His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and she saw the way his hands clenched behind his back—a gesture so brief it might have been imagined, but telling nonetheless. “She is young. And perhaps too curious for her own good.”
This was all he said, his tone nonchalant, before he turned away from her and towards the housekeeper, his voice cool.
“Mrs. Pemberton. Would you escort Her Grace to her new chambers? See that she has everything required for her comfort. Dinner will be served at eight, assuming the weather does not worsen.”
Through the open doors, Isadora could see that snow had indeed begun to fall more heavily, dusting the stone steps and promising to transform the already forbidding landscape into something even more remote from the world she had known. The sight should have been beautiful—Christmas snow settling over an ancient estate like something from a Gothic romance—but instead it felt ominous, like the closing of a door between her old life and whatever strange future awaited her in this place of shadows and careful silences.
He nodded once only before the servants began to disperse with the efficient speed of people eager to return to whatever tasks would keep them safely out of their master’s notice. But as Mrs. Pemberton gestured toward the staircase, Isadora found herself reluctant to follow, sensing that once she accepted escort to her chambers, some crucial moment would be lost.
“Edmund,” she said quietly, using his given name deliberately in front of the remaining servants. Several of them started at the familiarity, clearly unaccustomed to hearing their Duke addressed with anything less than formal deference.
He turned toward her with the sort of careful attention that suggested her use of his name had surprised him as well, though he concealed it better than his household staff.
“Is there something you require?” His voice was polite, controlled, but she caught a flicker of something warmer in his green eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition that she was not going to prove as easily managed as his servants.
“Only to say that the house is magnificent. I look forward to learning its history.” She paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, “And to meeting Lillian properly when she is ready.”
The implication was clear—she would not be following his lead in treating the girl’s curiosity as something requiring correction. Several servants exchanged glances, clearly unused to hearing anyone offer even mild contradiction to their master’s judgments.
Edmund remained impassive, save for the slight twitch she noted in his jaw. “I’m sure she will be delighted to make your acquaintance under more appropriate circumstances.”
The emphasis on ‘appropriate’ carried a warning, but Isadora merely inclined her head as though accepting his words at face value. She had learned to pick her battles carefully during years of navigating Father’s expectations, and this was not the time or place to challenge Edmund’s authority directly. But neither would she allow him to believe she intended to ignore Lillian’s obvious need for companionship simply because it complicated his household’s rigid order.
Mrs. Pemberton cleared her throat delicately, clearly eager to end this display of mild marital tension before it could develop into something even more uncomfortable. “Your Grace, if you would permit me to show you to your chambers? I believe you will find them quite comfortable.”
Isadora allowed herself to be guided toward the staircase, noting the way Edmund’s gaze followed her progress. When she glanced back from the first landing, she found him still standing in the great hall, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable in the flickering light of the Christmas torches.
The Duchess’s chambers occupied a substantial portion of the east wing, approached through a corridor lined with portraits of long-dead Ravensleighs who seemed to regard her passage with painted disapproval. The women wore the elaborate dress of their respective eras, but all shared a certain hardness around the eyes that spoke of lives spent managing difficult men in unforgiving circumstances. Had they, too, arrived at Rothwell Abbey as strangers, required to make their own way in this fortress of ancient stones and older secrets?
“These rooms have been prepared especially for Your Grace,” Mrs. Pemberton said as she opened a door of carved oak that must have been hanging on its hinges since the Restoration. “His Grace specified that they should be aired and refreshed, though they have stood empty for some years.”
The sitting room beyond was magnificent in its way, with tapestries that might have been priceless if one cared for suchthings, and furniture that spoke of centuries of accumulated wealth. A fire blazed in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with what looked like genuine Van Dycks. Christmas greenery had been arranged on the mantelpiece and windowsills—holly and ivy wound through silver candlesticks, with red ribbon that provided the only spots of bright color in the otherwise somber chamber.
But for all its grandeur, the room felt cold in ways that had nothing to do with Yorkshire winter. It was beautiful as a museum might be beautiful, perfectly appointed but somehow lifeless, as though no one had ever truly lived within its walls.
“How long have these rooms stood empty?” Isadora asked, moving toward the windows that looked out over snow-covered gardens.
Mrs. Pemberton’s hands twisted in her apron, a gesture that seemed unconscious but telling. “Since the previous Duchess passed, Your Grace. His Grace’s mother died when he was but twelve years old. No lady has occupied these chambers since.”
Twenty years, then. Twenty years of emptiness, of rooms maintained but not lived in, of a house that had functioned without the softening influence of feminine presence. No wonder the servants walked on eggshells—they had spent two decades learning to navigate the moods and expectations of a master who had grown to manhood in a household ruled by masculine authority alone.
“I see,” Isadora murmured, though she was beginning to understand far more than Mrs. Pemberton’s simple explanation had intended to convey. “And the bedchamber?”
The housekeeper led her through connecting doors to a room that was even more imposing than the sitting room. The bed was a massive four-poster that could have slept a royal court, draped in midnight blue velvet that had probably cost more than most people earned in a year. More portraits adorned the walls—Duchess after Duchess, each looking slightly colder than the last. Christmas candles had been arranged on every surface, their warm glow doing little to dispel the chamber’s austere grandeur.
“Your belongings have been unpacked and arranged as seemed appropriate,” Mrs. Pemberton said, gesturing toward a wardrobe that could have housed a small family. “If anything is not to your satisfaction, please ring and it will be corrected immediately.”
The emphasis on ‘immediately’ was telling, suggesting that delays in meeting the new Duchess’s requirements would not be tolerated any more than they would be in addressing the Duke’s needs. Whatever reputation Edmund had earned for himself, it had clearly created a household where efficiency was valued above all other virtues.
“Everything appears perfect,” Isadora assured her, which was true enough if one valued perfection over warmth. “You have clearly taken great care with the arrangements.”
Relief flickered across the housekeeper’s features, so briefly that Isadora might have imagined it. “Thank you, Your Grace. Is there anything else you require at present? Perhaps some tea, or refreshments after your journey?”
“Tea would be most welcome. But first, tell me—what time does the household typically rise? And what are the arrangements regarding meals?”
Though she smiled, Mrs. Pemberton still seemed quite cold… almost as though she feared that even an inkling of warmth would set the entire manor aflame.
“His Grace typically breakfasts at seven, Your Grace. He prefers to take his morning meal in the small dining room, and to conduct estate business immediately afterward. Luncheon is served at one, dinner at eight during winter months. The household retires early—His Grace values punctuality and efficiency above all else.”
