“This week has filled me to the brim with feminine interest.”

“Perhaps not the right kind?”

His head turned sharply toward her. Nostrils flaring and posture erect, the duke was imposing, a dragon ready to breathe fire on the unfortunate maiden who entered his lair.

But she was no maiden.

Carnal want flashed in his eyes, there and gone. “Since I am about to surrender to your tender mercies, I shall take the high road and hold my tongue.”

She laughed, enjoying his mild censure. “It’d be better if you loosened it, Your Grace.”

A male grunt was his answer. Of all the Richland men, Lord Nathaniel was known for his abiding honor.

Their lineage bequeathed him with a blade-straight nose and defining jaw, but his hair was a dark auburn among a family of gingers to reddish-blonds. The duke’s eyes were his most distinct feature, a penetrating silver-gray when his brothers had variants of blue.

At present, his stormy gaze narrowed on her.

His Grace armored himself with unshakable manners. Today, she would breach them and touch his bare leg.

Her palms tingled at the idea of it.

Their approach drew the attention of Mrs. Staveley, half in, half out of a doorway ahead. The housekeeper’s face brightened, and she nipped into the ducal apartments. There was a quick clap clap, and two charwomen, their mob-caps aquiver, rushed out of the room. They executed speedy curtseys, murmuring Your Grace, Mrs. Chatham before scurrying down the stairs.

“So much for caution,” he muttered.

“I’ll talk to Mrs. Staveley. My room is on the third floor. Perhaps she can pass this off as you going to your chambers and I was on the way to mine.”

“You’re on the third floor? This is the family wing.”

She ignored his consternation and swept through the doorway with a breezy, “Mrs. Staveley, how are you enjoying the roses I brought for you?”

The housekeeper clutched her skirts and curtseyed. “Your Grace. Ma’am.” She folded work-chafed hands against her bosom. “They are wonderful. Thank you.” The older woman’s hazel eyes twinkled beneath her mob-cap. “We’re all atwitter below stairs about the duke needing a butter churn. Simms and Cook think its inspiration for a folly. Two footmen say it’s for an entertainment on the south lawn. With the young lords home, there’s no telling what mischief they’ll make.”

The duke groaned.

Mrs. Staveley, more high-strung than the average housekeeper, fretted. “Oh, dear. I’ve spoken out of turn, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

“No trespass was done.” But he shifted uncomfortably.

They were on shaky ground. Her discreet flirting on the stairs was one thing; servants discussing the duke’s activities was another.

“Mrs. Staveley, Her Grace is counting on you to stop any gossip,” she said firmly.

“You’ve not to worry, ma’am.”

The housekeeper didn’t balk at her taking charge. When mourning the late duke and the heir, the dowager had often sent desperate notes: Please, help me with Richland Hall. Assisting with the house party was no different. Except she’d never ventured inside the ducal apartments. The duke’s sitting room wasn’t so improper. His bedchamber was. A veritable Pandora’s box. She checked the forbidden portal, which was safely shut, and mustered the authority of a queen.

“Make certain there are no further conversations about this below stairs.” She paused to add iron to her words. “Because no one else can know that I’m spending the afternoon with the duke.”

The housekeeper blinked fast. “Certainly, ma’am. I’ll have a word with the footmen and the charwomen.”

“And the visiting attendants?”

“They’re enjoying a picnic on the other side of the vegetable garden. They’ll not get a whiff of…” Mouth puckering, Mrs. Staveley eyed the waiting buckets and finished with a tactful, “Of whatever it is you’re going to do.”

“Very good. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper bobbed a skittish curtsey and raced for the door. She hesitated there, a work-raw hand hovering over the knob. Shutting it would’ve been the natural thing to do.

“Leave it open,” the duke intoned.

His formality pricked her playful spirit. “Don’t worry Mrs. Staveley. His Grace’s virtue is safe with me.”

The servant’s hand jerked back, and she fled the room. When the noise of her starched skirts faded, the duke fisted a hand on his hip.

“Was that necessary? Your quip poked the beast of impropriety.” He was adorably grumpy.

“A little fun now and then is good for the soul.”

His scowl indicated otherwise.

She stepped bravely closer to him. He needed a good…something to ease his tension. A terse line settled between his brows. Brass buttons on his waistcoat strained against their moorings. She buried her hands in her skirts to keep from smoothing the silk covering his chest.

