Gull Island, Texas
At first, Richard thought Maggie was awake again.
He hadn't revealed that he’d begun to watch for her light, that he felt less lonely knowing that someone else lay awake in the dark night.
Now the light flickered and blinked at him like tearing eye.
He studied the landscape, the dark surging ocean shrouded by the moonlit night, certain he was mistaken. He shifted his eyes to the left again, and the light seemed brighter than before, as if it had grown in intensity in those few seconds he'd averted his gaze.
Not the soft glowing lamp he’d seen the last three nights, but something more ominous.
Fire.
He grabbed his robe, racing through the house, stopping only to shout through Harold's door. Seconds later, he was descending the cement and steel steps, intent on the cottage. He slid in the sand as he attempted to gain ground, the odor of smoldering cedar thickening the air.
The door was locked, but he shouldered his way inside. Flames were coming from the kitchen to the right. The fire illuminated the door at the far side of the cottage.
Didn't most people succumb to smoke inhalation before a fire ever reached them? Richard hoped he'd been in time.
The bedroom door, black from the billowing smoke, wasn't locked. He made it to the side of the bed, slipping to his knees. Down, he remembered down, below the level of the smoke.
"Wake up, Maggie!" His voice felt coated by ash.
He jerked Maggie from the bed, rolling her on top of him. Her oomph of surprise was followed by a start of shock.
"Richard?" Her fingers reached up and touched his face, then withdrew hurriedly, as if touching him was an act of familiarity too personal even in this rescue scene.
"Where's the window, Maggie?"
The smoke was thicker, and the flames, voracious and loud, were getting closer.
"Over there. To the left.”
They both crouched down, the air a bit cleaner, but grittier here, as if debris rained down from the ceiling. He moved on his knees to the exterior wall, gripping Maggie's arm with his right hand, his left searching through the smoke for something solid. He encountered a rag rug and impatiently moved it away. He knocked his knuckles against the edge of a dresser.
"Four feet to your left, Richard. About three feet above the floor."
Of course, measurement would be necessary to navigating her environment.
The damn thing wouldn't open.
He rose, gripping the handles with both hands, and pulled with all his strength.
Maggie coughed.
He wasn't going to die in here.
"The other window," she said, gasping. "To your right."
He couldn't see, but he finally felt the cold glass. Everything else was burning hot in the room, an oven created by the inferno even now licking at the doorway.
Maggie’s breath came as rapidly as his, fighting the fire for oxygen. They had only moments remaining.
The window fought him, but finally lifted, the incoming breeze fueling the fire behind them. He reached for Maggie, unceremoniously thrust her through the window, and followed a second later.
Running from a scene of disaster was a damn sight more pleasant than running toward one. A strange and quixotic thing to do, of course, rushing into a burning house, something for which he was certain to be chastised greatly should anyone but Harold ever know of it.
They made it to the top of the dune before slowing.
Maggie was dressed in nothing more than a long white cotton nightgown. He removed his robe, wrapping it around her shoulders. She nodded to him in thanks as she turned back to the cottage.
“Is it a total loss?"
“I'm afraid so," he said, wishing that the information he could impart was better. Smoke ballooned from the roof and scented the air. The windows in the main room were backlit by flames, making them appear like possessed eyes.
"What if I did it?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"What if I left the stove burning?"
"Did you?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she said. "But I could have."
She crossed her arms in front of her, each hand gripping a lapel of his robe. She didn’t weep, but her face was oddly still as if her composure was hard won.
“I'm sure it was an accident, Maggie,” he said gently.
She smiled wanly. “I wanted to assert my independence but all I succeeded in doing was proving my family right." She slid her arms into the sleeves of his robe and wrapped the belt around her waist tightly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be left alone after all.”
"You don't know that you caused the fire," he said.
"You don't know that I didn't."
She was blind and incapable of changing her overprotective family’s opinion. He was a duke and powerless to alter a country’s expectations of him. Each of them was trapped in an uncomfortable role and chafing at the fit.
He heard the shrieks of sirens far off in the distance, the sound different from those in England. A noisy reminder that he was far from home and vulnerable to exposure. What would the tabloids say to see Richard standing on a beach attired in nothing more than his silk pajamas? Especially since a beautiful woman, her hair whipped by the smoke tainted wind, was wearing his robe.
He could well imagine the headlines.
“Come, Maggie. There's nothing more that we can do here."
