“No worries now, my dear,” said Trevor as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Everything will be right and tight, you’ll see. By the morrow, you’ll be buried in dress shopping and party invitations. You won’t have a second left to worry.”
She didn’t answer. She hadn’t the life inside her to speak, but the feel of his hand and the heat of his body gave her enough strength to begin the stately walk to the door. It was an impressive house in an impressive neighborhood. She’d never been in Grosvenor Square, though of course she’d heard of it. As it was near dark, there were no other people on the walk, but the ever-present murmur of the city beyond kept the place from being quiet. At least until Trevor banged the huge brass knocker carried in the beak of a fierce eagle. The ducal crest, she presumed, and she felt appropriately intimidated by it.
The door opened on silent hinges by a butler with a large frame and immaculate salt-and-pepper hair. Trevor greeted him warmly.
“Seelye, you’re looking in excellent health.”
“Mr. Anaedsley. A pleasure to see you this evening.” By not even a flicker of an eye did he acknowledge Melinda, but he did step back to gesture them inside. “Please step in out of the damp air. I shall inform His Grace that—”
At that moment, a woman’s low throaty laugh vibrated through the air before they heard the words, “Radley, that’s wicked!”
“Is it?” the man answered, humor lacing through his words. “I thought it would be fun.”
Melinda looked up to see a couple descending the stairs, the woman a bit faster than the gentleman, her eyes alight with laughter as he reached forward and missed her arm. There was nothing untoward in their actions, except that anyone with eyes could see that the two were playing with each other. Nothing so childish as tag, but still a game of run and catch though neither went faster than a quick walk.
“Slow down, minx,” the man called, but he needn’t have said it. The woman had stopped abruptly on the second to last step, her gaze finally catching the party in their front hallway. Since the man hadn’t noticed yet, Mellie feared a collision, but at the last second, the gentleman stepped nimbly aside, taking a small leap around his companion to land sweetly on the main floor. Which was when Seelye cleared his throat and everyone—the couple included—looked to the butler.
“Your Graces,” Seelye intoned. “Mr. Anaedsley and Miss…”
Mellie remembered at the last second what was required. She hastily dropped into an awkward curtsy. “Miss Melinda Smithson, Your Grace. Er, Your Graces.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Smithson, Mr. Anaedsley,” said the duke as he stepped forward and executed a smooth bow.
Meanwhile, Her Grace frowned, obviously searching her memory. “Mr. Anaedsley. Mr. Trevor Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby. Goodness, I stitched quite a number of gowns for you, sir.”
Beside her, Trevor chuckled as he pulled off his hat and gloves. “For me, Your Grace? I assure you, I have never worn a gown in my life.”
“No, sir, but countless ladies have ordered them just to please you.” She smiled as she joined her husband’s side. “I must know, is yellow truly your favorite color?”
He frowned. “Yellow? No, Your Grace. I favor purple instead.”
“Very royal of you,” she said. “And I always did think Miss Atterberry somewhat addled. Didn’t stop me from selling a dozen or more yellow gowns last Season.”
“Very clever, Wendy,” her husband said with a smile, “but we shouldn’t keep them standing about in the hallway.” Then he grinned at Trevor. “Do you know what the best part of being a duke is?”
Trevor laughed. “I can think of a thousand things.”
“Well, other than my lady wife, there is but one: excellent brandy. Would you care for a glass?”
“With pleasure,” he answered as the four of them crossed a pristine marble foyer to enter a lavish parlor. His Grace went directly to the sideboard, and as he poured from a crystal decanter, he glanced at her. “And for you, Miss Smithson?”
“I should love a glass of brandy, if you please.”
The duke’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Which left it to Trevor to enlighten her.
“As a general rule,” he said in an undertone, “ladies find brandy too strong.”
“Oh,” she whispered back. But she’d always drunk brandy. It was one of her favorite… Well, no matter, she was in society now. “I’m sorry. I suppose I meant…um…”
“Sherry for her, please,” Trevor finished.
The duke was just turning around with a glass of brandy when his duchess lifted it from his hand. “Let her drink what she wants.” She pressed the snifter into Mellie’s hand. “You’ll find we’re not the typical duke and duchess.”
Mellie looked at her drink, unsure what to do now. “Is there a regular type?” she wondered aloud.
“That’s a question for Eleanor,” the duchess replied as her husband passed another brandy to Trevor. “She’s Radley’s cousin and takes great delight in correcting our misguided notions. But for now, you should eat and drink as you like in our home.”
Mellie smiled, feeling her insides ease a little. The duke and his duchess were of a warm sort. They smiled often—usually at each other—and took pains to set her at ease. She hoped that she wouldn’t muck things up so badly.