War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 by Lynne Connolly Read Free Book Online Page A

criticise?
    On her way upstairs, she caught sight of the duke. He was striding down the hallway by his apartments, which were two floors below hers, almost directly, except, of course, much grander. What would the house look like opened to visitors?
    It was likely she would never know. She turned hastily to go in the other direction.
    “Miss Carter!”
    She had to stop when she heard him call, so she waited, head down, hands clasped before her and bobbed a curtsey.
    “Don’t do that,” he said irritably. “Look at me.”
    She raised her gaze to his face. “Good morning, sir.”
    “Good morning, Ruth.” His one-sided smile warmed the expression in his eyes, which bore marks the colour of bruises under them. “What are your plans for the day?”
    “Is that one of the questions you said you wanted to ask me?”
    “No, saucy wench, it is not.” His voice lightened. “We will speak of that tonight. I’m still considering what I want to ask you. You are an enigma, Ruth. A pixie.”
    His epithet startled her into a laugh. “Most people call me a beanpole.” Why did he provoke her into such answers? She had determined to say yes sir and no sir, but all her good intentions flew out the window when she spoke to him.
    “Not to me. You’re as mischievous as a pixie or an elf, that’s for sure. Or maybe one of the sprites that inhabit the woods around Rome.”
    “Are there such things?”
    “I am assured there are. Should you like to see them one day?” He gazed at her as if he really wanted to hear her answer.
    “Indeed, sir, that would be beyond my wishes. I don’t think of it because I doubt I’ll have the opportunity.” Taking her courage in both hands, she drew a breath. “Your grace, I would like to go into the attics to find a few things for the babies.”
    He waved a hand airily. “Of course you may.”
    He studied her, his gaze roaming over her. The resultant heat must be a result of the weather and her gown, not because he was paying attention to her. “Why do you wear such stifling clothes in the middle of summer?”
    The middle of summer had come two months ago, in June, but really this August was much hotter than it had any right to be. “Because they are what I possess, sir.”
    “If you are venturing into the attics, then I have something more suitable for you, if you’re handy with a needle. There are any number of clothes up there. They might be old-fashioned, but I give you permission to do with them as you will.”
    “Sir, I couldn’t possibly—”
    He broke into her protests. “Yes you could. You may use what you wish. I believe fashions were a little different a few decades ago, but I feel sure you could spend time remodelling them to your liking.”
    “Were they your mother’s?”
    He flinched as if she’d struck him. “Do not use those. All the trunks are labelled, I believe, with the names of the owners. I do not wish you to use the ones my mother wore. However, my two aunts lived here until their deaths, around twenty years ago. Use those.”
    She perfectly understood why he would not want someone using his mother’s clothes, although that gave her another clue. She had not asked the servants about the family history. As a distant relative she’d have known it, so it would seem suspicious if she’d asked. But his words meant he remembered his mother, and probably still mourned her.
    The duke was around thirty, which meant when his aunts were alive the fashion was for larger hoops and wider skirts. That would give her more fabric than she needed. She would also undertake to raise the hems to a more practical level. Grand ladies tended to prefer skirts that swept the ground. That would make the skirts a reasonable ankle length for her, or even higher. She could fashion a ruffle with the spare fabric to make the garment decent.
    Her mind running on, she found the thought of new clothes, however handed-down, exciting. A thrill went through her, such as she had not experienced