“I don’t want to leave." Not a moment for her to be intransigent, but he understood all the same. She felt responsible.
“You’re nearly naked."
He was too tempted to enfold her in his arms in a gesture of comfort, not sensuality. She looked lost and almost forlorn standing there on the dune. Extending his hand around her back, he pulled her with him gently.
“Come, Maggie,” he said again. “We'll go back to the house and get you something warmer to wear.”
Something less revealing, perhaps. Something unlike silk that pressed against her body. Something that wouldn't mold to her breasts, shaping them as if the fabric itself was sentient and relishing the feel of her.
“Someone has to unlock the bridge,” she said.
“I'll send Harold, don't worry.”
The sirens were growing louder now and with them came the threat of exposure. How insular he was, thinking of himself of this moment. He felt torn between two poles of behavior. One demanded that he be chivalrous, the other dictated that he seek cover before his identity was discovered.
He was going to ground like an oft hunted fox, canny in the way of hounds.
Harold suddenly appeared out of the night, garbed in a long red wool robe and green pajamas. A festive elf with a pale face.
“Are you all right, sir?"
“We’re fine, Harold. But I understand the gate needs to be unlocked for the authorities.”
“Of course, sir."
He wanted, suddenly, to thank Harold for his constancy, for his dogmatic dedication and loyalty. Richard was quite sure he didn’t deserve it. But Harold had disappeared back into Anne’s house, intent on his new task.
“My clothes,” Maggie said, reluctantly allowing him to turn her in the direction of his borrowed house. “They're gone, too."
“Anne will have something, I’m sure. Shall we see?"
“We can't raid her closet," she said at the bottom of the steps.
“I can't imagine Anne being anything less than absolutely generous at this moment."
“Are you very good friends?"
“Very,” he said, granting her the truth. “I trust her more than any woman I know."
He helped her up the steps, one hand on the small of her back both gentle encouragement and assistance.
"Didn't you trust your wife?"
A question he would never have had to answer under other circumstances. But he was not the Duke of Lancaster to her, simply a man. Nevertheless, he was a man accustomed to his privacy and it was a habit of lifetime that he obeyed.
“My wife is dead,” he said, the message implicit in his clipped tone. As such, Eleanor was not an acceptable topic of conversation.
"Yes, I know," she said, startling him. "Vicki told me."
Vicki had never spoken about her mother to anyone outside the family. Even his mother had confided that Vicki rarely spoke of Eleanor, and when she did it was not with emotion, but facts, as in: my mother's birthday was Tuesday.
"What did she say?" he asked, feeling intrusive even as he asked the question.
She only shook her head, and by that gesture of loyalty became more than just a beautiful woman. She was kind as well. There must be other qualities to her that inspired Vicki's confidence.
“My wife thought the truth malleable,” he found himself saying. “She bent it at regular intervals.”
“And you dislike liars."
“I find it difficult to trust them."
Too much truth perhaps, but she said nothing, only inclined her head in that way of hers.
They walked up the stairs together, silently.
She wasn’t wearing those concealing glasses, a fact that he only realized after he turned on the overhead lights once they were upstairs. When she didn’t blink in the sudden brightness, he found himself oddly disturbed.
"How did you lose your sight?"
He found himself wanting to know the whys and wherefores of her with more interest than he'd evinced for a myriad of subjects in the past year.
She didn't seem upset by the question. "I was in an automobile accident."
"I am sorry. Hideous luck."
"I don't think it was so much luck as it was a drunk driver."
"A beastly thing to have happened."
"Yes," she said calmly.
Did she know how sad her smile was? With another person, he might have thought it a trick she used to solicit his sympathy. He did not pity Maggie with her blank aqua eyes. He found himself, instead, wishing that he could speak with her until he understood the mind within the woman. Or perhaps her heart. What did she want from life? How would she achieve it? He did not doubt that she would accomplish each task she set for herself.
A strange thought to entertain in a day that had been marked by odd behavior.
He led her to the rectangular room he’d made his, a sunny place with comfortable chairs and a view of the sea. Tonight, the large patio door revealed only a moonlit sky, overcast by the pall of smoke.
Despite the fact it was hours after midnight, he was wide awake. If he was home, he'd be tired, even at midday. The enforced stillness required of him, the effort of showing no emotion, feeling nothing partisan, eternally drained him.
