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THE NEXT MORNING, MARGARET strolled to the breakfast room. She may have been up late, but she was not going to spend the morning sleeping, no matter how sumptuous the duke’s sheets were.
This was an adventure, something entirely different from her normal life in London, and Margaret did not intend to waste a moment.
The breakfast room overlooked the garden, and for a moment Margaret could only stare at the rows of roses and neatly trimmed hedges. The sun had been absent in England much of the year, but now it was back in full force.
She returned her gaze to the table. Staffordshire china glimmered in the bright light, depicting fanciful scenes of an idyllic England removed from her experiences in London. There’d been nothing romantic about the capital’s hack and carriage filled streets.
Margaret didn’t miss coach drivers berating the speed of their horses and that of the horses pulling other carriages, and she didn’t miss the heavy scents of a crowded city in the summertime. Only the very nicest neighborhoods were in any manner lacking such unpleasantness. She didn’t miss needing to take transportation everywhere she went, not because Margaret was in any manner incapable of walking, but because the security risks of wandering about herself were deemed too high.
Margaret wanted to wander through the countryside and hear the sound of the ocean. She liked seeing her friends in London, but she had no desire to live there year-long, like Papa’s work demanded.
No. This was a lovely place.
Variously shaped loaves of bread reclined in baskets, and jewel-colored jams and honey sat in crystal bowls.
She stepped into the room, turned her head, then noticed the Duke of Jevington sitting at the head of the long breakfast table.
Her heartbeat quickened, and his lips curled.
Margaret averted her gaze. She didn’t need to think about his lips. Or the manner in which light played in his hair. Or his chiseled features.
Margaret rather wished her parents had risen early. Perhaps coming down here by herself hadn’t been an intelligent use of her time, after all. Perhaps she’d undervalued London. At least when she was at home her heart didn’t beat in an odd manner when she entered a room. Dullness was not devoid of virtue.
“You’re alone,” the duke said, and for some reason the man’s eyes glimmered.
Well, she didn’t need to ponder too hard why that was the case.
It was evident he was still apprehensive around her mother, and he had not yet formed a full opinion of her father. Magnates had a habit of being intimidating, even when they delegated all child rearing duties to their spouses.
It could not be that he had any interest in her.
“You’re alone as well,” Margaret said. “Where are your friends?”
“Horse riding,” he said. “I thought I would be a good host and not abandon your family.”
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“Naturally not,” he said. “I quite suspect you’re familiar with breakfasting, but I can still give you advice.”
“Advice?” She raised an eyebrow.
“The marmalade is a must,” he said. “Some people might go for the jam, but the marmalade is particularly superb.”
“Very well.” Margaret smiled, reached for a roll, and spread marmalade over it. She bit into it, conscious of the duke’s gaze.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s most scrumptious.”
The Duke of Jevington’s eyes remained on her, then he averted his gaze abruptly. He raked his hand through his hair. “It’s a pity there’s so little left in the jar. I’m sure your parents and grandmother will want some too.”
“Well, they actually prefer jam, but—”
He shook his head and glanced at the sole footman in the room. “Could you please fetch some more marmalade?”
The footman bowed. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” the duke said cheerfully.
Margaret widened her eyes. “You wanted him to leave.”
“You are a very intelligent woman.”
She stared at him.
“You needn’t act so surprised.”
“Did you also want your two bodyguards to haul you away last night?”
The duke’s cheeks turned a ruddy color. Somehow, they did not hinder his indisputable handsomeness, rendering him an odd boyish quality.
“I’m—er—sorry about that,” he said. “New position. They are liable to be rather over eager in the fulfillment of their duties.”
Her lips twitched, and she moved her gaze about the room, lest she linger on the duke.
A large portrait sat on the wall. A family played outside, and it took Margaret a moment to realize that the painting depicted the estate. Judging from the clothes, Margaret imagined that this must be Jasper’s family, and she stared at the boy with cherubic curls.
“That’s my family,” the duke said, and his voice was more serious.
Margaret flushed. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have stared.”
“Nonsense, I put the painting here. I want to look at it. There are some other paintings of them in the Painting Gallery, but I moved this here.”
“It’s a lovely spot for a beautiful painting. They look so happy.”
