I didn’t push further, though my fingers itched for contact, so I could take a peek at his heart.
The pain must have lessened, for the duke soon dropped his hand to the desk, this time ignoring the wine. “As you can imagine, Miss Kilbrid, I have heard all manner of accounts regarding your character. My son and Lady Dinley believe you of the highest caliber, while others...” He paused for a moment, and tapped a finger against the desk in thought. “Let’s just say that some others do not hold to the same high opinion.”
I gave him a steady look, managing to confine the inevitable anger to the tight line of my shoulders. “Your Grace gives shelter to my greatest critic.”
“True enough,” the duke replied impassively. “Mr. Roth is not an admirer.”
“I hope you don’t give credence to his words. The man is incapable of uttering an ounce of truth whenever my name is concerned.”
The duke’s pale blue eyes locked on mine, and I felt again the odd sensation that he could see me from the inside. “I assume you are referring to his favorite words of choice—upstart, commoner, Catholic and rebel.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, those would be them.”
The duke reached for the wine glass and took a small drink. “It may surprise you,” he said, “that Mr. Roth’s strong opinions are not entirely unjustified.”
Dismay throttled my fledgling hope. All through supper I had thought the duke an ally, only to be broadsided by this unexpected support for my most ardent opponent. His words left me feeling incredulous, betrayed even. “So, you share his opinion then?” I asked, my voice rising in anger. “The man has despised me from the start and wishes nothing but ill to come my way.”
And it seemed he was succeeding.
The duke studied my face. “Forgive me, Miss Kilbrid, I should have said that his strong opinions are justified in general. But that is his story to share, not mine. As for my opinions, I have yet to decide if you are a good match for my son and heir.”
I blinked several times, not quite sure what to make of his declaration. Undecided wasn’t entirely bad, though to be sure, his choice of words left a bad taste in my mouth. Who was he to say whether or not I was good enough for anyone? Lifting my chin, I smoothed my expression to match his own. “What are your objections? That I am Irish Catholic? Or that I do not carry the distinguished pedigree of Princess Amelia.”
His face remained impassive. “Direct and confident,” he said. “I now see some of the fire my son so admires. Well, let me be frank in return. I am no lover of the papacy, but that is for political rather than religious reasons. As for your Irish roots, my maternal grandmother could claim the same.”
My eyes widened in surprise. “Henry never mentioned you had Irish descent.”
“Most likely because he doesn’t know. Her family immigrated to England three generations before my Grandfather Fitzalan claimed her for his wife. Maybe you are familiar with the surname O’Lughnane?”
I shook my head.
“Shortly after arriving in this country, her grandsire changed the family’s name to Lundlam to avoid suspicion with the local magistrates.” He gave me a wry look. “You may understand my grandfather’s desire to keep his wife’s genealogy a secret as being Irish is not politically expedient in England.”
“So Mr. Roth frequently reminds me,” I said darkly.
“Like you, Miss Kilbrid, my grandmother may not have lived in Ireland, but she considered herself Irish through and through. As a lad, I spent countless evenings listening to tales of her native land—tales of magic and ancient races.” The memories must have touched him, for his mouth softened into something of a smile. “You must be familiar with some of the stories yourself.”
“A few,” I admitted.
Quite without warning, his stare grew more intense. “Ah, yes. Wonderful tales, but we both live in the real world and know that such nonsense does not exist.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice under his scrutiny.
After a moment, his gaze dropped and he pressed a hand to his chest again. Wincing with pain, his breath turned thinner.
“Your Grace,” I said, now genuinely concerned. “Please let me call a servant.” I started to push up from the chair when he waved me back down.
“No, no. I insist. It will pass.” Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dragged it across his forehead. “You see, I am already much improved.”
I kept my eyes pinned to his face, not convinced for a second on his state of improvement. “Perhaps we should join the others in the drawing room.”
“In a moment.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Do you really want to know my opinion of Henry’s betrothal?”
It took some effort to keep a steady breath. “Yes, Your Grace. As his father, your opinion takes precedent over all others.” Except, of course, for Henry’s and mine.