Dome could not hide his disapproval — or, Miranda speculated, he chose not to hide it.
"May I see his card?" Miranda held out her hand.
''I'm afraid he has none, Your Grace." Dome paused, his face impassive except for the twitch of his nostrils. "He is an ... American."
"Oh." Miranda smiled, intrigued. "I have never met an American. Send him in, then."
The man who followed Dome into the parlor stopped short at the sight of Miranda. He was tall and had a full head of gray hair. His manner of dress could only be called rustic and appeared to have suffered from a great deal of travel and little care. She supposed that Americans did not have valets.
His face called some recognition from deep within her, but she could not place it. Certainly, she had never met an American before today. The sight of his lined and sun-chapped skin seemed romantic to her. Americans were little more than ruffians and barbarians, but that had its own charm.
He stared in disbelief at her for a long moment until she became uncomfortably aware of the danger of ruffians and barbarians, despite the romance of their hard lives. "How may I help you, sir?"
His voice. was rough and his accent uncultivated when he grated out, "There must be some mistake. I want the Duchess of Kerstone."
Feeling like a schoolgirl caught in her mother's finery, Miranda protested with absurd formality. "I am Miranda Watterly, the Duchess of Kerstone."
He paled. For a moment she thought the big American barbarian would collapse to her carpet in a dead faint.
She hastened to add, "I am married to the present duke, Simon Watterly. Perhaps you were expecting his mother, the dowager duchess?"
His mouth twitched slightly as he regained his color. "Dowager? What an extraordinary thought. Don't expect it appeals to her."
That comment alone convinced Miranda that he was indeed an acquaintance of the dowager. "Would you like me to let her know you are here?"
"Please." He stood there, saying no more, a slight frown etching the lines deeper into his face.
She had to wonder if his extraordinary lack of certainty could be attributed to his being American, or was from some great emotion. "And your name, Mr. — ?"
"Watson." He hesitated. "She might not remember me. Tell her that I have come to apologize for an injury I did her in her youth."
Hesitating a bit more, he added, "Perhaps I should give her a note, or she might refuse to see me."
Considering the injury had been done in her youth, and the lines on the American's face were deep, Miranda nodded. "That might be wise." She wondered if he had been a handsome young man, before time and trials had etched his face older than his years. Would the dowager even recognize him?
She settled the American in the parlor, rang for tea, and stepped into the hallway to dispatch a servant to carry Mr. Watson's note to the dowager, who was taking her daily walk in the garden.
She hoped seeing the two together would explain the man's hesitation. An American. How had the dowager met him? Before she could spin a romantic tale for them, however, Simon touched her shoulder.
"A carriage is approaching." He was smiling at her, and his hand dropped to linger at her waist.
For a moment she was startled at his intimate gesture and then the import of his words hit her. Her sisters! All thoughts of the dowager and her American were pushed away. Her sisters were here. At last she would see Valentine and know if he had truly given up on Emily.