He laughed.
It was not a polite chuckle. It was a deep, uninhibited, chest-shaking laugh that transformed his entire face. The severe lines of his responsibilities vanished. The guarded coolness in his eyes melted into bright, unrestrained amusement. For three seconds, he was not the Duke of Rentham at all; he was simply a man caught in a ridiculous moment, profoundly enjoying it.
Before Marian had formed a conscious thought, her hand moved. She turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook. Her pencil flew across the paper. She did not attempt to capture the terrace, or the dog, or the boy. She used quick, urgent strokes to capture the angle of his jaw, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the way his head threw back, the sheer life in that fleeting, unguarded expression.
It was over in a moment. Richard composed himself, successfully retrieved his glove with a swift, unexpected lunge, and ruffled his nephew's hair before walking away. He never looked toward the morning room window. He had no idea anyone had seen him.
Marian stared down at the paper in her lap. Her polite indifference had vanished. The man on the page was infinitely more interesting than the host she had been introduced to.
By late afternoon, the weather had turned crisp, driving the guests into the warmth of the main drawing room. Marian sat near a small writing desk, finishing a letter to a friend, while her aunt, Mrs. Ashby, conversed by the fire. Finished with her letter, Marian reached for her sketchbook to gather her belongings. As she lifted the leather-bound book, it slipped against the polished wood of the desk.
At that exact moment, a servant opened the double doors to bring in fresh tea, sending a sudden, sharp draft through the room. The loose sheet of paper Marian had tucked inside the front cover—the sketch from that morning—slipped free. It fluttered across the carpet, drifting directly toward the large marble hearth.
Marian stood up abruptly, her heart giving a violent lurch. She was not fast enough.
Richard, who had been standing near the mantelpiece listening to a neighboring gentleman, noticed the flying paper. With a quick, reflexive movement, he reached down and caught it just before it met the fire screen.
Marian froze.
Richard turned the paper over. He stopped. The conversation around him continued, but the Duke stood in perfect stillness, his gaze locked on the graphite lines. The silence stretching between Marian and Richard felt suddenly, overwhelmingly loud.
She walked toward him, her cheeks burning with genuine embarrassment. "Your Grace, I apologize. That is mine."
Richard looked up. His expression was entirely unreadable, the familiar, controlled mask firmly back in place. He did not look offended, but he did not look away, either. He handed the paper back to her, his fingers lightly brushing hers. Marian took it, moving to fold it away immediately.