“Well, that is . . . something.” The duke nodded slowly, uncertainly, clearly absorbing that she, a woman, no doubt a girl in his estimation, should possess any medical skill at all. She was well versed in such disbelief, even though the residents of Brambledon were largely accepting. There were always those few. A man of the house too resistant and guarded to allow her to treat his womenfolk.

Birchwood dragged a wizened hand through his lush pelt of white hair.

“It could not hurt to have her here,” Sinclair pressed, gesturing to Nora. “She can assist with the duchess and see what, if any, relief she might offer. At the very least the duchess would enjoy having another lovely reading voice on hand. Her eyes aren’t what they used to be and she’s quite fond of her books.”

She tried not to flinch at that. She was not here to read books out loud.

The duke nodded slowly. “I suppose it could do no harm to have a gentlewoman with her particular skill in . . . what did you call it? Pain . . .”

“Mitigation,” Nora supplied.

“Yes. Very good.” The duke nodded once and moved in, offering his arm to Nora. “Shall we take a stroll in the garden before luncheon? It shall prepare our constitution. Cook enjoys his rich sauces. Trained in France under the best. He does make a marvelous meringue. We shall have him prepare one while you are here.”

She released a breath and accepted his arm, sliding an uncertain glance to Sinclair. She was not sure what to make of him. The last thing she had expected was for him to vouch for her.

Thanks to him she would be staying here.

As she departed the drawing room on the duke’s arm, she could not resist looking over her shoulder for a glimpse of him.

He followed at a sedate pace, his dark eyes trained on her face as though he knew she would look back at him again.

He knew she would and he was ready with a look of his own.

He arched an eyebrow over his dark eyes and conveyed an expression full of warning that said: You’ve got your chance. Now prove yourself.

Chapter 10

“I think you should wear the peach silk this evening,” Bea pronounced. “You were caught unprepared at luncheon yesterday with your dusty travel clothes, but we shall not repeat that faux pas.” She tsked and shook her head as though greatly regretting said faux pas. “Not on my watch. This evening you shall look every inch the lady, and an enticing one at that.” The maid hung the peach gown on the outside of the wardrobe, smoothing a hand over the skirts that she had already so valiantly worked free of wrinkles.

“I don’t think anyone minded,” Nora reassured her.