His spoon clinked softly against the edge of his bowl. “Exactly how many sisters do you have?”
Ah, she probably shouldn’t have drawn his attention to her family again. If she told him the truth, he might guess who she really was.
And although he was going to find out eventually…
It would not be tonight.
The footmen swept in just then, replacing the soup with the second course—a roasted capon, golden and glistening, surrounded by a bed of herbs and roasted root vegetables that perfumed the air.
Rosamund rolled her lips together, then let them part on a wry little smile.
“Too many,” she finally answered. “Which is why I’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet here.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Even if it is a littlelonely at times. I can almost understand why Mother spends so much time in London.”
Something shifted in his expression. He tilted his head.
“Your mother spends time in… London?”
Drat. Er… “With my… aunt.” Despite it being the truth, she felt herself flushing.
After a pause, he turned his attention to the capon. “Do you get along with her, your mother?”
This…
How had they waded into such a tricky subject as her mother?
“My mother, she means well enough.” But did she really?
Rosamund should stop there, but… “My sisters and I, we didn’t turn out the way she’d expected. She’s never shied away from the fact that her daughters are her greatest disappointments.”
“Surely not?” he asked.
Rosamund hesitated. This was not the sort of thing one discussed over soup and roasted capon.
With a duke, no less.
It was personal.Too personal.And yet… hadn’t he said he found her candor refreshing?
“My mother was…”The perfect English rose. But she settled on… “Delicate. Inconspicuous. And my sisters and I… are not.”
The duke’s brow lifted. “No.” He shook his head. “Inconspicuous, you are not.”
Rather than take offence, she chuckled. “We inherited traits from my father’s side of the family. Who were not slim, but… like me. Too much of everything.” She gestured vaguely at her person, and then touched her cheek. “And I am perhaps the loudest of us all—not literally, but…” She tugged at the end of her braid. “The hair. The freckles. I don’t exactly vanish into a crowd.”
The duke didn’t move, his gaze fixed on her as though trying to solve some riddle. “You will never blend in, Miss Belle. It would be foolish for you to try.” It was neither mocking nor kind, merely a statement of fact.
“It isn’t always foolish,” Rosamund replied. “And blending in… it can be safer.”
“Safer,” he repeated.
“If no one notices you, no one troubles you. When you don’t stand out, you don’t invite scrutiny.” She hesitated. “It’s easier to avoid being hurt.”
Rosamund stared at her hands.
“Why do I get the sense you’re no longer talking about your hair and freckles, but about me?”
She shrugged, but met his gaze. “The idea can apply to more than one thing.”
“And is that what you mean to do for me?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Help me blend in?”