“Yes,” the duke said. “That’s not just the artist’s interpretation. We were.”
“I’m sorry they passed away.”
“I am as well,” the duke said, and his voice had a wistful tone to it.
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose all of them at once,” Margaret said.
“It was atrocious. But I had the other dukes.”
“Friends are important,” Margaret said, thinking of her own friends in London. It would be nice to see them again.
“People used to think we were tight at Eton because we were snobby,” Jasper said. “But that wasn’t it. Unless you’re that rare royal duke, if you have the title of duke, it’s because your father has died. We were all missing fathers. We—er—had something in common, something more substantial than the fact that we were addressed as ‘Your Grace’ while most of the ton’s highest elite were only addressed as ‘my lord.’”
“It still must have been difficult,” Margaret said.
“It was.” Jasper sighed. “I want to remember the past without remembering how it ended. I don’t want my family’s deaths to be the most important thing about them.”
“Of course,” Margaret murmured. “I lost a brother.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was in the war. We knew when he left that we might never see him again. And then we didn’t.” Her voice wobbled at the end, but she forced herself to breathe.
She was conscious of the duke’s gaze on her, and energy thrummed through her. She poured tea, added milk, then stirred it with rather more care than the task required.
She rarely spoke of her brother. Speaking of him made her parents sad, but it was nice for Margaret to remember he had in fact existed.
They were silent. Finally, the duke tilted his head. “How did you know about my family’s death?”
“Ainsworth told me,” Margaret admitted.
“That’s what you were discussing on your long walk last night?”
She nodded. “You found our walk long?”
He frowned. “Length is subjective.”
“Not when it’s a measurement,” Margaret said.
The duke rose. “Er—perhaps not.” He raked his hand through hair. “I wonder where that marmalade is.”
“My apologies, Your Grace.” The footman returned to the room, clasping a jar. “I’m afraid it took longer for Cook to find it.”
“Ah, thank you,” the duke said absentmindedly, passing the jar to Margaret.
“Did you say marmalade?” An unctuous voice sounded, and Margaret stiffened.
Mr. Owens stood before them. A wave of embarrassment moved through Margaret, remembering that she’d extolled Mr. Owens’ good qualities to an extent he had not met when she’d seen him at dinner.
Perhaps the duke had been correct in stating that Mr. Owens ardent recommendations on books in different genres had not been entirely a signal of a man devoted to reading with whom one might have long bookish conversations. After all, he’d seemed condescending.
“Are you fond of marmalade, Mr. Owens?” Margaret asked as she removed the lid of the marmalade.
Mr. Owens wrinkled his nose. “I find that marmalade has an abundance of sugar in it. One should examine a recipe before casually slathering it on one’s toast.” He leaned closer to her. “The recipe for this would appall one. I recommend that a woman of your figure confine herself to more savory spreads.”
Margaret swallowed hard, and her cheeks flamed.
She didn’t want to look at Mr. Owens. She certainly didn’t want to look at the duke.
“It seems you have an answer for everything, Mr. Owens,” the duke said in an icy tone. “You are insulting a very fine woman.”
Mr. Owens did not flush. Instead, he provided a self-satisfactory smile. “I simply was informing Miss Carberry of the ingredients. She might not be aware.”
Margaret shifted in her seat.
“I do make it a point of knowing much about a wide variety of topics,” Mr. Owens continued, evidently confusing silence with interest. “Knowledge is so often unappreciated. I am certain you understand, Your Grace.”
“Of the dangers of marmalade?” The duke shrugged. “It is my favorite topping for toast. I’d recommended it to Miss Carberry.”
“Ah.” Mr. Owens face whitened somewhat. “But you, Your Grace, are a man in top form. They call you a paragon, Your Grace.”
“They?”
“The ton. The haute société. The creme de la creme.”
“Ah. Those who scatter French words liberally, as if the war never happened,” the duke said, and even though Margaret had been feeling distraught, she found herself forcing her lips from yielding to a sudden instinct to smile.
Mr. Owens’ face whitened.
“Do have a seat, Mr. Owens,” Margaret said.
Mr. Owens’ eyes jolted from one side of the room to the other, as if wondering whether he might find an excuse to abandon the room so shortly after his arrival. But no helpful guest appeared, and Mr. Owens sighed. He dabbed his forehead with a napkin with the air of a man who has recently climbed a tree after being chased by a lion and is now merely attempting to pass the time while he hopes for the lion to leave.
