Just then Lord Aberdeen approached, stepping forward with squared shoulders. His face had gone white; he rather looked as though he’d been sentenced to the guillotine. Apparently his sense of honor had forced him to comply with the outcome of our race this afternoon. For that, I could at least respect him.
He pointed toward an open seat next to the duke. “May I, Your Grace?” The slight tremor in his voice carried across the room.
The duke looked up, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he motioned his agreement. His brows settled deeply over his eyes, as if he expected to be displeased with the conversation before it even began. As Lord Aberdeen took his seat, I felt the tiniest wave of regret at the outcome of the race, wishing to be seated by the duke myself. There was a part of me that was drawn to the man—intrigued by the way he always left me wondering what he might do or say next. I found myself looking forward to tomorrow’s excursion more than I’d expected.
Lord Aberdeen cleared his throat several times. “I had the pleasure of riding with your sister, Lady Ellen, this afternoon, from three until five o’clock.”
The duke’s grip on his cane tightened, and I sat on the edge of my seat, for a moment fearing he might use it. “I see,” he said at last. “Well, one must certainly never ride past five.”
I fought back the urge to laugh.
Lord Aberdeen shook his head vehemently. “No, Your Grace.”
I allowed myself to breathe, grateful the duke seemed content to use sarcasm and wit rather than his cane. But my gaze was drawn toward him for the remainder of the evening, and as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew it was because of more than my amusement in watching him flay Lord Aberdeen. Never had a man so fascinated me.
Chapter Seven
The bells rang the four o’clock hour as I hurried along the path toward Roecliffe Chapel. After playing lawn bowls for the entirety of the morning, I’d penned a few lines to Harry and then fallen asleep. I had napped longer than planned and was now in danger of being late. The loud clanging of the bells pushed me forward, quickening my steps.
Though I had no great sense of direction, the chapel proved easy to find. I came around a bend in the path, and a large structure appeared before me—the towering stone spires and gothic windows made it recognizable at once. My stomach swooped as a wave of nervousness overtook me. Why was I here? What on earth had the duke meant by inviting me? But there was no time to consider. Hurrying up the stone steps, I pushed open the large cherrywood door and stepped through the vestibule into the chapel.
The duke sat on one of the benches near the back, but before I could open my mouth to greet him, my gaze halted on the vision before me.
I walked up the aisle slowly, completely immersed in my surroundings. Instead of the expected dark interior, the walls were a brilliant white, washed in light from the stained-glass windows. The windows themselves were breathtaking, intricately and beautifully designed in an array of colors through which the setting sun shone. All this served to draw my eyes upward, toward the magnificent wooden ceiling; it was stained a warm russet color and supported by a display of smaller crisscrossing beams in the shape of flowers, all in soft curves and bends that highlighted the elegant arch of the building.
Its beauty held me captive. “Oh my,” I breathed.
“I am glad you appreciate the chapel’s splendor, despite your paternal heritage,” the duke said from his seat, though his voice held no rancor.
“Is there anyone who does not?” I asked, refusing to be goaded. My awe had taken me all the way to the front of the chapel. I turned back, noting the pleased expression on his face.
He shrugged. “There are many who take it for granted.”
I walked down the aisle, the clap of my shoes on the stone echoing through the empty sanctuary. The duke motioned for me to take a seat on the wooden pew next to him. I took the proffered seat, leaving plenty of distance between us. His proximity the other day, even for the briefest moment, had done strange things to my insides. Today I was determined to keep my guard up.
I tilted my head back, my gaze again drifting upward. “The ceiling reminds me of a ship.”
“A ship?” His forehead wrinkled.
“My father used to take me down to the shipyards when I was young. I remember being amazed at the intricacy and detail of the wood and how tightly the planks fit together. It seemed an incredible feat that those joints could keep out an ocean of water. This ceiling reminds me of those ships—not any ordinary ship, of course. One fit for a king.” I glanced sideways. “Or a duke, I suppose.”
He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling. One side of his mouth lifted, as if he fought the temptation to smile. “I’ll have something new to think about the next time I attend services.”
Before I could measure their wisdom, my words escaped me. “And when will that be?” I was struck by the oddity of this exchange, our first cordial conversation. We had never even been formally introduced. The solitude of the room and the muted sunlight seemed to have cast a spell around us.
He shook his head. “You aren’t the first to ask. I haven’t attended for . . . for almost two years.”
Perhaps his absence at church coincided