He'd be bracing for his evening, wondering what endless torture was scheduled, with whom he had to be polite, what niceties he had to parrot, what cause he was supporting. If he was having a personal evening, he would have thanked God for the presence of friends like Anne and Billy, or a handful of others who cared more for the man than the duke.
He turned and studied her, freer in that instant than he'd ever been, at least where a woman was concerned.
She remained still, captured by his silence, waiting with implacable politeness for the next footstep in their verbal dance. Other women had been more beautiful, certainly some had been less complicated; even a few as intelligent.
None had intrigued him as much.
Maggie stood straight, unaware that her posture was as rigid as if she were wearing St. Edward's crown.
"Would you care for coffee? Or tea?"
“It’s late, isn’t it?" She fumbled at her wrist, but there was no watch there.
Another loss. The fire shouldn’t have happened. Even if it was her fault, the price she paid for negligence was too high. But for his inability to sleep well, she might have died there.
“About three,” he said, glancing at the clock on the far wall. "We can provide a soft drink if you'd like," he said.
“Coffee,” she said. “Dawn’s not that far away.” She smiled again, the effort lasting a scant five seconds.
He wanted to say something else nonsensical, some glib remark that would cause her to turn her head in his direction. Something to animate her, if only for a moment. She looked lost in his robe, without slippers. Without anything but her nightgown.
She spoke with such self-possession, but he sensed it was only surface deep. He suspected also, with an insight that disturbed him, that she was trembling, holding herself tight so that he could not witness it.
He reached out, touched her arm, and gently led her to a chair. She sat, right hand rigid on the arm like a dowager empress.
For a long moment, he didn't move, just stared at those small hands and their simple, singular beauty.
Only when she lifted her head once more, tilting her face, questioning without a word spoken, did he move, pushing off from the wall where he leaned.
“It could have happened to anyone, Maggie,” he said, addressing her with more familiarity than he should have. But she was so desperately in need of comforting that he wanted to aid her in some fashion.
Here, in the dim light she was little more than a wraith. If he were with anyone else, he would have moved to switch on another lamp. Because it might embarrass her, he did nothing, growing accustomed to a room pooled with shadows.
“I know,” she said quietly, but the words were just that. Words, without any emotion behind them. As if she said them simply to placate him.
“I’ll go and get the coffee,” he said, leaving her alone in the darkness.
Andover Castle, England
"Would you like something warm to drink, Miss MacDonald?" one of the young reporters asked. She didn't have an annoying English accent and for that reason, Fiona smiled at her.
"I've no wish to be a burden," she said, even though she would have parted with one of her father's medals for a cup of something hot, laced with a jot of whiskey.
The day was cold and damp, and the mac Fiona wore was old and let in the rain. She'd spent the last four hours shivering, lacking the protection of the cars the reporters had ducked into for shelter from time to time.
They were tenacious, these reporters, never giving up while the hint of a story still existed. For days, they'd been camped outside Andover, hoping for a sight of the duke so close to the anniversary of his wife's death.
The reporter, tall, thin, and boasting a mop of red curly hair and a smile like a ray of sunshine, poured her some cocoa, of all things. Fiona made an effort to smile again, drink it, and appear grateful. She was running out of allies, so it didn't pay to alienate the members of the press she could still approach.
As a group, the press was learning to be wary of her. At first, they'd thrust a microphone in front of her face, thinking her a royal watcher, or one of the cadre of desperate women who yearned to be noticed by Richard. She'd taken advantage of the opportunity to unfurl her red Scots for Sovereignty banner and lecture them on the injustice meted out to Scotland.
After that, they'd begun avoiding her.
She wasn't about to leave, however. Not when every day camped out in front of Andover brought her a little more information about Richard. Things they didn't print in the paper, even the tabloids. After all, the press knew everything there was to know about the duke.
Even now, when they hadn't seen him for days, his presence was felt. Every day at exactly noon, one of his staff came to the gates and passed out refreshments. She'd never been close enough to get a cup of the spiced tea, but she'd sampled enough of the cookies to know that the duke hadn't spared any expense.
A bribe of sorts - if the press was fed and watered, perhaps they'd be less judgmental. So far, it hadn't seemed to work.
"Where do you think he is?" she asked, handing the plastic cup back to the young reporter.
"I think he's inside," the girl said. "Don't you?"
"Richard's an architect," Fiona said. "And he isn't on the dole," she added. "Therefore, he must work for a living. Unless he's been on vacation this past week."
