Page 34 of Kathryn

“Not since I have worked here, Your Grace.”

Good Lord! Dulverton’s mother had never visited London?

“When was the last time a ball was held at Dulverton House?”

“Oh, good gracious me,” Mrs. Kent said, her gaze going vague. “That would have been two decades ago, when the old duke was still alive. It was the betrothal ball for—” She broke off when she realized what she’d been about to say.

Katie smiled. “It is fine to mention my husband’s former marriage, Mrs. Kent. I will not be offended.”

The older woman bowed her head, hesitated, and then seemed unable to keep the next words from pouring out. “If you will pardon my curiosity, will Your Graces be coming to London next Season?” She smiled uncertainly. “It is just—well, we do so enjoy having family in residence.”

“I really couldn’t say. You would have to ask my husband,” Katie admitted, sorry to take the hopeful look off the other woman’s face.

Mrs. Kent nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly as she guided Katie out of the grand, unused room.

A few moments later the housekeeper opened another set of double doors. “This is the library.”

Katie’s lips curved into a smile as she entered the cavernous book-lined room, inhaling the familiar scent of beeswax, leather, and wood deeply into her lungs. Chatham had magnificent libraries at both Chatham House and Chatham Park, but those weren’t hers. This library belonged to Katie. Well, at least as much as anything of the duke’s belonged to her.

“His Grace is very fond of this room,” Mrs. Kent said. “He spends almost as much time here as he does in his study.”

Her words warmed Katie. A love of libraries and books was an excellent sign, wasn’t it? Dulverton could not be too horrible if he loved books.

Cheered by the thought Katie strolled toward one of the shelves, her smile slowly fading the closer she came to the books. “My goodness,” she murmured, her gaze flitting from book to book and shelf to shelf. All the spines were bottle green—the exact same binding style for every single book. She glanced at the next shelf and saw it was the same. As was the next and the next. Hundreds—no, thousands—of identical book spines.

She turned to the housekeeper. “Is this a new library?”

“No, no, it is quite ancient.”

“I have never seen all the books in a private library bound the same way.”

“His Grace’s father had all the books rebound when he inherited, and His Grace has bound all his acquisitions in the exact same style.”

Stunned and vaguely unnerved, Katie slid a book from the shelf and turned it in her hands, her mind on the three cases of books that were among her things. They were bound in all sorts of styles and colors. Would they also be rebound in dark green leather and absorbed into her husband’s collection?

Something about that thought left her uneasy and she hastily replaced the book on the shelf. Suddenly the room was not so cozy and comforting after all, but eerily remote and unwelcoming.

Much like her husband.

Katie headed for the door, suddenly desperate to get out. As she sped from the room she noticed the odd placement of the furniture, which was upholstered in the same dark green leather as the books. Each piece was exactly the same—large wing chairs, there were no settees—and positioned in four separate seating areas.

Identical clocks sat on the identical mantelpieces above massive fireplaces at either end of the room. Large mirrors in plain gilt frames hung above each. Katie spun around, this time looking at the walls rather than the books. The mirrors were the only things on the wall. There wasn’t much wall space that wasn’t covered in books, but what there was, was bare.

“Why are there no paintings?”

“Er, His Grace does not care for paintings in the library.”

Katie laughed but then saw the other woman was not laughing with her. “Whyever not?” When the other woman hesitated Katie added, “You may always speak plainly with me, Mrs. Kent. As you probably know, Dulverton and I are not well acquainted.” She smiled faintly at the understatement. Katie did not doubt for a moment that every servant in London, not just the duke’s, had heard about The Night of the Kissing Game—as some wag had dubbed it—and its resultant marriages.

Mrs. Kent cleared her throat. “His Grace—like his father—has very particular tastes when it comes to certain things.”

“Things like paintings?” Katie urged when Mrs. Kent ground to a halt.

“More than just paintings. He requires order and cannot tolerate clutter.”

Katie raised her eyebrows. “Paintings are clutter?”

Mrs. Kent inhaled deeply and then let both her breath and the words out in a rush. “His Grace requires symmetry. And when that is not possible, he prefers there be… nothing.”