Free Jilting the Duke by Rachael Miles

love, then she would ignore it as well. She already had years of practice pretending disinterest in news of Aidan; now she could simply pretend disinterest in Aidan himself.
    * * *
    As Aidan accompanied Ian to the nursery, the boy offered a short tour of the house and its inhabitants. Ian pointed out a study, a morning room, and a door under the stairwell that concealed the servants’ stairway, leading down to the kitchen, the household offices, and Dodsley’s and Cook’s rooms.
    As they ascended the stairs to the first-floor landing, Ian indicated the general arrangements of the rooms: a music room, the gallery, the drawing rooms. The second floor was devoted solely to bedrooms, family to the left and guests to the right. Most conveniently, Ian indicated Sophia’s bedroom. “Mama’s room is there at the end.” Ian waved his hand toward it. On the third floor were the nursery and the staff rooms.
    Ian had Tom’s talent for knowing all the household secrets: Dodsley loved opera and would sometimes play the piano and sing robustly in the music room (“with Mama’s permission, of course”). Cook was disappointed at not finding pistachios in London for any reasonable price because without them she was no longer able to make her famous lemon cake. His tutor Mr. Grange (who “smells of pickles”—Ian wrinkled his nose) pined after a squire’s daughter, but hadn’t the money to offer for her. Their lame cat Artemisia (“Papa named her for a plant”) liked to lie in the sun on the balcony outside his mother’s bedroom and pretend to catch birds, so Sophia left the door unlatched and open. Ian’s stories were useful and charming, though Aidan was certain Sophia would not have approved of her son’s easy confidences.
    Ian was so delighted to escort him to the nursery that Aidan felt a twinge of conscience. He had accepted Ian’s offer for reasons other than a desire to get to know his ward better. Certainly the boy’s resemblance to Tom was too great for Aidan to refuse the boy’s request. But he also needed some time, having met Sophia, to plan his next move. Ian’s invitation gave him that time. It also allowed him to escape from the gaze of the ever-vigilant Dodsley and wander the house unimpeded. Aidan imagined that he would play soldier for a quarter hour or so, then begin his investigations. If he happened to run into a suspicious servant, he would simply claim to be lost.
    The nursery was painted, not the typical drab whitewash, but a pleasing terracotta that spoke of Ian’s Italian childhood. The walls were hung with botanical drawings. Aidan knew the most common—pansies, violets, roses, columbines—but others were more exotic.
    â€œMama painted them,” Ian offered proudly. “I get them when she’s finished. I like that one best.” Ian pointed to an image labeled “Rosa chinensis.”
    Aidan knew it from his mother’s garden, the Mutabilis rose, with buds and flowers from yellow to salmon to red. He noticed the clarity of the line, the purity of the colors, the delicacy of the touch. From her early promise, Sophia had developed into an artist of sensitivity and skill.
    â€œFinished?” Aidan prompted.
    â€œMama drew the illustrations for Papa’s botany books. After the engravers return the illustrations, I can have the ones I want. Papa gave me this one special before he died.”
    â€œThey are quite lovely.” Aidan had attributed the easel in the library to an interest suitable to women of her class. Clearly it was far more important. Perhaps an interest in Sophia’s art would offer a way past her reserve? He stepped closer to examine the images.
    â€œShe and Papa would sit in the loggia. In the morning he would translate and write, and she would draw the plants he was writing about.”
    â€œReally?” Aidan focused on Sophia’s drawings. He didn’t