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roaring fire behind him, and at his feet coiled a pair of sleek, dark brown hunting dogs. Eyes of a gray so light they seemed almost colorless gazed straight at her, deep inside them not amusement, but a clever intelligence leaving her feeling mesmerized and uncomfortable all at the same time.
    “Michael Arthur Baswich, the ninth Duke of Greaves,” the tenth duke’s low voice whispered into her right ear, from close enough to touch. “My late father.”
    “Who painted him?” she asked, noting that her own voice had become hushed.
    “Some say otherwise, but I say Gainsborough.”
    “It’s disputed?”
    “There are those who say only the devil could paint something that disconcerting. But they’ve missed the point. The devil is the subject. Not the artist.” He blew out his breath. “Dead for eleven years, and he still manages to plague me.”
    That last part didn’t seem to be particularly for her benefit. Sophia blinked, tearing herself free from that gaze. Beside her, the duke wasn’t looking at the portrait, but rather at her. “It’s finely crafted,” she admitted, facing him directly and pushing back against the unhelpful curiosity that wanted to know why he seemed to feel about his father the same way she felt about her own. “Where’s your portrait?” she asked instead.
    “As I’m not dead, it’s in the main drawing room.”
    “So you won’t forget you’re the duke?” Sophia returned, hoping he would appreciate hearing sarcasm as much as he seemed to enjoy speaking it.
    “So no one else does.” He sent a swift glance past her shoulder, toward the wall and the portrait. “My private rooms are at the southeast corner, and Eustace’s are at the southwest corner. Other than avoiding her, feel free to go wherever you wish. There’s no one else here to frown or look askance at you, so there’s no need for you to confine yourself to your bedchamber. Not that I imagine anyone else’s opinion would trouble you overmuch, anyway.”
    Opinions didn’t matter, unless they could enforce them with something more substantial. “No, frowning faces don’t trouble me,” she said aloud. “I’m quite accustomed to them. In fact, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t recognize half of Mayfair if they actually smiled in my direction.”
    A brief smile touched his own mouth. It drew light to his countenance, made him even more handsome than he had been previously. She wondered whether he’d smiled for his portrait; if he had, his likeness had to be even more compelling than his father’s.
    “Do you always say precisely what you’re thinking?” he asked.
    “You said you’d already figured me out,” she returned, “so I decided I might as well. Unless you object.” She’d learned how to comport herself properly; years at boarding schools had ensured that, whether she’d ever thought to make use of the lessons or not. She wanted to stay, to enjoy one grand Christmas before … before everything changed. If he required more propriety, she would make an attempt.
    “I absolutely do not object.”
    She blinked, surprised. He liked when she spoke without thinking? That was the last thing she expected to hear from an aristocrat. “Then do you ever say what you’re thinking?”
    A faint scowl furrowed his fine brow. “Occasionally. I will admit that you just caught me flat-footed, for instance.”
    Sophia grinned, absurdly pleased with herself. “And now you shall see me take advantage of that by asking if my run of the house includes the billiards room.”
    “Is that a challenge?”
    “I don’t know. Are you a challenge?”
    “I suppose we’ll find that out. Give me an hour to finish my correspondence.”
    That seemed like the end of the tour, but Greaves didn’t move. It was the first time in their admittedly brief acquaintance that she’d ever seen even a whisper of hesitation. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly, as though he’d made a decision about something. It seemed vitally important