“Burke? What’s wrong?” Rosalie asked, her hand clutching a little tighter to his clenched arm.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.” He led her on through the open doors.
Madeline followed Rosalie and Burke into the grand Alcott dining room. The table was vast enough to seat thirty people. Madeline had spent more than one night in this room with the table so full. She felt almost helplessly small seeing it now, stretched before her with only the three of them to sit at it.
Thankfully, the table was modestly set at only one end. The grates to either side of the room blazed with a warm fire, and the near end of the table was set with candelabras and a winter arrangement of pine boughs and cones with some hothouse flowers adding pops of red. It was intimate, almost romantic.
Burke showed Rosalie around the table to take the right-hand seat at the head and promptly sat next to her, leaving a footman to pull out Madeline’s chair.
“But who is Mr. Selby’s nephew?” Rosalie asked again. “Have we met him?”
Burke shot her a scathing look. “You know you have.”
“I can’t recall. I—” She went quiet, her eyes narrowing with realization. She turned slowly to glare at Mr. Burke. “Really? You’re still holding onto that?”
“Til the day I die,” he muttered, reaching for his napkin and snapping it open rather more forcefully than was required.
“You will be on your best behavior, or so help me, Burke,” she warned.
“I do know how to comport myself in company,” he replied.
“I’m missing something,” said Madeline, her gaze darting from one to the other. “Who is the gentleman?”
“You met him too,” Rosalie replied. “Do you remember Mr. Bray? Nephew to the curate of Finchley? It was ages ago, before I was married,” she added with a pointed look at Burke.
Madeline’s vision filled with memories of the man. Mr. Charles Bray, nephew to Mr. Selby, curate of Finchley. He was also a man of the church. They first met the week of the Michaelmas Ball three years ago. She remembered his kind eyes and the easy way they conversed at dinner. He even danced with her at the ball, though he was a bit clumsy and stepped on her foot. But Madeline didn’t mind, for she was clumsy too.
“Oh, heavens,” Rosalie gasped, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. She glanced from Burke to Madeline, a smile stretching across her beautiful face. Before she could continue, there was a knock at the door and a footman entered.
“Mr. Charles Bray, Your Grace,” he announced, stepping back to let the gentleman into the room.
Rosalie stood with a slight sigh, one hand on her heavy middle as she moved around her side of the table. Burke was immediately on his feet too. Madeline craned her neck to look around her chair as the gentleman entered the room.
Gracious, how were his eyes the only feature she could recall? Charles Bray was so handsome, just not in quite the same rugged way as Mr. Burke. No, Bray’s was a softer beauty, like Bernini’s Apollo to Michelangelo’s David. He had a head of caramel-colored curls and amber eyes to match. He was clean-shaven, his chops trimmed back high at the ear. It gave him a youthful look, though she knew him to be older than her by at least a few years. He was closer in age to Rosalie.
“Mr. Bray, how lovely to see you again,” Rosalie called, still all smiles.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “I’m terribly sorry for putting you out like this. My uncle insisted that I come in his stead.”
“Nonsense.” She stepped forward, offering her hand out to him, like he was an old friend instead of a passing acquaintance. “Any member of the Selby family is welcome in this house day or night. Our door is always open.”
Madeline didn’t miss the way Burke’s brows narrowed. Nor the way his lips curled into a snarl. He quickly schooled his features, recovering as Mr. Bray shook the hand the duchess offered. “Bray,” he said with a curt nod, stepping up behind the duchess until his shadow loomed over her.
“Mr. Burke,” the gentleman replied with a polite smile. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Is it?” Burke retorted under his breath as he headed back around the table.
Mr. Bray raised a brow in confusion but said nothing. Of course, the gentlemen knew each other well. Burke grew up here at Alcott. And from what Madeline could remember, Mr. Bray did too, or near enough in Finchley.
Rosalie brushed past the awkward moment. “Come, Mr. Bray. We only just sat down. We’re a small party tonight. My husband comes presently, and we’ve been graced with the company of my dear friend. I believe you’ve met.” She stood at the head of the table, waving a hand at Madeline. “Mr. Bray, surely you remember Lady Madeline Blaire.”