"Well, it's been three years since his wife died."
Death came to them all. She wasn't going to feel sorry for Richard simply because he'd lost his wife. She'd lost her mother, and then her father. Who pitied her?
"Don't the children go to school?"
The reporter turned and looked at her. "Only Victoria," she said.
"Has a car taken her to school today? Or yesterday?"
"She goes for the week, and returns on the weekend."
"Well, it's Monday, did a car take her to school?"
The reporter turned and looked at the crowd of paparazzi clustered near the gates. Even though they hadn't seen the duke for days, they still scoured the grounds for a sight of him.
"No," she said. "You're right. A car hasn't come for Victoria."
She stepped away, heading toward the larger group of photographers.
Fiona smiled, and turned away, staring through the gates of Andover.
She had to admit the vista was charming. Oaks and beeches shadowed a winding stream while sycamores led the way to what looked like a secluded grove. She'd read, in her vast research on Richard, that the garden had been completed thanks to all the plantings from visiting members of the royal family and European relatives.
Dormant iris beds stretched the length of the fence. In spring, they must be glorious. She'd always liked irises, much more than roses. For years, her house had smelled of the overpowering sachet her mother had used to scent everything, even the tea towels.
Richard had made Andover his haven. According to the tabloids, he'd entertained often - garden parties in the summer and winter shooting parties. Christmas celebrations at Andover had been the feature of numerous articles and television programs.
Until, of course, three years ago.
She'd seen pictures of the impressive drawing rooms, along with the intimate rooms rarely photographed and only videotaped when the duchess was alive.
The house, however, was marked by two things: family life and privacy. To that end, Andover's setting was perfect. The East Lake stood between the front gate and the main structure while the house backed up to the Wye River. Beyond the two concentric circles of iron fences, the inner one electrified, stood a shadowed avenue of pleached limes leading up to the circular drive. The gardens swept around the house on all sides, except for a large swath of lawn between the lake and the main entrance.
For nearly two hundred years, Andover had remained exactly as it was now, seen through a light mist: the home of privilege, wealth, and royal connections.
A convoy of police cars would look magnificent winding its way through the iron gates.
"He isn't here," a voice said.
Fiona looked over to find a thin young woman standing on the other side of the iron fence. Without calling attention to herself, Fiona walked slowly over to the fence. She turned, facing the paparazzi, her back to the girl.
The kitten in the young woman's arms mewed plaintively.
She'd never had the temperament for pets. Her father called her too pragmatic, but she'd spent most of her life caring for her parents. Why would she want the added burden of caring for an animal?
"I've seen you here for days," the young woman said. "But you're not a reporter, are you?"
Fiona glanced over her shoulder.
"You don't have a camera and you look angry instead of bored." The kitten crawled up the girl's jumper and she caught one paw and kept it still. "Why are you waiting for him?"
"Perhaps I'm not," Fiona said, recognizing the girl at last. Richard's sister-in-law. Eleanor's younger sister. In the video of the funeral, the girl - Celeste - had looked so white and pale it was a wonder she'd made it through the service. "Perhaps I'm just in awe of Andover."
The girl shook her head, not believing it for a moment. "Have you a cause for him? You should petition his office."
Fiona shook her head. "No," she said. "I don't have a cause."
They exchanged a look. Celeste seemed to see through her web of lies more clearly than anyone, even the reporters.
"What do you want with him?"
Finally, Fiona spoke. "I've a need to talk with the man." He needs to pay for the sins of his countrymen. "If he isn't here, then where is he?"
"America," the girl said, startling Fiona.
She almost asked the purpose a Richard's journey to America. But such a question would have been memorable. She didn't want people to remember her, not yet. There would come a time, in the future, when her name would be in every single newspaper in the world. But not yet.
"Are the children with him?" There, a commonplace question.
She might even be able to funnel that information back to the reporter if something could be gained from it.
"Yes," the young woman said, her attention on the kitten in her arms. She patted him with one finger tracing down between his ears, over the back of his neck down his body, to his tail.
"It must be difficult for you," Fiona said. "Losing your sister."
Celeste nodded, the expression in her eyes revealing her grief.
"It's very difficult to lose someone you love," Fiona said. Words that she hadn't expected to say, but the girl's sadness touched her.
"Yes," Celeste said softly.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, the kitten peering over her shoulder.
