Freedom by Jenn LeBlanc Page B

to find the housekeeper walking toward him.
     
    “Mrs. Weston, I wish to have our guest to supper. Please advise me as soon as she is able.”
     
    “Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a confused manner as she came to a stop, eyeing him.
     
    “What?”
     
    “Well, Your Grace, you’re a sight,” she began, then cleared her throat as if aware of her familiarity. “As you know, Miss Francine is not yet in any position to be at supper with a gentleman.” She paused. Her left eyebrow rose nearly to her hairline. “Or anyone, for that matter,” she finished with a stout nod.
     
    He growled. “Of course,” he said, unrolling his other sleeve.
     
    “Shall I ring for Ferry?” she queried, the eyebrow still cocked in a curious gaze.
     
    It bothered him the way Mrs. Weston sometimes took liberties, but occasionally overlooked it since she’d happened to be there when he was brought into the world and had cared for him thenceforth. “Has Dr. Walcott checked on our guest?” he asked, choosing to ignore the impertinence.
     
    “No, Your Grace. He is expected within the hour.”
     
    When he finished unrolling his sleeves he clasped his hands behind his back and stood wide, tensing his muscles. The position drew his figure straighter and sturdier, making full use of his height and his broad shoulders. He latched onto Mrs. Weston’s gaze and held it. “What has the girl said?”
     
    Mrs. Weston became flustered. He knew she hated it when he used this tactic with her, mostly because it worked so well. There was nowhere for her to run and hide, and no way for her to lie or omit anything. “Well,” she said, “she agreed to the visit from the doctor and she appreciates the gowns, though as I told you she is a bit unhappy about your generosity.”
     
    “What?” He released his hands and stepped forward.
     
    Mrs. Weston held up a hand. “Sorry, Your Grace, I meant to say that she’s overwhelmed by it, she doesn’t want to be a bother. She doesn’t seem to feel that she’s worthy of the expense,” she corrected.
     
    He stopped cold. “I see. I—misunderstood.” He paused. “You will send Dr. Walcott to me as soon as he is finished and you will let me know as soon as she is able to attend supper.”
     
    “Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as he waved her off. She scurried for the servant’s passage, her hand on her chest. “Oh Lord, you do work me, Your Grace,” he heard her whisper as soon as she was out of sight. Odd how well sound carried in that particular room.
     
    ***
     
    There was a soft knock at the door and Meggie entered with Francine’s supper tray, setting it before the fire.
     
    Mrs. Weston entered just as she was sitting down to eat. “I sent for the dressmaker in town when I sent for the doctor. She’ll be up by week out, and Dr. Walcott should be here any time now.”
     
    Francine nodded resignedly and smiled. She was already receiving too much from the duke. His hospitality was more than any reasonable person would expect. She thought about the terrace, when he had seen her, and her face heated in a blush as she looked at her supper tray. The look on his face when he’d looked up at her still had her flustered.
     
    The food here was unrecognizable—strange cuts of unknown meats, fancy colored gel-like substances filled with vegetables, and grey colored sauces that seemed to drown everything—as though it was merely the texture of the food that mattered and not the flavor.
     
    Cynically, she thought it the best diet she’d ever been on, and she placed her hand over her mouth and laughed a bit. If this is my dream, why can’t I have a big New York strip with a buttered baked potato and glazed asparagus with lemon pepper?
     
    She clenched her eyes tight and envisioned it, willing the steak dinner to her plate. She sighed when she opened her eyes to the same colorless glop and then saw Mrs. Weston watching her quizzically. Francine realized she was only adding fuel to