The Sweetest Dark by Shana Abe Page B

slope of the field and a notched break of trees, the channel glinted, pebbles of light broken only by the shadow island that was the duke’s former home, and now my own.
    â€œMiss?” The butler was waiting, watching me with a patience that might have disguised something deeper. Like pity.
    I scurried inside.
    Tea was to be held in one of the few chambers that had been fully completed. It wasn’t quite a parlor, at least not in the traditional sense. It resembled more an auditorium. There was no stage, but I was sure entire theatrical productions could take place within its walls. It was that huge.
    And everything—everything—was black and white.
    The marble checkered floor. The silk-papered walls. Clusters of tables and chairs of every size and shape, all black woods and spotless white velvets.
    Black and white rugs. Black and white drapery.
    A black grand piano stood ponderously in the middle of it all, a circle of chairs surrounding it like a noose.
    Uh-oh.
    And there were other people here, as well, about two dozen men and women standing in pockets and speaking in small, civilized voices. I saw no sunburned arms or faces, so they might have been the local gentry. Formal suits and starched-lace dresses and ostrich plumes in the ladies’ hair; everyone serious, no one smiling.
    Tea with His Grace looked to be a torturously grim affair.
    Mrs. Westcliffe was addressing a man who was leaning against the piano with one hand. I was unsurprised to see that he was dressed to match the chamber. Only the ring on his finger shone with color.
    He wore a ruby, a big one. I knew at once it would be clouded.
    â€œâ€¦Â and—ah, here she is.” With her back to the man, Mrs. Westcliffe threw me her pinched do-hurry-up look. “Come, Miss Jones. Come at once, if you please.”
    I did. I glided past the others and stood with my lovely, absolute obedience before the man and his ruby.
    â€œYour Grace, may I present Miss Eleanore Jones, the latest happy beneficiary of your great goodwill. Miss Jones, I have the honor of introducing His Grace, the Duke of Idylling.”
    I sank into a curtsy so low it made my knees ache, my gaze fixed to the floor.
    â€œA true pleasure to meet you, sir,” I murmured, rising as slowly as I could.
    â€œAnd you,” the duke said back to me in a plummy, bored tone.
    I took it as permission to look up at him.
    I saw Armand before me and not. The duke was both taller and thinner than his son, with sallow skin and startlingly concave cheeks. I recognized that combination too well; it was the look of unhurried starvation. It seemed impossible to conceive, though, that a man with this house and a gemstone nearly the size of a robin’s egg on his hand would live starved.
    He did share the same waving chestnut hair as Armand, but the Duke of Idylling’s face was, at best, intriguing instead of handsome, and his eyes were brown instead of blue.
    He was freshly shaved and pomaded, smelling of a lemony soap. When he removed his hand from the piano it quivered noticeably, and he tucked it into his jacket pocket to disguise it.
    I moved on to my next scripted phrase. “Thank you so very much for inviting me into your home.”
    But the duke had no interest in my script. He was staring at me, staring at me hard, just as his son had done when we’d first met.
    â€œGood God” was what he said.
    I froze, my gaze flying to Mrs. Westcliffe. She looked from him to me, her eyes narrowed.
    â€œYou …” the duke began, and pressed a fist to his chest, still staring.
    â€œSir?” I whispered.
    â€œYour Grace.” Mrs. Westcliffe was abruptly professional. “Do forgive Miss Jones. She’s unused to such exalted company, you may be sure, but we—”
    â€œNo, no.” The duke began to laugh, strangely high-pitched. “It’s not that, Irene. I thought I’d seen a ghost. Good God,” he said again. He turned