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“I think we must take our chances on them behaving themselves.” Her smile reappeared. “Lord Farleigh, you differ greatly from what I thought when I met you yesterday.”
“Oh?” Simon looked down at himself, then up again at her. “I feel the same as I was then.”
“You struck me as rather pompous,” she said without hesitation. “And then quite presumptuous, at dinner.”
“Ah, you are speaking of when I implied all females had ulterior motives when in my company.” He wouldn’t blush. He refused to. He tucked one hand behind his back and squeezed it into a fist, willing himself to act as a man instead of a flustered boy. “I acted the part of a pompous bore, and I apologize for that. My intention from this time onward is to be a good host. Nothing more.”
“Mm.” She joined her hands together before her and wandered toward a pedestal, upon which sat a large vase. The vase was from Siam, the majority of its surface a soft jade color with gold embellishments in a concentrated lattice pattern. “This is a pretty thing.”
“An admiral gifted it to my father after visiting Bangkok.”
Her lips quirked upward. “Here now, are you as knowledgeable a guide as your sister?”
“It is my duty to know the province of every stray piece of furniture and curiosity in this castle.”
“Because it will one day be yours to govern and care for.”
“Indeed.”
Her expression softened, though her eyes remained on the vase. “That is an enormous responsibility. Not only the knowledge of things, of course, but all the people associated with your lands and titles. It is no wonder you take your position so seriously. Lesser men would break under that weight.”
A discomfiting tightness at his throat made him want to loosen his cravat. She wasn’t wrong. Every time he looked into the future, a heaviness pressed upon his mind and heart. There was still so much to learn.
At Simon’s age, his father had already inherited the title and had made a name for himself in the House of Lords. Simon carried the barest fraction of the ducal burden, and already his knees buckled under the strain.
“There.” Miss Frost’s gentle tone pulled him from his bleak thoughts. “There is the man I met yesterday. All seriousness.” He found her dark eyes trained upon him, her eyebrows lifted.
Josephine’s voice pulled Miss Frost’s attention away. “Miss Frost, we have not yet seen the library. Your mother must be allowed to rest, of course, but I would be happy to show you where you might find a book or two. If you need a way to pass the time. Do you have an interest in seeing the library?”
“I do.” Miss Frost turned away from him, and as she approached his sister, Simon considered her words.
All seriousness. Lesser men would break under the weight of his future. All of it would be his to govern and care for.
No longer needed as a secondary tour guide, Simon yielded to his sudden impulse to flee and left the room without looking back.
Had anyone dared address him about what was to come when he inherited? Not really. Except for a few ill-informed ladies who thought bringing up the fact that his father’s death would make him a powerful man would somehow endear Simon to them.
No one talked about what it would mean to him, personally. Simon’s father prepared him for his future role, of course. The duke hadn’t explicitly stated, “I will die, and you must carry on as I have,” But it was implied in every interaction.Had alwaysbeen implied.
His father loomed large in Simon’s mind, as the duke did in life. He was as complex a man as he was powerful, and he wielded his influence with the same precision as a master swordsman would a rapier.
No matter how he tried, Simon remained in the duke’s shadow. Trying to mimic a man he loved and admired. Yet fear remained, and haunted his dreams, that he would never achieve the standard set by Gregory Dinard, the Duke of Montfort.
CHAPTER4
Two English duchesses, a Sicilian contessa, an Irish baroness, a baronetess, and a mere Irish miss sat together in the Elizabethan Saloon.
Isleen smiled at her lap. There ought to be either a joke or a mathematical equation at hand. Though she had sat in company with ladies of varying titles before, it had never occurred to her how often those of even higher status had to remember whom outranked whom.
“Miss Frost, I hope you are not sitting in a draft so far from the fire,” the dowager duchess said rather than asked.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am comfortable here.” As the lowest-ranking member of the women’s party, Isleen needed only to remember she must defer to everyone else. And speak when spoken to.
“Would you like a shawl, Miss Frost?” Lady Atella, wife to the Sicilian ambassador to England, had arrived the day before. The duke’s household welcomed her and her husband as family, and the cheerful contessa wasted no time in acquainting herself with Isleen. “There are dozens of hidden shawls, tucked in nooks and crannies all over the castle, at the ready.”
Isleen smoothed the arm of her gown down to her wrist. “I am quite comfortable, though I thank you for your concern.” She exchanged a glance with her mother, who sat directly opposite the dowager and near the hearth. The current duke’s duchess sat in the chair beside hers.
The duchess held a sketchbook while Isleen’s mother worked on needlepoint.
