Dukes, it seemed, maintained formal dining manners even when marooned on desert islands, eating picnic dinners with cheap cutlery and earthenware plates. Will kept up a polite flow of innocuous conversation about the weather—the thunder was slowly getting closer—the latest Court gossip, the tricky issue of the replacement organist at the church, given that there were two likely candidates, both bitter rivals, and the design of mazes.
Verity preserved a ladylike propriety and responded with innocuous comments while cutting slices of veal and ham pie and fruit tart. ‘Are you intending to plant your maze here rather than in the grounds of Oulton Castle?’
‘This is where I intend my brothers and sisters to live and, as they requested the maze, it is better here. May I pass you the butter?’
‘And the bread. Thank you. And you will reside with them here?’
‘The Castle is not safe for children, not for...lively ones, that is. Can you imagine them with battlements and towers and moats and suits of armour and with sharp weapons displayed on every wall?’
‘Vividly,’ Verity said with feeling. ‘They would love it.’
‘The Dower House at the castle has a collection of elderly great-aunts and cousins already living there. The house here is far more suitable for my stepmother and, naturally, she should be close to the children.’
But not in the same house.
Although from what Verity had heard of Lady Bromhill she would be an exhausting presence at close quarters on a daily basis. She could hardly condemn the man for not wanting to live in his stepmother’s pocket, even though she could only admire the lady’s independence and defiance of convention.
‘The last straw at Oulton was the discovery that Basil was planning to experiment with boiling oil on the battlements to see whether he could pour it over the walls on to imaginary besiegers. I decided that—’
The clap of thunder was almost deafening. Verity jumped and set her stool rocking as Will lunged to close the door just in time to prevent the sudden downpour of rain from penetrating the room. He stood with his back pressed to it, dramatically lit by the flames from the fire.
‘What is amusing you, Miss Wingate? If this keeps up, we will be lucky if the roof holds.’
She got up and began to light candles from the fire. ‘You look like a dramatic illustration from a Gothic novel. The hero bars the door to the raging storm while the heroine cowers before its ferocity—and your magnificence.’
For a moment she wondered if she had gone too far, then a sound that might, just possibly, have been a gasp of laughter escaped him and Will sat down abruptly on his stool. ‘You will be the death of me, Verity.’
‘I thought I had been working quite hard not to be the cause of your demise,’ she said severely, pursing her lips to stop herself smiling, because he had sounded all too literal. ‘If it were not for my common sense, you would be drowned or in the throes of developing pneumonia by now.’
For a moment she thought she was going to receive another lecture on the importance of correct behaviour, but Will picked up a candle and began to inspect the low ceiling, presumably checking for leaks. His ability to simply disregard awkwardness by changing the subject was impressive, if infuriating.
‘It seems dry enough,’ he said. ‘I suggest we finish our meal, build up the fire and retire to our beds. No one will be searching for us in this weather.’
‘That seems sensible,’ Verity agreed and received a look that she had no trouble interpreting. His Grace had been issuing orders, not inviting a debate. She smiled sweetly and began to gather up the remains of their meal, closing away the uneaten food in case mice were about. ‘Can mice swim?’
‘I would not think so. Not this far. But they might travel on floating branches, I suppose. Are you scared of mice as well as of spiders?’
‘It was not I who screamed,’ she pointed out, banging the lid back on to the picnic hamper with rather too much emphasis. ‘And, no, I am not frightened of mice. I do not want my food nibbled by them, though.’
Will was building up the fire, banking it in with large logs that would smoulder all night. ‘Tell me, are the parents of your friends aware of what you get up to in your tower?’
‘We do not get up to anything. We engage in rational, creative pursuits. Our parents are well aware of where we are.’
‘That was not what I asked.’ He pushed the last piece of wood into place and sat back on his heels. ‘Do they know what you are doing?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Do you feel it to be your duty to tell them?’
‘Certainly not. You appear to be doing nothing dangerous, illegal or immoral, however inappropriate it might be for ladies, and in that case it is none of my business. You seem to insist that I am a righteous killjoy, Miss Wingate. I am not a monk. I drink, I play cards, box and fence, hunt, ride and bet. I enjoy the theatre and the opera and the company of my friends.’
‘But you do not approve of me, or of my friends, do you?’
‘Approval has nothing to do with it. Your friends are none of my concern, I am glad to say.’ All the froideur of the Duke was back in his voice, in the rigidity of his posture.
‘Excellent, because neither am I your concern. You need not feel compelled to offer for me, I will most certainly refuse you if you do and we may return to mutually ignoring each other as mere neighbours.’
Is silence consent or is he simply too annoyed to speak?
Verity began to search around the sparse interior of the cottage for something she needed before she could settle for the night. A large square of wood which might once have been part of a shutter was all she could find.