Frederica had never given any consideration to what a duke might look like, but had she been asked to guess, she would not have envisioned the Duke of Penrith. He was young, for a start—certainly not past thirty. Lean, with luxuriant brown hair and an unsmiling mien, he had an angular face that would have been exceedingly handsome were it not that he looked too thin. He had not Mr Mulligan’s height, but he had presence such that he seemed to fill the hall regardless, entering with an air of consequence that made even Frederica’s usually imperturbable heart dance about erratically.
He greeted Mr Mulligan with a quiet but commanding voice. Frederica almost gasped when Penrith turned to look at her. She had expected his gaze to be stern in keeping with his dour bearing.
Instead, his unusually dark blue eyes were soft, contemplative, and profoundly unhappy. She only
remembered to curtsey when Mr Mulligan cleared his throat.
“This is Miss Child. She will be conducting our tour of Taverstock today.”
The duke inclined his head in acknowledgement and looked away, and Frederica felt momentarily off-balance.