Gull Island, Texas
The Lamars had built this home for comfort and for solidity. The walls were stucco, the texture of it against her fingers unmistakable. The wood floors were satiny; the carpet plush beneath her bare feet.
A perfect hideaway for a duke.
She heard his slippered footsteps on the stairs, but then all sound disappeared and she was left in a cocoon of silence.
Seconds ticked by slowly.
She should call someone. But if she called her parents at three o'clock in the morning, they'd panic first. They'd send Jerry to pick her up, or arrange for an armored car.
No, she'd wait until a decent hour to break the news.
Thank God Richard had noticed the fire. Or was precognition one of his other attributes?
She’d asked him what he’d looked like a few days ago and had been fascinated by what he hadn't said in his short declarative speech. He didn't boast. He hadn't described himself as rich or handsome. He didn't laud himself for accomplishments or achievements. Or announce that he was wearing a Brooks Brothers suit or an Armani tie, or drove an Aston-Martin. She'd asked him what he looked like and he'd told her.
Simple, straight-forward, and immensely rare.
How odd to be impressed by his simplicity as well as his kindness.
She sat back, leaning her head against the cushion of the couch. She was suddenly, and unexpectedly, close to tears. She'd come too close to dying. She'd never smelled the smoke, never heard the fire, didn't even know if there was a smoke detector in the cottage. Simple little things she should have noticed.
The fire might have been her fault, and that suspicion ate at her. Had she left the electric teakettle on? Had she turned off all the burners on the stove?
She'd have to be more careful in the future. Check and double-check to ensure nothing like this ever happened again.
What had she done before the accident? She'd never considered things she must now think of constantly. That was one thing Sister Mary Agnes had never admitted: life was more difficult. Each day was filled to the brim with simple chores that took too long. Telling time, styling her hair, dressing, making something to eat.
Every damn thing took longer.
“Miss Carlisle?"
The voice was Harold’s. She turned toward it, plastered a smile on her face. “Yes?"
“I have some garments you might wish to consider."
She heard him approach, and then his hand was on hers. He placed it on a nubby terry cloth fabric. “A robe,” he said, before describing other selections. A pair of jeans, a shirt, a thick sweater. When he got to panties and bras, she only quickly nodded her head. She wasn't going to talk underwear with Harold.
“If you would like to take a bath, miss, I can direct you."
She’d love to rid herself of the stench of smoke. It clung to every pore. “Thank you, I’d like that."
“When you’re ready, then,” he said. His voice changed volume, and she wondered if he bowed to her. A curious homage and one that made her vaguely uncomfortable.
But he was soon gone and in his place Richard again, setting the tray down on a nearby table. An egalitarian duke, then. One who worked for a living.
“I’ve brought some scones,” he said. “In case you were hungry.”
“Thank you."
She folded her hands together, placed her feet next to each other, a pose reminding her of a tea party when she was little. How was she to know, when she pretended to be a princess as a child, that one day she would meet a real live duke?
It was easier to simply keep Vicki's secret. That way, she could treat Richard as she would anyone. Otherwise, she'd have to Your Grace him to death. The only royalty she’d known intimately had been dead for millennia.
“Is there a window in this room?"
“Yes,” he said. “To your right. Stretch out your hand and you’ll feel it."
She did, her fingertips pressing against the cool pane. “Which way does it face?"
“East, I’m afraid. Away from your cottage."
“I should go and speak to the authorities."
Instantly, his voice changed, becoming clipped, almost autocratic. As if he’d decided what must happen and it was instantly ordained. “Harold has given them the number here. If they need to speak with you they can call."
“Do you always get what you want so easily?” she asked, skirting the edge of her pretense with the question. But even if she’d not known who he was she would have been curious about that tone.
“No,” he said surprisingly. “I very rarely get what I want."
She really shouldn't be curious about this man. They were as far apart as Gull Island was from Egypt.
“Milk?” he asked.
She shook her head in response. “Nothing, thank you."
“Will you eat something?"
“I’m truly not hungry,” she said. “But thank you.” She took a deep breath, willing the incipient tears away. "And thank you for saving me."
"I was rather heroic, wasn't I?" he asked, with a smile in his voice.
"Yes, you were."
He handed her a cup, placing the edge of the saucer against her hand so that she instantly recognized it. Did dukes receive training in tact, then? How did he know to effortlessly alert her to the shape of things? His daughter had done the same.