Madeline offered him a breathless smile as he stepped fully into the light of the table.
The smile on his face spread. “Of course. Lady Madeline, a pleasure to see you again.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bray,” she murmured, clutching the napkin in her lap.
He was the kind of person who looked at you with his whole body, not just his eyes. His attention was all or nothing. She fought the urge to curl away from it.
“You’re here, sir.” Rosalie gestured to the empty chair by Madeline.
Burke was already back on the other side of the table, waiting to take his seat. Mr. Bray nodded, resting his hands on the back of his chair while he waited for Rosalie to resume her seat. Only once the duchess was seated did the gentlemen sit.
“How long have you been in the country, sir?” Rosalie asked, leading the conversation.
“Yesterday, on the afternoon coach,” Mr. Bray replied, waiting as the footman filled his wine glass. “It was supposed to arrive at noon, but we were delayed two hours.”
“This weather is just terrible,” Rosalie replied, giving the footmen a nod to begin serving the first course. “I can’t believe you both braved a journey with the roads in such a state.”
“Did you arrive yesterday as well, Lady Madeline?” he asked.
She nodded, bringing her glass to her lips. At a sharp look from Rosalie, she cleared her throat and added a lame, “I did, sir.”
“She was nearly frozen by the time she arrived,” Rosalie said with a laugh. “I dunked her in a hot bath to warm her up. And tonight, we shall wrap you in feathers and furs,” she added, flashing Madeline a smile.
There was something odd about Rosalie’s behavior. Burke noticed too because his gaze kept darting to her. And Madeline was quite sure if his brows stayed lowered like that, the look would become permanent.
“What brings you to Finchley?” Rosalie asked, leaning back as a footman served her the first course. Madeline waited mere moments before a footman swept behind her, setting down a steaming bowl of rabbit soup spiced with fennel and dolloped with cream.
Mr. Bray cleared his throat, reaching for his spoon. “Um…my uncle. His health.”
“Oh…” Rosalie’s gay tone disappeared as her smile fell. “Oh, of course. I’m so sorry, Charles. I was distracted. I didn’t even think to ask why you came in his stead. How is he then?”
His smile fell as he focused on his bowl of soup. “Nearing the end, I think,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Bray,” Burke offered, and Madeline could hear in his tone that he meant it. “Selby is a good man. We all pray for him that his pain will soon ease.”
Madeline sat back, glancing about the table. She had a vague memory of the curate. “What ails him?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Mr. Bray faced her again. “Doctor Rivers says it is a pernicious cancer of his organs. He has some internal pains and…well, it’s not polite conversation for a dinner table, I suppose. Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, casting Rosalie an apologetic look.
“We asked the question,” she replied kindly. “We all care about Mr. Selby. He’s been such a dear friend to our family. As Burke says, we pray for him.”
Before Mr. Bray could reply, the door opened, and the duke swept in. “Christ, but I’m famished. Sorry, I’m so late, angel. I—” He paused in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
Mr. Bray shot out of his chair, coming to attention for the duke. Across the table, Burke remained seated, as did Rosalie. Madeline leaned back in her chair to glance around Mr. Bray, catching the duke’s eye. Gracious, but he always had the ability to make her stomach flip. He was all hard edges. His fierce green eyes blazed with an inner fire. There was no man born with more tenacity of purpose than James Corbin, seventh Duke of Norland.
His gaze settled on Madeline and Mr. Bray as he cleared his throat. “I see we have company.”
“Yes, my love,” Rosalie replied. “Madeline arrived late last night. And you remember Mr. Bray?”
“Of course,” he said, coming forward to shake the gentleman’s hand. “Bray, how are you? How is Selby?”
“Holding on, Your Grace,” Mr. Bray replied. “He speaks nothing but praise of you, sir.”
James nodded, jaw tight. “Aye, he’s a good friend.” His gaze turned to her. “Lady Madeline, you’re well?”
“Perfectly so, Your Grace,” she replied.
