∞∞∞

At precisely three o’clock, while Jilly and her aunt, Marcheline, were taking tea in the drawing room, there came a knock at the door. Their aged butler, Fenton, made his way to the door, his gnarled fingers outstretched to open it.
He should have been pensioned off ages ago, Jilly knew, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Despite his arthritic joints and raspy wheeze of a voice, he was accustomed to a life of service and had declared he wouldn’t know what to do with himself outside of it. Still, Jilly made an effort to save him the trouble whenever she could. His hearing wasn’t what it had been when she was small, and unless he was lingering nearby, he rarely heard a knock. Not that they received many callers these days.
There was the muffled sound of voices from the foyer. A few moments later, Fenton returned bearing a gold-embossed card, which he presented to Aunt Marcheline.
“Oh, my goodness,” Aunt Marcheline said. Her brows rose in surprise and her hand fluttered to her chest as she gave a gusty sigh. “Yes,” she said, handing the card back. “Yes, of course we are at home for him. Do show His Grace in, Fenton.”
Oh, no—no, no, this would not do at all. “Aunt,” Jilly said. “I am not feeling quite the thing. I think I will retire to my room.”
“Jillian Mary Kittridge, you will stay exactly where you are,” Marcheline replied, her sharp blue eyes fixed upon her niece. “You were in the pink of health not two minutes ago.”
Jillian shifted uncomfortably. “I seem to have acquired a bit of a headache,” she said defensively. “It’s come on rather suddenly.”
A masculine chuckle broke the tension between them, and Jilly felt the shock of it tumble over her. Drat. Too late now. How had he moved so silently?
The duke stood in the doorway, a wry smile etched on his face. “I suppose if a headache could have a name, yours might be the Duke of Rushton,” he suggested mildly.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Marcheline said. “Who would ever suggest such a thing?” She rose from her seat, inclining her head in acknowledgment. “Your Grace, how good of you to call. Fenton tells me that you sent flowers for my dear Jillian this morning.”
“I had the pleasure of her company for a waltz last evening,” Rushton replied. “I thought to send a token of my appreciation.”
“They are lovely. I’m certain dear Jillian enjoyed them; it has been so long since she has received flowers.” Aunt Marcheline dimpled at the duke as he bent over her hand.
“Aunt,” Jillian hissed, mortification pinking her cheeks.
“Or callers,” Marcheline persisted. “Really, it is a tragedy. And Jillian is such a lovely girl. Near to on the shelf,” she sighed, touching a hand to her cheek in dismay. “But truly lovely—she would make any man a fine wife.”
Good lord. Jilly was going to sink straight through the floor in humiliation.