“Welcome to my home, Miss Miller,” the Duke said, his voice as rusty as an old iron gate. “May I present my son, Henry Bradford?”
Thea curtseyed to the Duke’s son. “Thank you for allowing me to visit, Your Grace, My Lord.”
The old Duke gazed beyond her shoulder. “Lord Willowdale did not also come, Miss Miller?”
“I fear trouble has befallen my brother, Your Grace,” she said. “He is in no condition to travel.”
Though his faded blue eyes were not kind, nor were they hostile. The Duke’s thick hair had turned silver and he peered down at her from under grey bushy brows. The years had lined his face and the hand on his walking stick trembled slightly. “Perhaps you might tell us the tale over supper then,” he said, gesturing toward the bailey.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” she replied, offering the Duke’s son a small smile.
He stood taller than his father, about thirty years old, Thea guessed, with a large paunch that spoke of his enjoyments from the kitchen. His blue eyes watched her with cautious interest and also a little hostility. “If you would like to refresh yourself, Miss Miller,” he said, returning her smile, his voice lighter than his father’s. “We will meet you in the drawing room.”
“You are too kind,” Thea replied. “Thank you, I would like to wash off the dust from the road.”
With Liam and Mr. Jonesboro at her shoulders and Felicity right behind them, Thea followed the old Duke through the bailey and into the ancient castle. Gazing around in awe, she said, “What a marvelous place.”
The Duke nodded, smiling. “It has been in my family for six generations.”
“Your Grace must be quite fond of it.”
“My Grace is,” he replied with a tiny chuckle. “Come now, this way, Miss Miller. This way.”
Strolling through the middle of the high walls, the towers, and the battlements, Thea imagined a day when this castle was the seat of a Duke who rode to war, clad in armor and brandishing a sword. “It catches the imagination, does it not?” she asked, not trying to hide her delight in the old place.
“That it does, young miss,” the old gentleman said, also gazing around. “I hope it stays in my family for a thousand years more.”
Lord Bradford pointed toward a wide staircase that seemed to wind its way toward the north tower. “My footmen will show you to your rooms, Miss Miller. We will await you in the drawing room.”
Thea curtseyed to them both, then climbed the huge stairs, gazing at the paintings of men and battles, tapestries, and suits of antique armor set on the landings. She dared not speak to Liam with, not just her own people present, but also the Duke’s footmen carrying her property behind them.
The rooms she was given were suitable for her rank, not huge and opulent, nor insultingly small. Bright curtains covered the window and the big bed looked quite comfortable. A bouquet of fresh flowers had been placed on a table, and Thea breathed in their sweet odor as the footmen put her trunks down, and Felicity opened them to find her a suitable gown.
“I think the gold one, Felicity,” Thea said, sitting down at the table that held the looking glass.
The footmen bowed at the door and departed, with Liam and Mr. Jonesboro closing the door softly behind them. She knew they would stand there, waiting until she returned to the main level of the castle. Hopefully, the Duke and Lord Bradford would have no objections if they stood in the drawing room along with their household servants.
For once, she permitted Felicity to set her hair into an attractive coif atop her head, accentuating her high cheekbones and slim neck. The gold gown trimmed with brown lace had large puffed sleeves and never failed to bring out her eyes. At last, she felt satisfied with her reflection and rose from the chair.
Leaving her chambers, she found a footman in black and silver ready to escort her to the drawing room. Liam, Mr. Jonesboro, and the strange footman bowed as one, then the Duke’s servant gestured down the hallway.
Unable to halt her fascination with the place, she tried to see everything at once. However, the journey to the drawing room was not a long one, and she found herself bowed through into the Duke’s presence. Both men rose from their armchairs near the huge hearth with a blazing fire inside. Thea curtseyed to each one, father and son, and was urged to sit in a chair near them.
“Miss Miller,” the Duke said, his face lit and his warm smile wide. “You are a stunning sight to behold.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“What will you have, Miss Miller?” Lord Bradford asked, lifting his hand.
“Wine, please. White.”
In gazing around the huge drawing room, she noticed Liam and Mr. Jonesboro both standing against the walls among the Bradford’s servants, their faces as impassive and expressionless as their fellows. A liveried footman brought her a glass of white wine, and she thanked him with a quick smile.
“This is delicious wine, Your Grace,” she said, setting the glass down on the table beside her. “Is it French?”
“No, Miss Miller,” he said, relaxing in his chair. “It is of my own make. The grapes are grown at one of my other estates, aged to perfection before being bottled. I appreciate your compliment. Perhaps I might send some home with you.”
“I would like that very much.”