“Well then…” He stood there for a moment, recovering his thoughts before he swept around the top of the table. Madeline expected him to sit, but he walked right past his chair and moved to Rosalie’s side. He dropped to one knee, his hand immediately going up to brush featherlight over her stomach. Rosalie’s hand slipped absently from the table, covering his as he murmured a few private words to her. She nodded, replying quietly. It was such an intimate moment. There was nothing sensual in the act, and yet it was such a clear signal of possession, of love and devotion. Madeline was surprised the duke wanted his guests privy to it.
She couldn’t help letting her gaze drift over to Burke. He seemed wholly unfazed by their intimate moment, casually eating his soup without waiting for the duke to sit. Following his lead, Madeline busied herself with reaching for her spoon. Next to her, Charles adjusted his chair, also doing his best to look away.
In moments, the duke had kissed Rosalie’s brow and took his chair, gesturing for the footman to bring him the first course. The entire energy of the table shifted to make him the center of attention. James Corbin simply could not be denied. “How long are you in town then, Bray?”
Mr. Bray cleared his throat. “I’m not exactly sure, Your Grace. I’m due in Bredbury soon after the new year, but I wanted to be here for my uncle. I’d like to stay until…” He fell quiet, his meaning clear.
He wanted to stay until his uncle passed. Madeline’s heart broke for him. He must be close with the gentleman. She had a faint memory of Mr. Selby joining them at lunches and dinners during the summer she spent here.
“Of course,” James replied. “He talks of you often. I know how he’s missed you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace” he replied stiffly, his gaze lowered to his bowl.
“While you’re here, I wonder if I can’t put you to work?” James went on.
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Mr. Bray replied.
At the same time, Burke called down the table, “Oh, leave the man in peace, James.”
“Ordinarily, I would,” James replied. “But we’ve had something of a crisis here. A fire,” he explained to the curate.
Mr. Bray leaned forward, setting his spoon aside. “Oh god, where?”
“Carrington. Ten houses on the row burned to the ground.”
“Behind the mill?” said Mr. Bray.
James nodded, reaching for his glass of wine. “The very same.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Mr. Bray replied with a sad shake of his head. “I only got in late yesterday. And the casualties, sir?”
“None, thank god. But nothing is salvageable. Total ruination. I’ve resettled the families for now, and reconstruction is set to begin next week,” James explained. “But I know it would ease minds to have a visit from another curate. Hoxley is running about like a mad man, but what with Selby as ill as he is…”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Bray said immediately. “I’d be more than happy to help however I’m able. I can write a note to Hoxley at once.”
James flashed him a grateful smile. “Good man. Why not come by in the morning so we can have a proper meeting? I have something else I would put to you as well.”
Mr. Bray reached for his wine glass with a nod. “I am at your disposal, sir.”
“Excellent. Come by at ten.”
“And that’s enough of business tonight, my love,” Rosalie said, placing her hand over his and giving it a squeeze. “We don’t want Madeline to feel neglected.”
“I notice Madeline is here alone,” James replied, his gaze drifting pointedly over to her.
Madeline sucked in a breath, grateful when Rosalie spoke for her. “Yes, her parents are preparing for a grand adventure in Spain. They intend to leave poor Madeline alone, and at Christmastime too. I simply had to have her here with me.”
James cast Rosalie a knowing glance. “Curious that you spoke nothing of it, wife.”
“Did I not?” she replied absently, buttering her roll. “I’m sure I must have. Perhaps I mentioned it to Burke.”
“Or perhaps you simply weren’t listening,” said Burke.
James shot him a glare.
“It was sudden, Your Grace,” Madeline admitted, speaking up at last. “And I would certainly never wish to intrude—”
“Nonsense,” said Rosalie. “We’re more than happy to have you here. You’re always welcome at Alcott, Madeline. Stay as long as you like. Certainly, you’ll stay through the new year,” she added.
“Whatever you wish,” James said at Rosalie before turning his attention back to Mr. Bray. “So, what calls you all the way to Bredbury?”
Madeline wanted to listen to Mr. Bray’s response but was distracted by the look Rosalie shot her across the table. Madeline narrowed her eyes, trying to read the subtle movement of Rosalie’s lips as she surreptitiously gestured at Mr. Bray.
What? Madeline mouthed, her eyes darting from Mr. Bray back to the duchess.
