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“It’s our little joke,” I told him before patting Bledsoe lightly on the shoulder. He looked as though I’d smeared jelly on his clothes. “Remember? That night after the Ortham Ball? I meant to apologize, Bledsoe. It was really horrible of me to treat you like that. I was…how should I say it?”
“Under the weather,” Xavier advised with a rather saucy grin. If I enjoyed seeing him ride to my rescue, he seemed to enjoy me when I was acting, as he called me, like a “minx.”
“Under the weather,” I repeated back to the butler, who was still staring at me as though I’d just suggested he trade one of Sofia’s princess dresses for his uniform. “And a bit heartsick for this one, if you know what I mean.”
“Mmm,” the butler managed to reply. “I see, miss.”
“It’s ‘Your Grace’ now, Bledsoe,” Xavier corrected him, holding up my hand to show him my rings. “Francesca and I were married last week in New York. The staff should have been notified.”
“Indeed, we were. I apologize, Your Grace.”
I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or Xavier. I got the distinct feeling he would rather address me as Ronald McDonald than admit I was the new Duchess of Kendal. Honestly, Bledsoe didn’t seem to like using the phrase for Xavier either.
“Where is my stepmother?” Xavier asked as he adjusted the collar of his shirt.
“Er, your—you mean the dowager duchess?”
“Well, I only have one stepmother. I assume she’s home unless the staff is having a party in the back.”
Bledsoe flushed a brilliant shade of fuchsia. “Indeed, they arenot, Your Grace.”
“I didn’t think so. Where is she?”
“Er—” The butler twisted his hands together before appearing to give up the ghost. “The duchess is in the drawing room. She is entertaining—”
“Thank you, Bledsoe.”
“Will you be needing your rooms tonight, Your Grace?”
Xavier almost shuddered. “No. We have business with Georgina, but after that, we’ll be heading home.” He glanced down at me with a smile. “To Mayfair.”
He didn’t wait for the butler to reply, just handed him our coats, took my hand, and strode down the corridor toward the drawing room at the end.
It was exactly as we’d imagined: the beginnings of a small dinner party that included Lord and Lady Ortham and Imogene, all sitting in a row across a Louis XVI sofa. They faced Georgina, who was talking animatedly in one chair, and Frederick, looking bored as ever in the other.
All of them stopped immediately when we entered the room.
“Xavier!” Georgina exclaimed, though I didn’t miss the narrow glance she shot at her son. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here? I thought you’d be on your honeymoon. Or perhaps preparing for your hearing tomorrow.”
She sounded almost gleeful at the prospect.
“I’m here to ask Imogene a question,” Xavier said.
“Oh?” Imogene asked, far too eager for my liking.
“Yes,” I put in. “We wondered if you would like to confess to harassment before we file charges.”
Xavier pulled the most recent letter out of his pocket and waved it in front of her.
Imogene’s face screwed up with immediate confusion. “What? I’ve no clue what that is. Harassment? Is she joking?”
“Francesca’s received three of these,” he told her. “It didn’t make sense until the other day. But you’ve made your intentions clear with me from the start, and it’s been very obvious you don’t want to take no for an answer.”
“Perhaps I had hoped…” Imogene looked nervously at her parents, who appeared admittedly appalled at the idea of their daughter sending creepy stalker notes. “But that doesn’t mean I had anything to do with this. Honestly, Xavier, do you really think I would stoop so low?”
“I don’t know what to think about you anymore,” he told her honestly.
I couldn’t help taking a little pleasure in the way the chill in his voice made the girl shudder.