“I’ll own that I deserve your frown,” she said quietly. “But you’ve had week of stiff propriety. One might think you’ll burst with it.”

His shoulders were tense within his green velvet coat. “Saucy humor. That’s part of today’s remedy?”

“It can be.” She searched his eyes and found new pain which owed nothing to his injured leg. “I know you don’t take pleasure in these entertainments. You tolerate them. It’s not bad that you prefer a sedate, country life. It’s who you are.”

The atmosphere shifted. A pleasant fissure broke the strain, and the corners of his eyes softened.

“How refreshing to be understood.”

“I understand a good many things about you.”

His gaze rested at the base of her neck, and slowly, slowly he took in her jaw, her lips like a starving man. “I shall count myself fortunate to have you as my neighbor.”

Neighbors, yes, but they were never alone. This unexpected escape to his sitting room was luxurious torment. Pure denial. They’d not kiss. She reveled in flirting with him—and His Grace needed a good flirting—but a dalliance would only further their suffering.

Their attraction was a dance of the unsaid.

And it would have to stay that way.

Her hand dropped to her midsection, nursing the hurt hidden under layers of cloth. She contemplated his perfect cravat, feeling dry as dust and all of her thirty-five years. “We have four hours before you must get ready for the ball.”

The duke eyed the clock on his mantle. “I suppose this is where I should concede that you’re right.”

Her “Yes” was grudging acknowledgment.

She dipped low and tested the kettle perched by the fire. The copper was hot. If a passerby touched her, they’d find her flesh over-warm and shush her off to bed. A prudent woman would take that advice and stay under the covers.

Dragging the butter churn before the fire, she faced a trying fact. She wouldn’t kiss His Grace, but she would touch him…and that would test the limits of their restraint.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Nothing at the moment.”

He gave her room to work, an indication of his budding trust. “When do you plan to inform me of the details of this…”

“Healing treatment?” she supplied, pouring hot water in the churn. “In a moment.”

She upended buckets of tepid water into the churn, mentally cataloging the process her father had taught her years ago. The fire was a respectable blaze, heating her legs. Spring was lovely and full of sunshine, but winter’s bite lingered. His Grace would need the warmth, and she needed the oil of amber. She spun around, searching for the vial, finding a nicely lived in sitting room.

This is where he finds rest. It was a peek into the duke’s private life.

Windows shed light on a satinwood desk full of unrolled architecture plans. A beige brocade winged chair with its dented seat cushion waited for its usual occupant. Shelves of books, a few ferns but no flowers, and a wine-colored settee with comfy beige and white pillows added the final touch to cozy confines. It was all very un-ducal. She could lose herself in here.

“Mrs. Chatham,” he said sternly.

She continued searching the room, checking shelves, the mantle. “Keep your voice down, or this afternoon meeting of ours won’t stay secret for long.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am looking for my jar.” She spied the squat amber glass near papers on the duke’s desk. She sped toward it and plucked the treasured vial from the mess. “Here we are.”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Pray tell, what are your plans for me?”

She uncorked the jar with a pop. Oil of amber. The robust scent prickled the back of her nose. The aroma was full of the earth and not at all sophisticated. Like her. But the viscous oil would do a world of good for an inflexible duke.

“You have the patience of Job, Your Grace.” She leaned a hip on the corner of his desk. “I tend to lose myself in a project.”

Hand clasped behind his back, he was every inch a duke. “Since I am your project today, it’s only fitting for you to tell me what we’re about to do.”

She smiled. The explanation alone required the utmost delicacy. “You know the same thing happens when I put together my gardens. I don’t precisely plan as others do.”

He tipped his head a slight degree. “You’re evading me, Mrs. Chatham, but I can forgive you that because you’ve piqued my interest.”

He was as hungry for details about her as she was of him.

“Are you telling me you don’t put your garden plans on paper first?” he asked.

“Never. They’re designed entirely on intuition and impulse.”

“I can’t fathom such a thing.”

“Gardens are meant for pleasure,” she said tenderly, because the duke could use some tenderness. “Sometimes one must let things happen.”

It was a brazen statement. Rife with suggestion. By his ravenous stare, he couldn’t quash the warmth unfolding between them any more than she could.