Page 26 of Beauty and the Lyon


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The duke stopped in his tracks, surprise in his voice, “Mrs. Prune? What are you doing here?”

Prune?

Rosilee stared at the woman.

Mrs. Prune came to a halt in front of him, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. “What am I doing here?” she repeated, her eyes wide. “Why, I’ve been here all along! Holding the fort, as it were. I never left.”

Rosilee snuck a peek at the man.

“I see,” he said, glancing at the vine-covered house. “Are you... holding the fort on your own?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Wiggins is here, too.” The words had scarcely left her lips when the door of the house creaked open and a tall, wiry man appeared, his face lined with age. He wore a faded waistcoat and trousers, and his spectacles were perched precariously on the end of his nose. He squinted at the duke, then broke into a wide grin.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, hurrying over. “Welcome back! It’s been too long!”

“Yes, it has,” the duke said, his discomfort unmistakable. “I see you’ve been... busy.”

Mr. Wiggins chuckled, glancing at the house. “Oh, yes. The garden’s grown a bit wild, I’m afraid. But we’ve done our best to keep the inside tidy. Not easy, with just the two of us.”

“Thank you,” the duke said gruffly. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

The reunion was sort of sweet.

Mrs. Prune beamed. “Oh, it’s nothing, Your Grace. We’re just glad to have you back.” He glanced at Rosilee and Mr. Bishop. Ben joined them, too. “And who are your guests?”

The duke introduced them, and Mrs. Prune clucked with approval. “Such a lovely young lady,” she said, nodding at Rosilee.

Rosilee smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Prune.”

Mrs. Prune chuckled, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “And forgive the garden. The vines are rather tenacious. They’ve a mind of their own, it seems.”

The duke cleared his throat. “Shall we go inside? I’m sure we could all use some refreshments.”

Mrs. Prune nodded, leading the way to the door. “Of course, Your Grace. Right this way. It’s not as grand as it once was, but it’s still home.”

Rosilee glanced around as she curiously followed the woman down the hallway, where a fire had been lit in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. The furniture was old but well-kept, the cushions plump and inviting. A large rug covered the floor, its colors muted with age. No sense ofhome, however, could be found here.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Prune said, bustling about to arrange cushions and dust off chairs. “I’ll have some tea brought up shortly. And perhaps a bite to eat. You must be starving after your journey.”

The duke nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Prune. That would be most welcome.”

Rosilee glanced at him.

The poor man.

He looked as if he had swallowed something prickly.

And for some reason, a prickliness wedged in her own chest, refusing to dislodge.

Blake’s gaze sweptover the drawing room, the interior as outdated as a two-hundred-year-old haunted castle... but kept neat and tidy. Even so, this house held no good memories for him. Haunted, indeed. The echoes of his father’s voice, booming with threats, the slam of doors during drunken rages, and the cries of women—whether in pleasure or in pain, he could never tell—lingered like ghosts trapped within the fabric of the fraying wallpaper, always pressing to break free.

You survived.

True.

You are not that boy anymore.

Doubtful.