Free Douglas: Lord of Heartache by Grace Burrowes

Lord Greymoor alerted him to the purpose of our visit.”
    Mrs. Kitts’s smile faltered, the first such lapse Douglas had seen. “Mr. Tanner is away from the property, but we did get his lordship’s note and passed it along to Miss Tanner. When shall we serve dinner?”
    Guinevere did not appear to have heard the question. She ran her hand over a sideboard, the top of which bore an inlaid floral design that made the heavy piece look considerably more graceful. “Guinevere, what would suit?”
    “You skipped luncheon,” she said, a slight maternal scold in her tone. “Could we have tea in the small parlor, Mrs. Kitts, then supper for his lordship and myself about eight of the clock?”
    “Why, of course, ma’am.”
    Douglas dismissed the woman with thanks for her time and all the information she’d imparted about the house.
    “Rose is fine,” he said as they returned to the small dining parlor.
    To his surprise—his pleased surprise—Guinevere slipped her arm through his. “How could you tell I was fretting?”
    “You left her in the care of a nursery maid you’d never met before, it has been almost two hours, and you love that child. Hester seemed a good sort though, and as the oldest of a large brood, she’ll manage Rose easily.” He tucked his hand over hers as they passed the main staircase, the better to prevent a detour to the nursery. “What do you think of the house?”
    “You’d be a fool not to buy it if the price is reasonable.”
    She enjoyed a conviction about her opinions Douglas did not share. “Because I could sell it for a profit?”
    “You could do that,” she said, preceding him into the parlor and taking a seat on a blue brocade sofa far more plush than the one in her own parlor at Enfield. “You told me once you were looking for a place to put down roots, to call home. This is that place, Douglas. This house is waiting for someone to love it. Please stop frowning at me and be seated.”
    Rather than accept her invitation—her direction —Douglas paced the small confines of the room. “Houses do not await love.”
    “This house has a lovely little Vermeer hanging in the front stairway, and nobody ever sees it. The curtains are Flemish lace, the rugs Aubusson, the wine cellar stocked with some of the most appealing vintages ever laid down. If these things convey, then this house is waiting to be loved.”
    “They convey.” Though he hadn’t noticed half of them, being instead absorbed with an absence of dry rot, mouse droppings, flaking plaster, dust, and cobwebs. “Why do you suppose Greymoor did this?” He waved a hand to encompass the house, its appointments, the effort made to fill it with grace, beauty, and comfort, right down to this elegant little jewel of a parlor, whose blue, cream, and gold appointments set off Guinevere’s coloring wonderfully.
    “Do you believe, Douglas Allen, you are the only man to whom life has been unkind?”
    He considered her question while a substantial tea tray—a silver service, no less—was brought in.
    “I’ve seen Greymoor’s other properties,” Douglas said when the maid had departed. “Neither Oak Hall nor Enfield is as well-appointed as Linden. The houses are smaller, more manors than country seats, and the grounds not as elegant. Why would he sell his most attractive property?”
    Because the simplest hypothesis that answered the question was that Greymoor was taking pity on a poor relation.
    Douglas reached for the teapot when Guinevere’s voice stopped him. “Shall I pour?”
    Damn it. “Please.”
    She gave him the sort of smile young people directed at their dotty elders. “Douglas, you haven’t eaten since breakfast at the last inn. Don’t stand on ceremony. I am not yet hungry and will have to join Rose in the nursery before dinner.”
    “Thank you.” Douglas helped himself to a sandwich while Guinevere prepared his tea: strong, three sugars, cream—bless the woman—and piping hot.
    “You won’t at least