Page 48 of The Duchess Audition

He had never heard of any duchess making their own supper, much less a duke’s. Indeed, he could not even begin to imagine what rough practices she had become used to at her previous home, for the servants had already started to complain that she was too informal, and they did not know what to do with that.

“I no longer have an appetite,” he replied. “But I shall wait until the cordial begins cooling.”

“Very good.” She smiled and turned her back on him to continue stirring. “Actually, this is rather lucky, as I was hoping to talk to you about having a study for myself. Somewhere for my books, which should be arriving soon.”

He watched the way her hair moved as she talked. “That can be arranged.”

“I finally convinced the gardener to let me have a greenhouse and somewhere to use as a workshop,” she told him, her voice animated. “I promise, I shall not permit William to observe me doing anything dangerous. But it was such a relief, for the gardener kept trying to dissuade me, saying that gardens should be pretty. Mine will not be but, my goodness, it will be marvelous.”

He sank down onto a nearby stool, charmed by the lively rhythm of her voice when she spoke of what she loved. He could have listened to her for hours, lost in her passion.

I have never been that passionate about anything…

It was a sobering realization, to know that after thirty-two years upon this earth, he had never found anything to stir him up into such a fervor.

Between a strict childhood of being trained to be the duke, to then becoming the duke, and contending with his first marriage, there had been no time or space for him to seek out what moved and inspired him. He had just existed for a singular purpose and had not swayed from that path.

Listening to Marina chatter on eagerly about all of the plants she wanted to fill her greenhouse with, and all of the things she planned to make, Anthony wondered if, perhaps, his own path could change. Perhaps, there was still time for a great passion.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“You see, no one needed to be disturbed,” Marina said with a smile, as Anthony brushed sandwich crumbs from his lips. “At Stadley, I would serve myself all the time, but then Uncle and I never really kept ordinary hours. We might have breakfast at six o’clock in the morning or eleven, we might take dinner at four or nine.”

He reached for the cup of hot cordial that she had prepared for him and inhaled the sugary, floral aroma. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, piquing Marina’s curiosity; it was a scent he liked, she could tell that much.

“Stadley sounds like an unruly place,” he muttered, his eyes opening again.

“Not unruly, just not… so rigid,” she countered, willing him to take a sip so she might see if he enjoyed it as much as his son. A common ground that might help heal the rift between them.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly sipped so he would not burn his tongue. All of a sudden, his brow furrowed, not in a frown but in the soft creases of sadness. His eyes seemed misty for a heartbeat, and then they widened into surprise, shining with a boyish glee she had not seen from him before.

“It tastes just like I remember,” he said quietly, and sipped again.

A soft laugh rumbled from his throat, his hands cradling the cup, leading Marina to notice that he had rather nice hands. Large, masculine, not the kind she would have expected from a gentleman, a duke, who was meant to live an easy life.

“My grandmother used to give me this in the winter,” he said, almost to himself. “I had forgotten that.”

“William did not get to try it hot, but he very much enjoyed it cold,” Marina said, pleased.

She had done the unimaginable; she had, indeed, made a tonic to make Anthony less grouchy. If she had known it could be something as simple as elderflower cordial, she would have picked more from the woods, even if her hands were scratched bloody.

“What else did you teach my son today?” Anthony asked, a wry note in his voice. “I do hope you are not making him as wayward as it seems you have been, living with your uncle.”

She rolled her eyes, refusing to be insulted. “I told him some stories.”

“What kind of stories?” Anthony continued to sip his drink, showing no sign that he intended to leave.

She had captured his attention, and, she had to admit, it was a rather nice feeling.

“I do not think you would approve,” she admitted.

His eyebrow quirked. “Well, now I must know.”

She hesitated, deciding whether or not to tell the truth. Then again, William was his son; it would not have been right for her to keep secrets.

“I told him about the Earl of Mobley who was struck so hard in the head by a low-hanging branch that his eye popped out,” she said, already bracing for the scolding she would undoubtedly receive. “It was supposed to be a cautionary tale, for he was telling me of how he longs to go riding.”

Anthony blinked, his mouth open. “His eye popped out?”