of the table, Miles decided that the place of honor suited her. He had never met a lady more prepared to take on an entire household. While he had yet to discern if she was able to organize a society ball with the flair of a duchess, he knew the servants were as loyal to her as she was to this estate.
They ate in silence for a time, and then Olivia wiped her mouth with her serviette, which Miles found oddly erotic. But then, perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t fully erase that devastating kiss from his mind. “I thought perhaps we might start with the portrait gallery this morning. After all, it would be an ideal place to witness how far back the Marlington line hails, along with my attachment and pride that goes along with it.”
Miles swallowed heavily. “Of course,” he murmured, trying to act as though the idea didn’t turn his stomach. But then, considering his reluctance to go anywhere near his stern-faced, Gravesend ancestors, it wasn’t surprising that he expected these men to be the same.
He would soon find out how wrong he was.
Once breakfast was concluded, he followed Olivia to the second floor and down the opposite wing as the library. He had to wonder if that was done intentionally, so that the interlude wouldn’t only be repeated, but dismissed altogether.
She opened another set of heavy, mahogany doors that led to a rather cheery room. The paintings of former dukes lining the halls at his estate in Royal Tunbridge Wells were done in shades of dark purple with hunting scenes in gilt edged frames, as if to boast of their power, wealth, and ties to the Crown. As a child he had always thought it rather intimidating.
However, this gallery was fashioned in a light blue color scheme with touches of silver that offered a more engaging experience. The men in these portraits looked somber, but they lacked that hard edge to their expressions he was accustomed to. Most were seated with their wives and children, and even had their hand on the head of a cherished dog or two. “Incredible,” he breathed.
“Isn’t it?” she agreed, not knowing the depth with which he was making the comparison to his Gravesend ancestors. “My father adored this gallery, for he said many honorable generations graced these walls, some of which date as far back as the Tudor period.”
He slowly meandered about the room and read each name plate, and even tried to see some sort of resemblance between his appearance and these ancestors. Although his connection to the Marlington line wasn’t as prominent as the previous duke’s had been, as Miles was only a distant cousin who just happened to be the only male issue that was left to inherit, the Bevelstroke surname was sadly, already dead and buried.
He dared to allow himself to admire Lady Olivia as she slowly strode from one portrait to another. It was apparent that she held a lot of respect for people she didn’t know. But she had been taught to regard them highly—something that Miles had never considered when it came to the Gravesend dukes. He had been taught the same, but he had always scorned the dour-faced men in their outdated fashions, never fully understanding what it meant to come from such a long list of ancestors.
It was certainly humbling.
As well as just one more reason Lady Olivia fascinated him.
* * *
“These are my favorite.”Olivia paused before a painting of her father. At least, the first of three that hung side-by-side.
The first showcased Isadora’s mother sitting in a chair and holding a baby dressed in white, as the duke stood proudly beside the chair. The second was of Araminta as a toddler sitting on her mother’s lap, while Isadora stood opposite her father. The third had both girls standing in front of their father while a pale woman held a baby in her arms.
But that was where they ended.
Since Olivia’s mother had died on the birthing bed, she hadn’t had the opportunity to have a portrait like her sisters, although the last portrait that hung on the wall showed the duke with all four of his daughters. Olivia remembered that experience all too well. She was only five at the time, so standing still for hours upon end when she wanted to play was not very acceptable to her. She recalled Minty, and their governess, scolding her more than once for fidgeting. The artist had depicted the curly, blond-haired girl and her unhappiness at being there quite perfectly.
“I daresay that sour expression doesn’t appeal to you, Lady Olivia.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “I was not pleased at all.”
“Indeed. I can tell.” She saw his lips twitch. “But you were still quite adorable.”
She turned back to the portrait. “That’s what my father always said,” she returned softly.
“Then you know it must be true,” he rasped.
“I miss him.”
She exhaled heavily. She hadn’t meant to speak so candidly, but Araminta had always told her that she wasn’t very good at concealing her emotions. She supposed when it came to her father, she was too struck by melancholy to even try to hide it.
“Losing someone you care about is never easy,” he murmured from beside her. “I know that feeling and it’s as if your chest is being torn in two, as if you can’t draw a full breath for fear that you will shatter completely.”
Olivia stilled but didn’t dare say anything. Last night, she could tell that his heart had been broken, but he had instantly closed himself off to the subject. Now, to hear him confirm it, there was a rather strange, fluttering sensation in her breast.
“Perhaps we should continue the tour,” she suggested.
