He moved with a methodical purpose, as comfortable in the kitchen as if he’d been a servant born to his station here. But he wasn’t. He was a duke, and yet he was also a duke who . . . knew how to start a fire.

And filled with awe, Myrtle stared on.

Once, when she was ten or so, her family had invited a magician to one of their summer house parties. The mustached fellow with a thick Russian accent and black cloak and heavy, snowy-white cravat had regaled the guests with illusions and magic tricks that had held Myrtle silent, captivating her.

That moment felt remarkably like this one with Val bringing fire to life in that hearth.

Fetching several wax candles, he added the tapers to the brass candleholders; lighting first one and then another, he handed them over to her.

Wordlessly, she accepted them, watching as he went and fetched two more.

“I . . . would not expect a duke to know how to start his own fires,” she said when they started back toward her makeshift rooms.

“Is that a question?”

She considered that. “I . . . suppose it wasn’t.” But actually, upon reflection, it was. “How did you come to know how to do it?”

“Because I like to be alone,” he said bluntly. “Because I like freedom from all company, including the company of my servants, and knowing how to do things for myself ensures that I’m never dependent upon others, so that I can enjoy my solitude.”

“I see,” she said softly, his meaning and message clear and effectively silencing her.

Only, as they continued their trek through the dark household with Val pausing periodically to light one of the sconces in the halls, she wrinkled her brow. Despite his craving the solitary state he spoke of, he’d still come here. Without her asking, without her giving any indication she either needed it or wished it, he’d arrived at her door with an armful of wood and taken it upon himself to light a fire so that she could have light and heat. Another one of those tingling warmths spread through her veins.

The moment they reached the Corner Parlor, Val headed for the fireplace. Dropping to a knee, he set to work building a fire there. As he did, he provided her with rapid instructions on how to keep it going.

It wasn’t long before a healthy fire blazed within those grates and heat spilled off the high, dancing flames.

“Do you have all that?” he asked.

“I believe so.” A little sigh slipped from her lips as she drifted closer; stretching her gloved palms out, she warmed them before the fire. “I do not believe in the whole of my life I properly appreciated the simple comforts for the great ones they really are,” she murmured. “I daresay I’ll never take for granted again having corridors that are illuminated and a fire, or the staff and servants who cook.”