Him, Rosalie whispered again, a smile quirking her lips.
Madeline shook her head and shrugged.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Burke muttered. “Bray, are you married?” he called over James.
Both men paused, their gazes shooting down the table to Burke.
“Excuse me?” said Mr. Bray.
“You’re not married, right?” Burke repeated.
Rosalie cleared her throat as she reached for her glass of wine, making a noise that sounded decidedly like the word “don’t.”
Madeline wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
If Mr. Bray heard the duchess, he didn’t let on. “No, I’m not married,” he replied.
“But you have nothing against the institution, right?” Burke pressed. “Surely, you don’t think poorly of marriage. You’re a curate, after all.”
“He’s just been made vicar,” James chastised. “And you accuse me of not listening.”
“So, you must want to get married,” Burke said, ignoring the duke’s admonishment. “Given the right lady comes along, of course.”
Mr. Bray blinked, glancing from Burke to Rosalie. “I—”
“Burke, what the hell are you doing?” James muttered. “Why are you asking the man such questions?”
“What is strange about asking a man of the cloth his thoughts on marriage?” Burke said with a shrug. “Is he not licensed to sanction the act? Does he not counsel families on the rite as part of his profession? Surely, he must have a ready opinion.”
James’ scowl was enough to have Madeline desperate to burst into flame. On Burke, it had absolutely no affect. “We are in mixed company. Save your interrogation for the brandy room.”
“Does marriage not affect the fairer sex?” Burke replied. “I imagine the ladies are just as interested as I to know why a man as handsome and witty as Charles Bray is yet unmarried.”
Madeline watched the men parry words across the table like they were holding foils. Mr. Bray easily held his own.
“You sound like you’re interested in me for yourself, sir,” he said through a tight smile. “Can I soon expect an offer?”
“Hardly,” Burke replied, taking a sip of his wine. “Lifelong bachelor, me.”
“Ahh, so you do not ask to hear my answer then, sir,” Mr. Bray countered. “You ask to debate my position. If I say I am for it, you mean to counter me with claims against it, as any self-professed bachelor would.”
“You mistake me, Bray. I have nothing but the highest opinion of marriage,” Burke replied. “I will sing its praises to the end of my days.”
Mr. Bray narrowed his eyes. “Your bachelor days?”
Burke raised his glass in salutation. “Exactly.”
“Burke, that’s enough,” called James. “You don’t have to answer his question, Bray,” he added at the gentleman.
“I don’t mind, Your Grace,” Mr. Bray replied. “And to answer you, Burke, yes. I too have a high opinion of marriage.”
“And what is required to make a good marriage?” Burke pressed.
“Jesus, Burke,” James muttered, reaching for his wine.
“I’m curious too,” Rosalie admitted, earning her a sharp stare from James.
Mr. Bray cleared his throat. “Well…I suppose a marriage of like minds is ideal.”
“So, a marriage of two people with similar tastes,” Rosalie offered. “Perhaps liking the same books and music.” She flashed Madeline a knowing smile.
Oh god, this was a disaster. Madeline felt ready to be sick into her napkin. She fought the urge to sink down in her chair, shifting away from Mr. Bray. Rosalie and Burke clearly wanted her to set her cap at him.
She took a deep breath, trying to center her swirling emotions. It was one thing to imagine marrying a man when the idea had no substance. So far, she’d only pictured a faceless sort of presence. Her husband. He had no identity. But in the span of moments, her clouded idea was torn to shreds, and in its place, Rosalie and Burke had tacked up a handsome portrait of the soon-to-be-vicar.
Madeline snatched for her wine glass, nearly missing it. She fumbled her fingers around it, bringing it to her lips.
“Certainly, sharing interests is preferred,” Mr. Bray conceded, sparing her a quick glance as she righted her wine glass before it spilled.
“And temperament,” Burke prodded. “What sort of temperament is best in a wife?”
“Are you ill?” James growled down the table. At the same time, Mr. Bray said, “Well, I suppose that depends entirely on the husband.”
“Take yourself as the husband,” said Burke. “What kind of temperament would you look for in a wife?”
