Translation: Edmund ran his household like a military operation, with schedules to be observed and expectations to be met without variation. The sort of rigid order that left little room for spontaneity or the messy complications of human need.
“And Miss Gray? What are her typical arrangements?”
Another pause, more weighted than the first. “Miss Gray takes her meals in the schoolroom with Mrs. Hale, Your Grace. Her day is structured according to her educational requirements.”
The girl was being raised in isolation, Isadora realized with a pang of sympathy. No wonder she had fled so quickly—any disruption to her carefully ordered world probably felt both thrilling and terrifying.
“I see,” Isadora said again, filing away this information for future consideration. “And His Grace? Does he typically join the household for meals, or does he maintain separate arrangements?”
The question seemed to surprise Mrs. Pemberton, as though the idea of the Duke’s dining habits being subject to discussion had never occurred to her. “His Grace dines alone, Your Grace. He has done so since returning from London several years ago.”
Since the duel, then. Since whatever scandal had earned him his dangerous reputation and driven him to this self-imposed exile. Isadora was beginning to understand that Rothwell Abbey was not merely remote—it was a fortress in the truest sense, designed to keep the world at bay while its master nursed the wounds that had driven him to such isolation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton. You have been most helpful.” Isadora moved toward the window. “I believe I would like that tea now, and perhaps some time to rest before dinner.”
The housekeeper curtsied and withdrew, leaving Isadora alone in the vast silence of chambers. The silence was overwhelming and thoughts muddled through her head: in a manner that was entirely unstoppable.
What had she gotten herself into?
It was not long before a soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding, and a young maid entered with a tea service that was probably worth more than the girl’s annual wages. “Your Grace,” she murmured, setting the silver tray on a table beside the fire. “Mrs. Pemberton said you might require refreshment.”
“Thank you.” Isadora studied the girl’s pale face, noting the way her hands shook slightly as she arranged the delicate china. “What is your name?”
“Mary, Your Grace.” The answer came so quietly it was almost a whisper.
“How long have you been in service here, Mary?”
The girl’s eyes darted toward the door as though she feared being overheard. “Three years, Your Grace. Since I was fourteen.”
“And do you find it agreeable work?”
Another nervous glance, this one accompanied by a flush of color that suggested the question was more complicated than it appeared. “His Grace is... that is, we are well provided for, Your Grace. The wages are fair, and the work is steady.”
But not agreeable, Isadora noted. Fair and steady, but not comfortable or pleasant. The girl clearly felt trapped betweenhonesty and loyalty, unwilling to criticize her master but unable to offer genuine praise.
“I am sure it must be quite different from what you are accustomed to in the village,” Isadora said gently. “So large a house, with such particular requirements.”
Mary’s relief at this diplomatic phrasing was visible. “Yes, Your Grace. His Grace requires things to be just so. No variation from what is expected, no noise in the corridors, no... mistakes.”
The way she said ‘mistakes’ suggested they carried consequences beyond simple correction, confirming Isadora’s growing understanding of why the household operated with such nervous precision.
“Well, I hope you will find my presence here less... exacting in its requirements,” she said carefully. “I prefer comfort to ceremony, and I believe households function better when people feel at ease in their work.”
The look Mary gave her was equal parts gratitude and terror, as though the prospect of less rigid expectations was both wonderful and frightening. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”
She curtsied and fled, leaving Isadora with her tea and her thoughts. Outside, full darkness had fallen, and the snow continued its relentless descent. Through the ancient glass, she could see Christmas lights twinkling in cottage windows down inthe village, warm and welcoming in a way that made the Abbey’s grandeur seem cold by comparison.
She was still standing at the window when footsteps in the corridor announced another visitor. The knock was firm, confident, and unmistakably masculine. Edmund’s voice carried clearly through the oak panels.
“May I enter?”
“Of course.”
He appeared in the doorway like something conjured from her imaginings of what a duke should be—tall, imposing, perfectly dressed despite the long day of travel. But there was something different about him now, a tension in his shoulders that had not been present during their journey. Perhaps being back in his own domain, surrounded by the weight of ancestral expectations and ancient responsibilities, had returned him to his role as the Dangerous Duke whose word was law throughout his household.
“I trust you find the arrangements satisfactory?” His tone was polite, careful, but she could sense the effort it cost him to maintain such formality.
“The rooms are magnificent,” she replied, which was true enough. “Mrs. Pemberton has been most attentive to my comfort.”
