“I trust you will find your way around the estate. There are a great many staff on site who can help you and you have your own maid,” he nodded his chin to the back of the hall where a door had just opened.
Brigitte appeared her familiar presence a balm amidst the unfamiliar grandeur. Descending swiftly, she curtsied with practiced ease, her face breaking into a warm smile.
“My lady, at last,” Brigitte said, her tone as bright as her expression. “Welcome to your new home. I should say Your Grace, not my lady. I do beg your pardon.”
“Brigitte,” Emma replied, her voice softening with relief. “I trust you’ve managed all the preparations?”
Brigitte straightened, her tone brisk and proud. “Indeed, Your Grace. Your chambers are ready, and I’ve taken care to see that everything is in proper order. His Grace was most accommodating in ensuring the household complied with your wishes.”
Emma inclined her head. “Very good. Come, then. Show me to these chambers you’ve arranged with such diligence.”
Brigitte led the way up the grand staircase, her step light yet purposeful. As they ascended, Emma took in the opulence around her: polished banisters, walls adorned with gilt-framed landscapes, and the soft glow of chandeliers catching the afternoon light. Brigitte, sensing her mistress’s reticence, began speaking with her usual cheer.
“It is a fine house, my lady, finer than any I’ve yet seen,” she said. “The staff speak most highly of His Grace. They say he is a fair master—demanding, of course, but just—and generous when the occasion calls for it.”
Emma raised a brow at this. “That is a comforting assessment, though I suppose it is only natural they should hold him in some esteem.”
“Oh, indeed, Your Grace,” Brigitte replied, lowering her voice slightly. “But I must tell you, it seems they hold his friend, the Earl of Weston, in even greater regard.”
Emma cast her maid a sidelong glance. “The Earl of Weston? And why, pray, is he so well-regarded?”
Brigitte’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “He is, by all accounts, most charming. The maids all clamor for duty whenever he visits, for he treats everyone kindly and has a smile that could melt the iciest heart – at least that is what Hester, the house maid said. I’ve not yet met him so I cannot speak to the accuracy of the statement. Not to mention,” she added with a conspiratorial whisper, “he is said to be as handsome as any gentleman in London.”
Emma’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “And does the Earl make frequent visits to Haddington Hall?”
“Not so frequent as the maids would like,” Brigitte replied with a grin. “But often enough to keep them hopeful.”
They reached Emma’s chambers, and Brigitte pushed open the door to reveal a suite as grand as it was tastefully appointed. The main room was spacious, with tall windows draped in pale green silk that complemented the soft cream of the walls. A four-poster bed with intricate carvings stood against one wall, its coverings a rich damask in muted gold. A plush chaise longue occupied one corner, while a writing desk of polished mahogany was positioned near the window, its surface already adorned with a delicate vase of fresh lilies.
“Is it not splendid, Your Grace?” Brigitte asked, moving about the room to adjust a curtain. “You’ll be most comfortable here, I daresay. And the view from the window overlooks the rose garden—it is quite lovely in the morning light.”
Emma stepped further into the room, her gloved fingers brushing against the fine fabric of the curtains. “It is grand indeed, almost excessively so.”
“Nonsense, Your Grace,” Brigitte said with a smile. “It is fitting for a duchess, as you now are.”
Emma allowed a faint smile to touch her lips, though her thoughts were far from settled. “Thank you, Brigitte. You have done well.”
Brigitte curtsied. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the unpacking. The footmen should be bringing up the remainder of your things shortly.”
With that, Brigitte departed, leaving Emma alone in the unfamiliar space.
As Emma moved about her new quarters, placing her belongings with care into the ornate wardrobe and drawers, she allowed herself a moment to take in the opulence of her surroundings. The chambers were grander than she had ever imagined—fitted with fine damask draperies, an intricately carved four-poster bed, and gilded sconces that cast a warm glow across the room. A fireplace of polished marble occupied one corner, and a mirrored vanity table stood elegantly against the wall.
But the elegance did little to settle her thoughts. She had hardly finished unpacking when her fingers brushed against something unexpected at the back of a drawer. Her curiosity piqued, she retrieved a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. The vellum was aged but well-preserved, and each envelope bore the same recipient’s name in a confident masculine script: Rose.
Emma’s breath caught, her heart quickening as unbidden thoughts surged forward.
Rose.
The name had an intimacy about it, one that suggested familiarity, affection... perhaps even passion. Were these relics of one of his alleged conquests? One perhaps not so long ago? She thought back to the woman she’d seen the duke with at Hyde Park a few weeks ago now. Was this woman Rose?
Or another she had not yet learned about?
The Duke’s reputation had been that of a rake—no one had concealed it from her, least of all Evan himself. And yet, as she held the letters, an unfamiliar tightness coiled in her chest.
Without opening a single one, she set the bundle aside, placing it with an air of deliberate indifference atop a stack of unused stationery.
It is none of my concern. This marriage was never meant to be anything more than a convenience.
