"Miss Ashcombe," he said quietly. "Vivienne." She waited, but he did not continue. He only bowed slowly and walked away.
He only bowed to her slowly and walked away. She stood before the painting a long while after he had gone. Later, much later, when the house was asleep, she could not settle. She rose from her bed, put on her wrap, and went down the back stairs and out into the walled garden. The moon was high.
The gravel path was cool through the thin soles of her slippers, and the air was heavy with the smell of nightstock. She walked slowly, arms crossed against the chill, and let her thoughts run where they liked. She had begun, she realized, to imagine a life here. It was a foolish thing. She stopped walking as soon as she saw it, as though the thought were a step she had missed.
She stood in the middle of the path in the moonlight and made herself say it plainly. She was Vivienne Ashcombe, 7 and 20, a soldier's daughter with a small dowry and no title. He was the Duke of Ashenford, first in his line, master of a great estate and half a county besides. He had a duty. He had, by all accounts, a near arrangement with the Halverton family, and if not them, then a dozen other families.
She had helped his niece. She had walked through a swarm of bees. He was grateful. That was all. She stood a long moment with that.
It hurt more than she had expected. She had not known she had let herself hope. She had turned to go back inside when a voice spoke from the shadow of the wall. You should not be out here alone. She did not startle.
She was becoming used to the way he moved. She waited until he stepped into the moonlight before she answered. Neither should you, your grace. I do not sleep well. I do not sleep well.
Neither do I tonight. He came a little closer. He wore no coat, only a shirt and waist coat, and his hair was loose about his temples, as though he had run a hand through it many times. He looked younger. He looked less like a duke.
I heard the gate, he said. I came down to warn me off to sit with you if you will let me. She turned her face away so that he would not see it. She said, "I do not know that I should. I do not know that you should either." And yet he offered her his arm.
She took it. They walked in silence along the wall of the garden and back again. And then a third time. The night was very still. Somewhere in the house a clock struck too.
"You have been kind to Petra," he said at last.
"She has been kind to me." "You have been kind to my mother." "She has been kind to me."