She couldn’t deny that the house truly was magnificent.
Her eyes followed the sweeping lines of the house to the gardens that surrounded it. She loved her garden at home and often sat out to watch the stars, but these gardens were fit for the Prince Regent himself.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, Arabella noticed the servants lined up in front of the entrance.
They’re waiting for the Duchess. For me…
Harry stepped out first, turning to offer her his hand. She took it, and as she alighted from the carriage, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her new life pressing down on her shoulders.
“Welcome to your new home,” Harry said softly, his voice laced with a hint of pride.
Arabella managed a small smile as she took in the scene before her. The servants stood in a neat line, each one a picture of propriety. Harry gestured to the first in line, a distinguished-looking man with graying hair and a stern yet not unfriendly expression.
“This is Brandon, my valet,” Harry introduced.
Brandon gave a polite bow, his eyes briefly meeting Arabella’s before returning to his neutral stance.
Next, Harry indicated a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, her blonde hair streaked with silver, her blue eyes sharp and observant. “This is Mrs. Blomquist, our housekeeper.”
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Mrs. Blomquist said with a slight nod, her Swedish accent lending a melodic lilt to her words.
Arabella noted the warmth in her gaze, tempered by a firmness that spoke of many years of experience managing a household of this size. The obligatory chatelain hung at her slender waist, the keys clanging as she curtsied.
“And this is Mr. Baxter, our butler,” Harry continued, moving down the line.
Mr. Baxter, a tall, lean man with impeccable posture, bowed deeply. “Your Grace,” he intoned, his voice deep and smooth, his manner polished and precise.
Finally, Harry introduced Mabel, the lady’s maid.
Arabella’s eyes softened as she took in the woman before her. Mabel was older, perhaps in her late fifties, with kind eyes and a gentle, maternal demeanor that immediately put her at ease. Arabella had been alarmed when she’d heard Viola would not accompany her here, but she was comforted by the kindness radiating from Mabel.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Mabel said, her voice warm and comforting, as though she had already taken Arabella under her wing.
Arabella smiled, genuinely this time. “Thank you, Mabel. I am sure we will get along splendidly.”
The rest of the introductions passed quickly, though Arabella could not recall the various maids’ and footmen’s names. There were so many, along with the gardeners, laundresses, stable hands, and groundskeepers.
Thankfully, Harry gestured toward the grand entrance. “Shall we go inside?” he asked.
Arabella took a deep breath, bracing herself for the life that awaited her within these grand, storied walls. As she stepped into the grand entrance hall, her breath hitched at the sight before her. The high, timbered ceilings loomed above, supported by dark wooden beams that bore the weight of centuries. The floors were polished oak, and the walls were adorned with tapestries. A large stone fireplace dominated one end of the hall, its mantle decorated with ancient family crests.
Arabella felt a surge of emotion as she took in the grandeur around her. This was her new home, a place where she could accomplish so much, where she could make a difference. The thought was exhilarating. Yet, as quickly as it came, it was replaced by a wave of anxiety. She was the Duchess of Sheffield now, a title that carried with it immense responsibility andexpectation. The very thought of it made her heart race. And then, there was the matter of the wedding night…
She swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly as she glanced at Harry. He seemed so composed, so sure of himself, and yet she felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, not quite sure how to take the next step.
Sensing her unease, Harry leaned in slightly. “I shall show you around the estate tomorrow,” he said. “There is no need to rush. You will have plenty of time to acquaint yourself with everything.”
Arabella nodded, her gratitude for his understanding reflected in her eyes. “Thank you, Harry,” she murmured.
All her bravado from earlier had vanished over these past few minutes, so intimidating was all of this.
As if on cue, Mr. Baxter stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Shall I have the footmen take Her Grace’s trunks to her chambers?”
Arabella opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it. “No need, Baxter,” he said, with a firm yet gentle voice. “I shall see to it myself.”
Arabella blinked, surprised by his insistence, but she found herself touched by the gesture. It was such a small thing, but it meant more to her than she could express. Perhaps her words had inspired him to be at least companionable?
As she stood in the grand entrance hall, her initial awe of the manor’s grandeur gave way to a growing sense of dread. The reality of what it meant to be a duchess—to be Harry’s wife—began to press down on her, making her feel as though she were suffocating.
