“So we perceive,” Lady Whitmore replied pleasantly. “Allow me to present Miss Sarah and Miss Hammy. Ladies, His Grace, the Duke of Vexen. And Mr. James.”
Only then did Sarah notice the gentleman who had followed the duke. A quiet, self-effacing man, perhaps a secretary or assistant of some kind. Possibly the same man who had accompanied him across the courtyard, though she wondered how huge an entourage he traveled with. But she could not allow her mind to wander while he was bearing down upon her.
She could not help the flutter of her heart, for with the teasing smile in his eyes, he was extremely attractive. But she had herself well in control, offering him her hand with perfect grace.
He took it and bowed over it punctiliously. “Merely Miss Sarah?”
“Merely?” she repeated. “I might accuse you of incivility.”
He smiled. “Except you are hardly obtuse and quite understand I meant your lack of surname.”
“Most here do not use their surnames,” Lady Whitmore observed. “In Whitmore, people prefer the arts and learning to worldly ambition, and are generally happy to leave high or low rank behind them.”
“And yet you have a vast library of genealogy,” the duke observed.
“It is the privilege of the Lady of Whitmore,” she replied. “I alone know who everyone is.”
“But everyone seems to know who I am. I feel at a disadvantage.”
“Not at all,” Sarah assured hm. “Here, no one cares who you are.”
He blinked, clearly stunned, and then, to her surprise, let out a breath of laughter. “Well, that will be good for my self-conceit.”
“Probably,” Sarah agreed serenely. “But you must not mind if you are not intellectually inclined. There are interests and activities to please all tastes.”
The duke, who was considered expert in many fields including art, antiquities, and music, swallowed that with a mere quirk of the lips. He sat in the chair next to Sarah’s. “I already gather your tastes lie in music. If Fernando Arcadi is your teacher, I am in awe. How did you meet him?”
“Lady Whitmore introduced us. I, too, was in awe, for I had heard him sing in Florence.”
“In Florence?” he said quickly. “That is one of my favorite cities in the world.”
“And mine…” From there, the time flew as they compared impressions of Florence’s art and architecture, moved on to Paris and the Louvre, to Napoleon Bonaparte and the politics of peace in Europe. He had opinions on everything, but seemed eager to hear her views and delighted with her knowledge.
Although she had set out to display these things to him, her pleasure in his approval was tempered by cynicism. She was showing him what a perfect duchess she could be, and part of her tried to despise him for swallowing it.
Even so, she was slightly piqued when he excused himself and gave up his place to Mr. James, going instead to sit by Hammy. To Sarah’s indignant gaze, he seemed just as interested in her old governess as in her. Was it all civil pretense?
“You are a friend of His Grace?” she asked Mr. James rather abruptly.
“He is gracious enough to call me so, but in fact, I am employed as his secretary.”
“And what are the duties of a such a great nobleman’s secretary?”
“Whatever he requires. I answer impersonal correspondence, help with speeches he chooses to make in the House of Lords, catalogue his library and his collections…”
“What sort of collections?”
“Art, rare books and manuscripts, all kinds of artifacts and antiquities from all over the world, including Egypt and the Americas. He travels a great deal.”
“And what brings him to Whitmore?”
Mr. James smiled. “Vikings.”
It certainly gave her something to tease him with when she was, inevitably, placed beside him at dinner.
“It is odd,” she observed, setting down her soup spoon. “You do not look like a man who dreams of murder and pillage.”
He blinked. “Then I am happy to inform you appearance does not lie. Why should you imagine such violence appeals to me?”
“Vikings,” she said innocently.
To her surprise, he laughed. “You have been talking to Mr. James. But the Norsemen were much more interesting people than you might imagine. Fierce warriors, it is true, but also farmers and great craftsmen. We have found several beautiful items in Ireland that I believe to be the work of Norse settlers there. I’m sure there must be similar artifacts buried along this coast.”
“What sort of items?”
“Several broaches, used for fastening cloaks, some weapons, and a very fine necklace.” He smiled, and his gaze dropped to her throat. “It would look charming on you. A blending of barbaric and refined beauty,”
“Hmm. Which refers to me?”
His brows lifted. “Both.”
For an instant, she feared he had recognized her, for at sixteen she had indeed been a little barbarian, though not very beautiful.
“I’m sure I should feel insulted to be called barbaric,” she managed.
“Trust me, it detracts nothing from your beauty. But it’s there in your eyes, just occasionally. Warning me, perhaps, not to stray beyond the line.”
“You must be mistaken, sir,” she retorted. “What do I have to fear from so perfect a gentleman as the Duke of Vexen?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
She picked up her wine glass and sipped. “If you imagine I am afraid, sir, I can only assume the flaw is yours.”
“That goes without saying.” He smiled. “I am flawed. I cannot help pursuing beauty.”
“For your collection? Why, sir, now who is barbaric?”
He laughed with what sounded like genuine delight, and she smiled to have drawn the noose of his downfall just a little tighter.
***
Oh, yes, she intrigued him. She was never short of a clever riposte. Her conversation was witty, her opinions well-informed, her knowledge far greater than most young women of her age and class. She moved with an unconscious grace that inflamed him. Her beauty snatched at his breath. And yet, none of that explained the sheer intensity of his attraction.
Something about her still tugged at his memory, though if he had met her before, surely, he could not have forgotten. Perhaps his sense of familiarity lay merely in the fact that he liked her. A woman who could be a friend… Now there was a novelty. The women in his life to date had all proved to be grasping, wanting always more money and gifts. Or—worse—to marry him and be a duchess.
Miss Sarah, he knew instinctively, was too honest for such tricks. He was not even sure she liked him very much. Well, he thought, as he and James strolled along the wide hall to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, he had some time to win her over, if he was to begin work on this possible burial site.
As a result, he did not go straight to her, but chose a seat beside his hostess to compliment her on the fineness of her food and wine.
“Thank you. My cook and my wine are both of excellent vintage,” Lady Whitmore quipped. “As am I.”
He laughed, noticing with irritation that Sarah smiled up at James. He wondered how generous he would feel should she prefer his secretary to him.
“I see you have noticed my protégée,” Lady Whitmore observed.