Antonia added her thanks to Sebastian’s, and they walked into the long, formal drawing room.
A cheery fire was crackling in the grate. Antonia led the way to one of the matching pair of sofas facing each other across the Aubusson rug spread before the fireplace and sank onto the silk damask with a sigh.
Sebastian followed and sat beside her. After a moment, he reached across, closed his hand about one of hers, then raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
Then he lowered their linked hands to rest on his thigh, sat back, closed his eyes, and let the peace and stability, the tranquility of the house—and of her—wrap about him.
Ten minutes later—all of which they’d spent in blissful silence—Hamilton came to summon them to the smaller dining room, the one the family used. The table could seat twelve, and given the size of the current ducal couple’s family, that was sometimes only just enough. Three places had been set at one end, with a plethora of dishes already arrayed before them.
Hamilton sat Antonia in the seat to the right of the carver, leaving Sebastian to claim the place beside her.
“The marquess requests that you make a start without him. He, too, hasn’t yet dined and will join you as soon as he’s able.” Hamilton lifted the lid of a tureen. “I can recommend the oyster soup.” A savory aroma emerged, carried on the steam.
Antonia nodded eagerly. Sebastian’s mouth watered.
After serving them, being experienced in the ways of his masters, Hamilton filled their wine glasses, then retreated.
They were supping second servings of the delicious soup, when the door opened, and Drake entered.
Antonia lowered her soup spoon and blinked. “Good Lord.”
Resplendent in a dark, multihued, silk-velvet dressing gown thrown over a shirt and soft trousers, Drake shut the door carefully, then strolled slowly forward. He waved languidly. “Pray excuse my déshabillé, Antonia.”
She pointed at the carver. “For God’s sake, sit, before you fall down.”
With a small, quite gentle smile, Drake moved to obey.
Antonia found herself staring at the dark circles around Drake’s hooded eyes. His habitual languid drawl had sounded more drawly than usual, and the way he moved… She’d never seen the normally vigorous and virile Drake so drained and depleted. He looked as if he might collapse in a heap at any moment.
He made it into the chair, sinking into the embrace of the carver as if he was a much older man. But his golden eyes had already surveyed the dishes and their plates. “Is that oyster soup?”
“Yes.” Antonia reached out and picked up the soup ladle. When Drake handed her his soup plate, she took it, added two ladlefuls of the creamy liquid, then handed it back. “Eat. You look like a shadow of your former self.”
His long lips twitched. He exchanged a look with Sebastian. “I understand you’ve rushed up nonstop from Kent.” He paused to take a mouthful of the soup. “Against that, I’ve been traveling for the past two days, some of it running. Literally.”
Leaving him to eat—and hopefully recover his strength along with his usual incisive wits—Antonia set aside her emptied soup plate and served herself a helping of what appeared to be braised venison. She passed the dish to Sebastian, who handed her a dish of assorted boiled vegetables in return.
While they ate, she was aware of Drake’s eagle’s gaze assessing them—something that bothered neither her nor Sebastian. They’d long grown used to Drake’s rather acute scrutiny; there was no real way to avoid it, and it was only an issue if one had something one wanted to hide.
Speaking of which…Antonia noticed the knuckles on Drake’s right hand were scraped. She contemplated the sight, then glanced to her right, at Sebastian’s hands. Looking again at Drake, she caught his eye and nodded at his hand. “You should have worn gloves.”
Drake glanced at his knuckles and faintly winced. “Gloves wouldn’t have fitted with the costume. I shouldn’t have been there at all, but…” He shrugged.
“I mean,” she persisted, “that if you want to pass for someone of lower station, you need to wear gloves. Your hands”—with her gaze, she directed his attention to Sebastian’s—“are like his.” Long fingered and elegant. “They immediately mark you for what you are.”
Drake looked mildly taken aback. “Perhaps that was it…”
From which Antonia deduced he’d been playing one of his charades, had been found out, and had had to fight his way free.
Drake finished his soup and pushed aside his plate. After a moment, as if infused with renewed—renewing—energy, he sat straighter. As he helped himself to the venison, he murmured, “You both look rather rumpled—definitely not your usual debonair selves. I take it your day was eventful.”