"Everyone out." The Duke's voice cut through the drawing room before the last marriage candidate finished defending herself. Six young women froze beneath the chandeliers. Their mothers stared.
Alexander Whitmore stood beside the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle, his face pale with exhaustion and his patience plainly gone.
"Your Grace," Lady Beatrice protested. "Surely you cannot mean I do."
Chairs scraped. Silk whispered angrily across the carpet. Near the silver tea service, Ellie Harper lowered her eyes and began collecting the abandoned cups. She had spent the afternoon being exactly what high society expected her to be, useful and unnoticed. When the final candidate swept toward the doors, Ellie lifted the heavy tray and followed.
"Miss Harper."
She stopped. Every woman in the room stopped with her. Alexander's gaze settled on Ellie.
"Not you." His fingers tightened against the mantle. "You stay."
Ellie slowly turned around. "Why?"
Five hours earlier, Whitmore Hall had looked less like a nobleman's home than a beautifully furnished marketplace. Ellie stood behind the tea table as six prospective duchesses arrived with mothers, companions, jeweled hair, carefully practiced smiles, and marriage settlements large enough to rescue small kingdoms. She was 22, fair-skinned, with soft brown hair pinned simply beneath a white lace cap she had borrowed from the household linen cupboard. Her gray-blue dress was clean but plain. Beside Lady Caroline Westcott's emerald silk, Ellie looked almost colorless. That suited everyone perfectly.
Ellie was the orphan niece of Mrs. Harper, Whitmore Hall's housekeeper, and she had lived under her aunt's protection since her parents died. She belonged neither below stairs nor above them, which meant polite society had solved the inconvenience by looking through her.
"Another pot of Darjeeling, Ellie." Her aunt whispered as servants hurried past. "And keep the cream warm."
"Yes, Aunt May."
"Whatever happens, do not draw attention."
Ellie glanced toward the drawing room doors. "I assure you, I have considerable experience."
Aunt May almost smiled. Then the doors opened. Alexander Whitmore entered. Without announcement because a duke required none in his own house. At 34, he carried his rank without ornament. His dark coat was severe. His waistcoat charcoal rather than fashionable gold. And a narrow scar ran from beneath his right ear toward his collar. Ellie had seen him from a distance many times. Up close, the first thing she noticed was not the scar. It was fatigue.
Alexander bowed to the assembled ladies. Six women smiled at once. His expression suggested he would rather face a firing squad.
The interviews began badly and deteriorated with impressive efficiency. Lady Caroline praised the Whitmore name for seven uninterrupted minutes. Miss Penelope Grant played the pianoforte so aggressively that Alexander's fingers began tapping against his knee. Lady Beatrice explained how she would redecorate the west wing before asking whether his late mother's rooms might be cleared.
Alexander's tapping stopped. "Those rooms remain as they are," he said.
Beatrice blinked. "Naturally, your grace. I only meant that when I am duchess, if—"
Silence. Ellie bent over the tea service before anyone noticed the smile threatening her mouth.
By noon, Alexander had heard discussions of London houses, hunting parties, jewels, heirs, political alliances, and which portraits should be moved to make room for future children. No one asked him what he wanted.
Ellie began noticing small things. His untouched breakfast plate remained on a side table. He drank two glasses of brandy before luncheon. By the third interview, his answers had shortened to single sentences. During the fourth, his right hand trembled once as he reached for his glass. He immediately closed it into a fist. Nobody else seemed to notice.
Lady Caroline was describing the advantages of her father's banking connections. "Whitmore needs stability," she said brightly.
Alexander looked toward the rain beating against the tall windows. "Does it? Every great house does. And what does its owner need?"
Caroline hesitated. It was the first question all afternoon for which she had prepared no answer.
Ellie quietly set another cup on the tray. She did not know Alexander Whitmore. She had no reason to care whether he married Caroline, Beatrice, or the pianoforte itself. But when he reached again for the brandy with that faint tremor in his fingers, Ellie looked at the untouched bread beside the cold remains of his breakfast. Then she looked at the fresh tea steaming beneath her hand. Without asking permission, she removed his brandy glass, poured the tea, placed two slices of bread beside it, and carried the tray across the room.
Alexander stopped listening to Lady Caroline. His eyes lowered to the cup. Then they rose slowly to Ellie's face. For the first time that day, the Duke looked genuinely interested in someone. Alexander's gaze remained on Ellie long enough for Lady Caroline to notice.
"Your Grace," Caroline prompted.
He did not answer her. Instead, he looked down at the tea, then at the bread, then back at Ellie. "Did I ask for this?" His voice was quiet.
Ellie felt Aunt Mae's warning echo in her head. Do not draw attention. She had managed to violate that instruction spectacularly. "No, Your Grace."
"Then why is it here?"
Lady Caroline gave a delicate laugh. "How terribly forward."
Ellie kept her hands folded around the edge of the tray. "Because you haven't eaten."
Alexander's expression did not change, but something sharpened behind his eyes. "You monitor my meals?"
"Only when they remain untouched for 5 hours in front of me."
A tiny silence followed. Lady Caroline's smile disappeared. Alexander glanced toward the cold breakfast plate, "And the brandy was not helping."
Someone near the window inhaled. Ellie suspected Aunt May had stopped breathing entirely.
"You removed a duke's brandy because you disapproved of it?" Alexander asked.
"I removed it because your hand was shaking."
His fingers immediately became still. Ellie wished she could retrieve the scent from the air. Lady Caroline stared at her as though a chair had spoken.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "Who exactly are you?"
Ellie turned slightly. "Ellie Harper."
"That does not answer the question."
"It generally does when someone asks my name."
Alexander's mouth shifted. Not a smile. Something dangerously near one.
Lady Caroline flushed. "She is a servant then?"
"No," Ellie said.
"Yes," Aunt May said from the doorway at precisely the same moment.
Ellie looked at her aunt. Aunt May closed her eyes briefly. "Miss Harper is my niece, your grace. She assists me when the household requires it."
Alexander picked up the bread. "Then today the household required good judgment." He took a bite. The conversation was over because he had decided it was.
Lady Caroline lasted another 9 minutes before Alexander thanked her and sent her away. The fifth candidate entered wearing lavender silk and brought a portfolio of watercolor landscapes. She explained that a duchess should bring beauty into a difficult man's life. Alexander studied a painting of an Italian lake.
"Have you been there?" "No, your grace." "Then how did you paint it?" "From another painting." He handed it back. "I see."
Ellie lowered her face over the teapot. The sixth candidate was worse. Lady Sophia Bellamy possessed beauty, impeccable breeding, and a dowry capable of repairing every leaking roof between Whitmore Hall and Scotland. She also possessed the confidence of a woman who had never been told no.
"My father has reviewed the Whitmore accounts," Sophia said once the formal pleasantries ended.
Alexander's cup stopped halfway to his mouth. "Has he?"
"Only what is publicly known."
"How reassuring."