She took the cup from him, smiling her thanks. Wishing, too, that he wasn’t being so kind. She might still cry if he kept up his easy empathy.
“Will you be staying on Gull Island long?"
“No,” he said, “Not long.”
"Do you mind if I stay here until morning?"
"I would expect you to do so," he said.
The moments lengthened between them. One of the better things about being blind. She didn't have to worry about uncomfortable looks or sidelong glances. She could simply sink into the silence.
She wondered if he was looking at her. That was one of the worst things about being blind – never knowing when she was being watched.
Her hair was a mess and she yearned for a brush. Was there soot on her face?
She placed her hand against the silk of his robe, feeling for the lapel, just to ensure she was covered. Beneath it she wore only her nightgown. Two layers of clothing that nonetheless made her feel naked.
“In what part of England do you live?"
“North,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding as if it weren’t often used. Was he as rusty in his people skills as she?
“I haven’t visited England much. Only Heathrow, and that was only to change planes. I always told myself that I would take a few days and visit London."
“There never seems to be enough time to do the things we wish to do,” he said. “London isn’t the only part of England. You get a better appreciation of the country if you stay in the villages or smaller towns."
“Just like the United States,” Maggie replied. “People who only visit New York and Los Angeles don't really know the rest of the country."
“I was in New Orleans last year,” he offered.
“I've only been there once.”
Next, they'd talk about the weather.
She was rarely this awkward with people. But, then, she'd rarely sat next to a man dressed only in a robe and nightgown. Especially if that man was a duke and a rescuer of damsels in distress.
Even if she hadn’t known his royal title, she would have suspected that Richard, with his clipped aristocratic English accent, was different from most men she met. For one thing, he didn't speak in idiom. His language was formal. His movements, as well, seemed choreographed by propriety, as if he thought out exactly what to do before doing it.
He might have been a pharaoh come to life.
“My brother and sister-in-law invited me," she said. "To New Orleans, that is." All three of them had played tourist up and down Bourbon Street. "I decided, then and there, not to participate in any more drinking contests."
“Drinking contests?”
“I was in my early 20s,” she said, still smiling. “The time for foolishness. The older you get, the less important some things become."
“The days of misspent youth,” he said, his voice sounding as if he was smiling. “It seems a pity to regret them, since they pass so quickly.”
“I was very impatient to be about the rest of my life,” she said. “In retrospect, perhaps it’s a good thing.”
She reached out one hand and found the table's edge, placing the cup and saucer there gingerly.
“A great many people never realize their life's dream,” she said, a bit of philosophy that had come to her during long and sleepless nights. “I did. And for that I'll always be grateful."
“What will you do with the rest of your life, Maggie Carlisle?”
The question was framed in the way Sister Mary Agnes might ask it. She couldn't help but smile.
“I don’t know. It's not as if there are that many options open to me. I could write about my discoveries, but they weren't that momentous. I'm not that important in my field that others would care about my notes or my thoughts. I was still a student in so many ways. Archeology is one of those fields in which you don't become venerable until you’ve had six or seven decades of work behind you."
“Have you no other pursuits? Things you liked to do?”
Her smile broadened. But then, she'd always been appreciative of irony.
“I loved to draw and paint. A talent I doubt can be translated to my current situation."
His voice softened, warmed somewhat. “Then you have to find something that does. Perhaps go back to school."
“Vicki said you would recommend that."
“Did she?" He sounded surprised.
“She's very wise for her age."
“Sometimes I think there is a tiny old crone living in Vicki's body,” he said. “She surprises me with her sagacity.”
“What does she want to be when she grows up?” she asked.
“An engineer. A doctor. A barrister. It changes dependent upon the day. Once, she decreed that she wanted to be the greatest actress on the English stage, but that was after she had seen the Royal Shakespearean company perform Hamlet."
He stood and she heard the clink of china.
“Thank you for the coffee. Harold said something about a bath. If I could presume upon your hospitality even further?"
“Of course,” he said.
She heard his footsteps, felt the room empty as if he changed the air by his absence.
She wished she could recall his wife, only dimly remembered seeing her picture in one of the tabloids. A strikingly lovely woman with long black hair and piercing blue eyes. She'd read that he'd been devastated by her death.
Based on his earlier comment, she couldn't help but wonder if that had been correct. Or if anything she'd read about this duke had been right.