Page 13 of An Unfamiliar Duke

“May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Ainsworth?”

Forcing all thoughts of the Duke of Kelbrook and Lady Marian aside, Rosalind smiled at him. “With pleasure, sir.”

* * *

Sebastian leaned back in the seat of his carriage and closed his eyes. He had survived. Barely. He’d come deucedly close to leaving the Marlboroughs’ ball before its conclusion. Only the knowledge that an early exit would elicit even more talk had prevented him from acting on the impulse. That, and the promise he had made to himself to try harder. He smiled into the darkness. Those were the very words Miss Ainsworth had admonished him with at the start of their dance.

Their dance together had been the highlight of his evening. Unfortunately, it had also been at its beginning. For the remainder of the night, he had been fending off insistent matrons and making polite small talk with every eligible female in attendance. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a deep sigh. Even if his pending wedding were not of his choosing, he would not be sorry to do away with his current marriage eligibility status.

He allowed his thoughts to dwell on Miss Ainsworth. When they’d danced, he’d been reminded of the understated humor she’d shown when they’d first met. And when Eppingham and Sellers had pushed him for information, he’d recognized the intelligence she’d shown when they’d spoken of the Montgolfiers’ invention at Langton House. Despite Sellers’s goading, she had taken a stand. Few young ladies of his acquaintance had the courage or the wherewithal to make up their own minds on a matter.

Miss Ainsworth hardly owed him any loyalty, and yet, he was glad she had supported his decision to remain close-lipped about new developments being made around the country. In truth, he was aware of several up-and-coming innovations, not least of which was Meikle’s threshing machine. But quite apart from the fact that they were not his undertakings to share, talking about them opened the inventors up to the risk of theft. Years of work could disappear in an instant only to be claimed by someone else. Personal accolade aside, most inventive thinkers were in dire need of financing. To lose their end product before it could be launched on the world was the worst possible scenario for any of them.

The carriage pulled up in front of Hartford House, and a footman appeared to open the door. Sebastian alighted and looked up at his London townhouse. Lanterns hung on either side of the large black door, illuminating the steps leading to the house. Candles glowed in the windows of his study and bedchamber. Otherwise, a blanket of quiet darkness covered the imposing building.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” His butler stood at the door.

Sebastian took the stairs two at a time. “Thank you, Bellon. It’s good to be back.”

He walked inside, handing his hat and coat to Bellon before starting down the passage. His shoes tapped his progress across the tiled floor, the sound echoing up the empty stairwell, and for the first time since his return to the bustling city, Sebastian felt lonely. He entered the study. A low-burning fire lessened the chill of evening. Candles flickered on the mantel, leaving the large mahogany desk and leather armchairs in shadow but illuminating the painting of Finley Park above the fireplace.

Sebastian moved closer, studying the painting in the wavering light. A wave of longing washed over him. He was ready to go home. His gaze traveled from the illustration of the magnificent house to the manicured lawn and grounds beyond. Was he ready to share this special place with Miss Ainsworth? He lowered his head, memories of the Marlboroughs’ ball flitting through his mind in a jumbled array of color and sounds. He did not wish for that level of chaos, but neither did he want to be so completely alone as he was now.

A vision of Miss Ainsworth on the dance floor, twirling under his arm with laughter in her eyes, filled his thoughts. Was it possible to make something more of their marriage than merely the fulfilling of their fathers’ wishes? He did not know. But for the first time ever, he could think upon his wedding without dread settling in the pit of his stomach. And that was a start.

Lifting one of the candlesticks off the mantel, he walked across the room and took a seat behind his desk. Setting the candlestick down, he reached for a piece of paper and quill. It was late, and he was tired, but he would write a brief invitation before retiring. For this week, at least, Miss Ainsworth would be unable to accuse him of not trying hard.

Chapter 6

Rosalind crossed her room for the thirteenth time and pressed her hand to her stomach. This was ridiculous. She had taken a ride in the park with gentlemen before. Why on earth was she so nervous? Her eyes strayed to her writing table, where a letter stood propped against a candlestick. Her name and address were written across the envelope in bold, masculine lettering. She did not need to open it again; she already had it memorized.

Dear Miss Ainsworth,

May I call upon you this Monday at 1 o’clock? I thought a ride in the park would be a pleasant excursion and might give you an opportunity to ask any questions you may have regarding Finley Park.

Yours sincerely,

Kelbrook

She took an unsteady breath. Of course she had questions about Finley Park. Her childhood memories consisted of little more than vague images of a vast house, a colorful rose garden, and the dratted tree house. She was hardly equipped with enough information to be a good houseguest, let alone a worthwhile mistress. Thankfully, her mother had prevailed upon her to spend hours at her side, learning how to manage the Langton Manor household. The ledger books had been a big enough draw to carry her through the more tedious job of coordinating activities with the housekeeper, but that did not mean that she felt remotely prepared for the duties of a duchess.

Upon receiving His Grace’s letter, she had written back immediately, expressing her pleasure at the prospect of an outing with him. She groaned at the memory of penning those words. It had been a lie. She had rarely felt so anxious over anything. She pressed her hand more firmly to her corset, glanced at the clock, and crossed the room for the fourteenth time. Seventeen minutes until he came. Counting minutes would be spectacularly unhelpful. Perhaps itemizing things on a list would calm her turbulent feelings.

She took her seat at her writing table and reached for her diary. Turning to the back of the book, she stared at the blank page for a moment, then picked up the quill and wrote The Duke of Kelbrook. Beneath his name and to the left, she wrote Bad Things. On the right, she wrote Good Things. Starting on the left, she wrote, 1. He refused me entry to his tree house, 2. I do not love him, 3. I do not like him. She paused and studied the last entry. A week ago, that would have been true. But there had been moments since then when he had not seemed nearly as horrible as he once had been. She chewed her lip and then drew a line through I do not like him and wrote I do not know him.

She studied the other side of the paper. This one was harder, but before she saw him again, she wanted both sides of her list to be equally weighted. She thought back on their few interactions. Dipping her quill in the inkwell, she began to write: 1. He likes numbers, 2. He dances well, 3. He is no longer scrawny. She leaned back in her chair. It was not much, but it was a beginning, and it helped her feel better.

The muffled sound of knocking on the front door reached her from downstairs. Startled, she pushed aside her diary and came to her feet. The clock on the mantel showed eight minutes before the hour. Why had she assumed the duke would be here exactly at one o’clock? She had no desire to keep him waiting, but rushing down the stairs while still tying on her bonnet was not how she’d hoped to greet him.

Nora had set out Rosalind’s gloves and shawl beside her favorite hat on the bed. With trembling fingers, Rosalind donned her bonnet and moved to stand in front of the looking glass. Her face was pale, and her eyes were anxious, but her floral gown was lovely, and the pink rosebud print matched the color of the ribbons on her hat. She raised her chin a fraction. It was a ride in the park. She could manage it.

Slipping her shawl over her shoulders, she picked up her gloves and stepped out of her room. When she crossed the landing to the top of the stairs, the murmur of male voices reached her from below. Focusing on descending the stairs with as much poise as she could muster, she walked slowly. Footsteps crossed the tiled hall, coming to a halt near the base of the stairs.

“Good day, Miss Ainsworth.”

Rosalind’s head shot up. “Mr. Sellers!”

With a winning smile, the tall, dark-haired gentleman inclined his head and then offered her a colorful posy. “It’s a beautiful day, and I am come to see if you would take a ride with me.” His gaze moved from her hat to the shawl about her shoulders, and his smile widened. “It appears that luck is with me. You are ready for an outing, and my phaeton is outside the door.”