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“My goodness,” Amelia said. “That’s aterribleway to become a duke.”
He nodded. “It was. But that’s generally the way these things work, isn’t it? We’re all players on a chessboard—someone dies, and you advance.”
“It sounds positively medieval when you put it like that.” She paused. “Is your family gone?”
“My mother is living in Hampshire.”
“You’re all alone in Devonshire, then?” She couldn’t imagine such a lonely existence. She would be in terrible despair if she had to inhabit Hollyfield by herself. Where was the fun?
“I’m not alone. I have Merlin and Bethan. And a cat wandering these halls that will sometimes grace me with his presence.”
She went to the divan and took a seat. She sipped the wine, watching him as he studied the painting. “Do you like being a duke?”
“Do I like it?” He turned from the painting to consider her. “I’ve never thought of it like that. It’s a duty. Quite a lot of responsibility. The estate is vast.”
“But...if you weren’t the duke, what would you have done?”
He settled his hands on his trim waist. “I don’t know. I once fancied myself a painter.”
“A painter!” She grinned.
“What...do you think that odd?”
“No! I think it’s a marvelous surprise. Imagine, the Grim Reaper a painter. He creates lovely art by night then rides like the devil by day.”
He smiled, amused.
“Do you have any of your art?”
“There are a few stored in the north attic, I think. I lost my appetite for it once I assumed the title and married.”
Butler appeared at the door. “If I may, sir, supper is served.”
“Thank you. You may put it on the table.”
Butler opened the door wider, than wheeled in a cart.
Joshua said to Amelia, “The dining room hearths are cold. Will you mind taking your meal here?”
She gestured to her attire. “Not at all.”
Butler set the table with china and crystal. He had a platter covered with a silver dome that he set in the middle of the table. Joshua told him to leave it, he would do the serving.
Amelia hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she smelled the food. Joshua held out his arm to her and escorted her to a seat at the table just as if she was wearing crinolines and jewels. He poured more wine for them, then removed the silver dome. In the middle of the platter was a roasted chicken, surrounded by small potatoes. “It’s not your usual fare, I’m sure, but given the storm...”
“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
He carved the chicken with ease, and she imagined him with his wife in the formal dining room, carving a chicken or beef, her leaning forward, watching him with admiration and love. “May I ask you something?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you miss your wife?”
He abruptly stopped carving. He slowly looked up, his gaze piercing hers. He looked as if he expected an accusation.
“Is that something else I should not have asked?” Probably not—that was the bane of her existence, always saying out loud the questions and thoughts that should be kept in her head. “But you haven’t remarried, and I wondered if maybe...you missed her too much.”
He dropped his gaze and resumed carving. “What I miss... I miss what might have been.”
