And then, much to his amazement, her hand moved, and her fingers brushed the top of his.
For one brief moment, her hand rested atop his, and the weight of it, the softness, the power of that touch nearly undid him. And he could scarce believe that something so small could feel so great.
Chapter Nine
Will had not felt like a schoolboy since, well, he was a schoolboy.
But Lady Beatrice had invigorated his view of life in a way that he absolutely relished.
He ran up the granite steps of her uncle’s well-appointed townhouse, rapped the gold-painted knocker, and before he could wait two seconds—something uncommon for a duke—the door swung open.
Will crossed the threshold and stepped onto the black-and-white floor without waiting to be invited in.
As he did this and then stopped in the center of the room, with its curving stair and high-domed ceiling spilling sunlight through its glass windows, he reflected for a moment on Lady Beatrice’s words about bowing and scraping.
Bloody hell. Was his life full of small moments in which he did not even realize how privileged he was?
Yes. The simple answer was unequivocal.
Will paused, then turned toward the butler, with his perfectly pomaded silver hair and pressed blue livery. “Do forgive me. I gained admittance without waiting for you to even greet me.”
“Oh, Your Grace,” replied the butler swiftly, his voice deep with obeisance, “you are always allowed to enter into this home. You need not wait for invitation.”
“Perhaps I do not need to,” Will allowed, smiling pleasantly at the older man, “but I wish to. And that is a world of difference. It is very easy for me to go about doing whatever I please, but I should not.” He took a step toward the butler. “Your name?”
The man’s brows rose, and his mouth dropped before he rushed, “Heaton, Your Grace.”
He nodded. “Heaton. A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Your Grace,” the butler replied, his voice reedy in his disbelief.
Heaton said nothing else, as a good butler should not.
No doubt Heaton was quite surprised that a duke should wish to respect him so entirely. And he did. How could he not? The truth was he felt great respect for all the servants that he met, the hardworking people of London and those who kept the country running. He thought they deserved a great deal more respect and a great many more resources than they were given. He did not approve of the hoarding of land, wealth, and power that his class maintained. And even dignity.
With Lady Beatrice’s well-put castigation still rattling around his brain, he knew that he had to do better to make people realize that he respected them. One could not just think things. One had to act upon them.
“Thank you, Heaton,” he said at last, looking about. “Will you take me in to Lady Beatrice? I do believe she’s expecting me this morning.”
Heaton nodded, jolted into action from his stunned state. “Yes, Your Grace. Indeed she is.”
Will clapped his hands together in anticipation, because he could not wait to see her. It was almost unfathomable.
His mind had raced with intensity and possibility. He had been thinking all the waking hours of the night about the theater and their impending boxing lesson. In general, he slept but little. He could usually not turn his mind off and needed but five hours of repose, which meant he went through a great many candles and all the books he could devour.
Heaton led him through the light and airy house, refurbished into the height of fashion.
The butler stopped before a white door edged with gilding.
He nodded at Heaton.
As soon as Heaton opened the door, he stepped through, knowing that in this case etiquette did not need him to wait.
He was expected.
The small salon was beautifully appointed with bright blue silk walls and the most stunning white stucco ceiling depicting Diana at the hunt. Elaborate stucco foliage trailed over the ceiling and lined the walls in balanced proportion.
The chairs were delicate and beautiful, and the French writing desk in the corner was covered in books and papers.