But she never would now.
Voices came from down the hall, and she turned. Nathaniel. And another voice she didn’t recognize.
She marched in that direction.
There he was, standing in front of a large Baroque painting with a gentleman beside him. The other man had black hair, a stark contrast to Nathaniel’s golden locks. He wasn’t in mourning clothes, but Nathaniel had changed into black. She paused, then reminded herself of her purpose and strode forward.
“Nathaniel,” she said—and then caught herself. She had to speak to him with the same proper respect she demanded of him. “Your Grace.”
He paused, raised an eyebrow, and looked at her as though she were some curiosity from a foreign land.
“Your Grace,” he replied. “I see you’re still here.”
“I am,” she said. “This is my home.”
“I believe you’ll find it’s my home,” he corrected. “Do you require assistance moving? I’m sure some of my servants could help you.”
“That is not it.” She looked at the gentleman, tipped her head to one side, and appraised him from head to toe. Then back to Nathaniel. Proper decorum demanded that he introduce the man, but he made no move to do so.
The gentleman stepped forward himself, clearly amused. “Julian Havisham,” he said. “Marquess of Lynden.”
“Havisham?” she said. “Are you a relation of Annabelle Havisham?”
He nodded. “She’s my cousin. I’m staying with her family here in London.”
“I know Annabelle. We went to finishing school together. Please, give her my regards,” she said.
Finally, Nathaniel found his voice. “Julian is a dear friend,” Nathaniel added, more cordial now. “He came as soon as he heard my uncle passed.”
“I see.”
Silence descended on the room as she looked at Nathaniel, aware this was as awkward for him as it was for her. Good. Let him feel uncomfortable. He deserved it for having attempted to do away with her like yesterday’s stale porridge.
“It seems the two of you have things to discuss,” Julian said at last.
“I think not,” Nathaniel said. “All that needs to be said has already been discussed.”
“I daresay none of what needs to be said has been said,” Evelyn replied, crossing her arms—then remembered herself and dropped them, straightening her shoulders. She was a duchess. She must act like one. No foot-stomping. No raised voice. No arm crossing. She would demand with quiet dignity.
“Very well,” he said. “Julian, do wait for me in the parlor, please. There is some whiskey. The addlepated old fool… I mean, my late uncle kept a few bottles there for special guests.”
She caught the insult he’d lobbed at his uncle and wondered if he disliked the man as much as she had. But as his heir, ought they not to have been closer? It was peculiar to her.
He stepped out into the room to their right, a secondary drawing room, and looked at her for a spell. “What is it?” he said. “I have much to do. If you have something my uncle supposedly promised you?—”
“It is not the material that I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” Something about the way he said it made her bristle. Still, she had to keep her wits about her and not give in to her urge to say precisely what was on her mind. Insulting him would not get her what she wanted.
“What I want is to remain living here.”
“Living here? So you do not want just any possession—you want it all, is that it?”
“No. I am saying I wish to live here. I am the widow of a duke. And I should not have to be dispatched like some carte blanche,” she replied, pushing her chin forward in defiance. “I would gladly go to the dower house.”
“But the house is occupied.”
“I understand that. So I should stay here in the manor for the time being. It is large enough. We would never see each other. I will only stay here until the house is available, and then I shall move there.” She longed to look away because the judgment in his eyes caused her stomach to churn with rage. He thought her foolish. That much was clear.