The duke showed no signs of leaving the room, even though he’d long ago finished his breakfast. Instead, he cast steely eyes in Mr. Owens’ direction.
“I wager you are a man without sisters,” the duke said thoughtfully.
Mr. Owens raised his chin. “I am an only child.”
“Ah.” The duke flashed Margaret a smug smile, and something curious seemed to happen to her heart.
Margaret’s parents arrived in the room, and the pleasant feeling sailing through her abruptly halted.
“Good morning,” the duke said quickly, rising. “Help yourself to everything.”
Mr. Owens staggered to his feet and gave a cursory bow.
“Your Grace!” Mama dipped into a low curtsy, as if she were practicing visiting the king, then directed her attention to Mr. Owens.
Papa returned their greeting absent-mindedly, his eyes focused on the array of breakfast foods. They sparkled under the morning’s bright light.
There was an awkward silence, and Mama sat down slowly, as if she half-expected the duke to pull her aside at any moment and emit a diatribe.
Mr. Owens coughed and turned to Papa. “Are you enjoying your time in England?”
Papa shrugged. “I’m just working.”
Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows. “Working?”
Papa nodded. “Yep. I suppose I can do that here as well as in Scotland.”
Mr. Owens’ widened his eyes, and he turned to the duke. “Mr. Carberry is working.”
The duke nodded with an amused expression on his face. “So I’ve heard.”
Mr. Owens gave a frustrated sigh and turned to Margaret. “He works.”
Margaret nodded, trying not to let irritation shine on her face. Mr. Owens seemed to forget that he worked as well, though since his work topics were more intellectual, if vastly less financially rewarding, he might dismiss them as an extension of university.
Margaret was not going to get into an argument about Papa here. Not in front of the duke. Not in front of Papa.
“Mr. Carberry is a successful businessman,” the duke said.
“I-I don’t understand,” Mr. Owens muttered.
“He’s a magnate,” the duke said.
Mr. Owens scrunched his forehead, and his pallor resembled those of certain women in too tight clothes before they toppled to the floor and had to be revived with smelling salts and the loosening of stays.
“He’s still in—er—trade.” Mr. Owens whispered, then shot Margaret’s parents a guilty look, as if realizing they might hear him, even though they seemed enthralled in the breakfast selection.
“You find trade an unadmirable occupation?” the duke asked. For some reason there was a dangerous glint to his eyes, and Margaret shook her head. There was no point irritating Mr. Owens. A man like that would be reluctant to be dissuaded from his opinions.
“Concerning oneself with money is a poor use for one’s mind,” Mr. Owens said.
“I highly doubt that,” Papa said. “Besides, I can read intellectual journals as well. I simply choose not to do so.”
“Of course,” Mr. Owens said. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You merely meant to compare it negatively with being a soldier killing people with regularity, or a bishop?” the duke pressed.
“Er—yes.” Mr. Owens raked a hand through his hair. “But it’s not polite to speak of this.”
“I believe you started this line of thinking,” the duke said. “And I am most curious to learn more. I would imagine that obviously landowners wouldn’t meet your standard.”
Mr. Owens blinked. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Because I spend a lot of time running my estates,” the duke said. “And I have little patience for reading.”
“Oh?” Mr. Owens voice sounded oddly high-pitched, and he removed his handkerchief and patted it against his forehead.
“I imagine Mr. Carberry’s income is even higher than mine,” the duke said.
“Higher than yours?” Mr. Owens’ voice squeaked. His eyes darted about the room, landing on Margaret’s. She nodded in confirmation, and Mr. Owens exhaled.
“I don’t have an estate like yours,” Papa said in a relaxed tone to the duke.
The duke shrugged.
“Though if one does come for sale,” Mama said brightly, “we have been looking.”
“You’re looking to buy an estate?” Mr. Owens asked. “Like this?”
“It is rare to find a castle on the market,” Mr. Carberry said. “And I wouldn’t want to find a place too far away.”
“No Cornwall for us,” Mrs. Carberry said, and they laughed.
Mr. Owens retained a shocked expression on his face, but he glanced at Margaret with greater frequency.