Page 11 of When a Duke Desires a Lass

With a scowl and mumbled complaint, she grudgingly slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She’d been taught proper comportment but thus far, had been mulishly stubborn about displaying decorum.

As they ascended the spotless stairs, the impressive front door swung open.

“Your Grace. Miss Levingtone. I am Bevels.” Despite his austerity, kindness warmed the butler’s gaze before he bowed, then stepped aside for them to enter.

“Good afternoon, Bevels.”

Tobias handed over his gloves and hat, which the servant placed upon a marble-topped half-table situation to the right of the door beside a carved burgundy tufted bench. A matching bench was situated beneath a country picnic painting in a gilded frame across the foyer. A pair of rosewood end tables, topped with lush bouquets of fresh flowers, flanked the second seat.

“Mrs. Grenville and her grace await you in the drawing room.” How he managed to keep any inflection from his tone was laudable, though mildly eerie. “Follow me, please.”

Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Bevels proceeded down the parqueted corridor at a measured pace. His arms moved in perfect synchronization with his steps.

Step. Swing. Step. Swing.

Did majordomos ever do anything without precise movements?

A shock of pewter hair the butler had failed to tame with pomade stuck out at the back of his head and bounced up and down with each restrained movement, giving him the appearance of a rooster in a tailcoat.

Avery pinched Tobias’s arm and speared him with a panicked glance. She mouthed, “Her Grace?”

“No need to fret,” he assured her in a hushed tone. “I’ve met the duchess on multiple occasions. She’s not much older than ye and is a gentle, kind person.”

The dubious sideways glance Avery shot him said she didn’t believe a word.

She’d have to see for herself then.

A few moments later, Bevels stood at the drawing room entrance.

“His Grace, the Duke of Heatherston and Miss Levingtone,” he announced in a modulated tone.

Radiant in a pale peach gown, trimmed in ivory lace and silk rosettes along the hem, Mrs. Grenville stood speaking to her niece near the window. The light streaming through the glass cast her in an ethereal glow, and Tobias was struck dumb by her incandescent beauty for an instant.

No evidence of her fall earlier today remained, though she might—probably did—sport a few bruises.

When she glanced up and their eyes met across the room, his heart stalled for a full beat.

Emily Grenville alone turned him into a fumbling, incoherent fool.

“Uncle?”

Avery’s troubled voice coming from a hazy distance brought Tobias back to himself. A flush seared his neck that she’d caught him gawking.

Devil take it.

He bowed. “Your Grace. Mrs. Grenville.”

The Duchess of San Sebastian glided forward, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile.

“Heatherston. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that Aunt Emily is to assist you in Miss Levingtone’s Come Out. You could have no one better to aid you. I shall, of course, be delighted to aid in any way I can too.”

Avery had the good sense to curtsy, and quite prettily too.

Tobias could thank the expensive finishing school for that small favor.

Lest he reveal his admiration for Mrs. Grenville, with an alacrity that bordered on terse, he introduced the women to one another.

The duchess reached for Avery’s hand. “My aunt tells me you too are an orphan, Miss Levingtone. We’ve much in common, and I hope we shall become the best of friends.”