“Do you wish to have dinner served now, Mr. Sherbrooke?” The man stood as still as a statue and expressionless.
She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Monotone—she couldn’t think of him any other way—obviously took his job seriously, but she found the way he addressed Warren hilarious.
“First, I want to show Miss Taylor around. Tell Henri we will eat in half an hour.”
Ruth stifled a laugh. Warren never called her anything but Ruth.
“Very well, sir.” Mr. Monotone walked away, her coat in his hands.
No longer able to hold it back, Ruth laughed. “Is he always like that?”
“Trevor?”
Ruth nodded as she looked around. She’d never seen anything like the foyer they stood in. A marble staircase two or three times wider than a normal staircase stood before them. Large marble pillars rose upward supporting the vaulted ceiling. She heard the trickle of a water fountain somewhere nearby.
“More or less. He has worked here for about ten years, and I think I’ve only seen him smile once. His wife is the complete opposite.”
“He’s married? He must be a load of fun to live with.”
Warren laughed, a deep rich chuckle, and then he slipped his arm over her shoulders. “How about a tour before we eat?”
He led her from one amazing room to the next, each more gorgeous than the one before it. The entire time he kept his arm around her. A part of Ruth said the gesture should feel awkward, but it didn’t. It felt natural, like they should walk together this way all the time.
“Last one down here before dinner. If you want, I’ll show you around upstairs after we eat.” Warren opened the last door.
She’d never seen anything quite like this office. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined two walls. An enormous antique desk stood in front of a set of windows, and she could picture Warren’s father or grandfather sitting behind the desk staring at the view. Two leather wingback chairs faced the desk. A dark leather couch and several more chairs were positioned near the fireplace, which had a painted family portrait hanging over it.
“I’m sure you can guess this is my grand—I mean father’s office.”
“Never would’ve guessed.”
Warren flashed her a heart-stopping smile. Was it possible for a person to turn into a puddle of melted goo? If he gave her another smile like that, she suspected they’d be finding out.
“I keep thinking of this as my grandfather’s office.” Warren closed the door.
“He doesn’t come here anymore?” She knew his grandfather was a senator in D.C. and assumed he spent most of his time there. Still, if she had a place like this, she would visit every chance she got.
“Not much. He surprised everyone and signed Cliff House over to my father this past summer.”
They entered a dining room they’d skipped on the tour. They’d stopped in the formal dining room; this one was much smaller in size but no less extravagant.
“Why was that a surprise?” She sat in the chair Warren pulled out at a beautifully arranged table. Not a single detail had been overlooked. Tall white taper candles in silver candleholders stood guard on either side of an arrangement of calla lilies and red roses. Fine crystal water and wine glasses marked both place settings.
“Traditionally, Cliff House passes to the oldest Sherbrooke male upon the death of his father. The last I checked my grandfather was alive and well. But he rarely came here anymore, and he decided it was time.”
That was one heck of an inheritance. “What happens if the current owner doesn’t have a son? Does it go to his daughter?” She heard footsteps and then someone reached out and filled her wine glass.
“No, then it would go to his eldest nephew. That is how my grandfather inherited it. His uncle had two daughters but no sons, so when he died the mansion went to my grandfather.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this. Someday you will inherit Cliff House from your father. But if you have children and they’re all girls, you won’t leave the house to one of them?” Was Warren’s family living in the seventeenth century or something?
“Only if I follow tradition. Between you and me, I’ve always thought it unfair.”
Warren’s modern opinion soothed her irrational ire. After all, why should she care how his family did things?
Warren drummed his fingers on his thigh. So far the evening had proceeded just as he planned. Henri had once again outdone himself in the kitchen. The filet mignon topped with mushroom cabernet sauce was exceptional. The French Bordeaux the chef chose from the wine cellar complimented the meal. Marsha had done a wonderful job preparing the room for dinner. Everything was perfect. So why was he still nervous?
“I think that was the best meal I’ve ever had.” Ruth patted her lips with her napkin.