The Duke in Disguise by Gayle Callen Page A

portrait.

Between the windows were several dozen portraits, some ten feet tall (mostly the dukes themselves). Others were of a more moderate size of three or four feet— duchesses and children, and even the occasional wolfhound. Sadly, Stephen's mother had died young, before she'd had a chance to pose. Meriel would have to see if her family could provide Stephen with a portrait of her.

She took Mrs. Theobald's advice and started two-thirds of the way down the gallery with Stephen's great-grandfather, who'd commanded a battalion in the colonies. As Stephen grew older, she would eventually work their way back through his older ancestors. It was a good way to study history.

And of course, look for ghosts. Stephen was still hopeful, and it was difficult to keep his focus on her voice, when he kept peering behind each drapery or statue.

She had begun to discuss Stephen's grandfather when the duke appeared out of the shadows near their end of the gallery. Meriel gave a little start, and inside her heart kicked into this new rhythm that seemed only inspired by him. Why was she so drawn to him, a man she should have no respect for?

Stephen broke into a smile and ran toward his father. Then he stopped awkwardly to bow. But Meriel knew he'd wanted to throw himself into his father's arms. Even after only a few days and some meager attention, the boy thought the duke could be more to him.

She glanced behind the duke, but there was no sign of his visitors.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello, Stephen," the duke said. He smoothed back his son's unruly hair. "Are you paying attention to Miss Shelby?"

"Oh yes! I learned about soldiers and battles. Did you know my grandfather fought against the French? And my great-grandfather against the Americans?"

The duke smiled at Meriel. "You certainly picked the correct history to hold a young boy's attention. No discussion of the fever that wiped out half the household two hundred years ago? Or the younger son who fled to the colonies and became an American?"

"I thought we would start small, Your Grace," she murmured.

"Did you see any ghosts?" the duke asked his son.

Stephen's shoulders slumped. "None. I thought the darkness would help, but it doesn't. Have you ever seen a ghost here, Father?"

Meriel watched the duke lift his head and gaze down the length of the gallery. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

"When I was your age, I used to wonder if there were ghosts in Thanet Court," he said softly, his deep voice containing an unexpected rumble. "I kept thinking I saw one out of the corner of my eye, but I never really did."

There was an awkward silence, and she realized that the duke wasn't even looking at the portraits. Of course, he'd spent his life looking at them.

"Did your guests leave, Your Grace?" she found herself asking, though it was none of her business.

He actually seemed relieved at the change of topic. "Yes, they did. They had not heard of my recent illness, so I had to explain that I tire easily."

Not that he looked tired, she thought, wondering why such a popular man would send his guests home. He was full of vitality and strength. His dark hair and eyes became part of the shadows, conquering them. If there were any ghosts, his mere presence would make them retreat with envy.

The poet inside her was struggling to get out again, she thought with disgust.

"Father, we're going to talk about you next!" Stephen said.

"Then I arrived at the right moment. You'll need personal commentary on my life and times."

But there was no ten-foot-tall painting of this duke, only a smaller one of him as a boy about Stephen's age. He was sitting on a garden bench, surrounded by foliage, wearing a mischievous grin that hinted at exuberant thoughts.

"There's no dog in your portrait, Father."

"No, my father's dogs didn't like me very much. Maybe I teased them too much."

Stephen nodded. " Your dogs seem to like you just fine, not like when you were last home."

Meriel frowned, but before she