Unnerved by the way he repeated everything she said, she nodded once more. “Yes, here.”

And she curled her toes into the hardwood floor, praying he did not gather that this room afforded the greatest, clearest view of his townhouse, and that it was because she felt nearer to him and less alone, being in here. Praying he’d let the matter die.

“Why?”

Alas, she should have expected Val, the Duke of Aragon, was entirely too contrary when it came to anything to ever do something as simple as let a matter rest.

“Because my chambers are damp, and I prefer this room.”

“Your chambers . . . ?”

“That is why my family has departed for the winter. We usually remain, because Christmas in London is always our favorite time of year; however, our roof is leaking”—she pointed to the ceiling, and he followed her finger skyward—“and the floors are rotting.” She gestured to her feet, and he looked down. “Many of the chambers and rooms are suffering mightily from the moisture coming in, including my rooms, and as such, I opted to make this my chambers . . . until my family returns, of course.”

If they ever returned, that was. It was appearing more and more dubious with every passing moment.

Myrtle appeared to disarm Val with her explanation, and he gave his head a big shake. Heading over to the hearth, he deposited the burden in his arms on the metal rack for wood.

“The kitchens?”

She stared blankly at him.

“Where are they?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Ah.” Lifting a finger, she motioned for him to follow her. As they fell into step, he remained silent, and yet, even as she expected she should be unnerved in his tense quietness, she found herself . . . at ease for his simply being here. “Are you always this laconic?”

“Yes.”

“Were you always?”

“No.”

And that curt, terse delivery of that declination hinted that he’d no more desire or patience for any additional questioning on her part.

She considered that lone syllable he’d uttered. And as they made their way through her family’s household, she couldn’t keep from wondering what he had been like before. Imagining him with that elusive grin that sometimes stole across his face, but in a perpetual smile, and with his words flowing freely.

And she’d never known him beyond these past days, but she somehow still found herself mourning the loss of who he’d been. And recalling what her brother had shared, she’d no doubt that Val’s misery stemmed from the loss he’d suffered.

They reached the kitchens.

“Here we are,” she said when he still did not speak, needing to hear words spoken from at least one of them.

He surveyed the kitchens, even colder than the rooms above—if that were possible.

As he entered the room, Myrtle hung back in the doorway, and drawing her cloak closer, she huddled within the velvet material.