Uncommon durability?
After all her pawing and admiration, that was it?
He continued.
One cannot accuse the duke of flamboyance. His manner is reserved. His habits industrious. His attentions directed less toward society than toward the quiet maintenance of those dependent upon him.
Reserved.
Industrious.
Quiet.
Bloody dry as dust.
He read further, and as he did, irritation gave way to something stranger.
He could hear her. In the phrasing. The words.Her voice.
It is perhaps easier to malign a man who declines invitations than to examine the work accomplished in his absence.
That was her.
Sharp. Slightly amused. Cutting without appearing to cut.
And then?—
Whatever the cause of past speculation, it would be difficult for any fair-minded observer to depart Ironwood Manor without concluding that its duke is neither beastly nor unstable—but merely a man who prefers substance to spectacle.
He read the piece once. Then again. And a third time.
Although partial fabrication, her words read like a witness.
Deliberate. Strategic.
Incorrigibly brilliant, using Kenbrooks as silent corroboration.
The very man who had stormed his dining room and very nearly throttled him now seemingly provided testimony to Juiian’s civility. How the devil had she convinced him?
Clever minx.
But as Julian lowered the paper, a frown creased his brow.
Efficient. Practical.Boring!Was that truly how she saw him?
Julian rose abruptly.
Finch straightened.
“Your Grace?”
“I am going to Hallow’s Bridge.”
“At once?”
“At once.”
He would make the offer he ought to have made days ago.