The Lost Duke of Wyndham by Julia Quinn Page A

coolly amused as he said, “I assure you, whatever violent urges I possess, I shall not act upon them.”
    â€œThat is a terrible thing to say,” Miss Eversleigh responded.
    â€œBut honest,” Jack acknowledged with a nod. He did not like this man, this duke who had been brought up to view the world as his private domain. But he appreciated honesty, no matter the source.
    And as Jack looked him in the eye, there seemed to develop an unspoken agreement. They did not have to be friends. They did not even have to be friendly. But they would be honest.
    Which suited Jack just fine.
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    By Grace’s calculations, the men ought to have returned within ninety minutes, two hours at most. She had not spent much time in a saddle, so she was not the best judge of speed, but she was fairly certain that two men on horseback could reach the posting inn in something less than an hour. Then Mr. Audley would need to retrieve his belongings, which could not take very long, could it? And then—
    â€œGet away from the window,” the dowager snapped.
    Grace’s lips tightened with irritation, but she managed to return her expression to one of placidity before she turned around.
    â€œMake yourself useful,” the dowager said.
    Grace glanced this way and that, trying to decode the dowager’s order. She always had something specific in mind, and Grace hated it when she was forced to guess.
    â€œWould you like me to read to you?” she asked. It was the most pleasant of her duties; they were currently reading Pride and Prejudice , which Grace was enjoying immensely, and the dowager was pretending not to like at all.
    The dowager grunted. It was a no grunt. Grace was fluent in this method of communication. She took no particular pride in this skill.
    â€œI could pen a letter,” she suggested. “Weren’t you planning to respond to the recent missive from your sister?”
    â€œI can write my own letters,” the dowager said sharply, even though they both knew her spelling was atrocious. Grace always ended up rewriting all of her correspondence before it was posted.
    Grace took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, the exhale shuddering through her. She did not have the energy to untangle the inner workings of the dowager’s mind. Not today.
    â€œI’m hot,” the dowager announced.
    Grace did not respond. She was hoping none was necessary. And then the dowager picked something up off a nearby table. A fan, Grace realized with dismay, just as the dowager snapped it open.
    Oh, please, no. Not now.
    The dowager regarded the fan, a rather festive blue one, with Chinese paintings in black and gold. Thenshe snapped it back shut, clearly just to make it easier for her to hold it before her like a baton.
    â€œYou may make me more comfortable,” she said.
    Grace paused. It was only for a moment, probably not even a full second, but it was her only means of rebellion. She could not say no, and she could not even allow her distaste to show in her expression. But she could pause. She could hold her body still for just enough time to make the dowager wonder.
    And then, of course, she stepped forward.
    â€œI find the air quite pleasant,” she said once she had assumed her position at the dowager’s side.
    â€œThat is because you are pushing it about with the fan.”
    Grace looked down at her employer’s pinched face. Some of the lines were due to age, but not the ones near her mouth, pulling her lips into a perpetual frown. What had happened to this woman to make her so bitter? Had it been the deaths of her children? The loss of her youth? Or had she simply been born with a sour disposition?
    â€œWhat do you think of my new grandson?” the dowager asked abruptly.
    Grace froze, then quickly regained her composure and resumed fanning. “I do not know him well enough to form an opinion,” she answered carefully.
    The dowager continued to look