by Kit Morgan
“I can imagine,” he said dryly. He turned to the duke. “Your Grace, perhaps we should go inside?”
“Oh yes, of course,” he said in a wonderful British accent. Tory bit her bottom lip. Oh, why did he have to be married? Well, those were the breaks. Maybe he had a brother or two?
Mr. Mosgofian motioned toward the front door of the huge English manor, then took her bags from the driver. “After you.”
Tory looked up at the house, three stories of beautiful stone and glass. “How old is this place?”
“Old,” commented the duke, then added under his breath, “for now, anyway.”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Mosgofian hissed behind him. She didn’t care, she was too excited.
The duke opened the front doors and ushered them inside.
“Oh, wow!” Tory exclaimed, hoping she didn’t sound like some white trash chick that hadn’t seen anything more exciting than the local 7-Eleven. The grand foyer was beautiful, with tapestries and huge paintings decorating the walls. A wide staircase stood like a centerpiece on one side of the hall, surrounded by brightly-colored rugs and beautiful antique furniture. “It’s like something out of a movie.”
“Yes, I do believe they’ve filmed a few here,” Mr. Mosgofian commented.
“Have they?” Tory turned to the duke.
The handsome man froze.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me, I’m just curious. I understand it’s your private business and all that.”
“Quite all right.” The duke glared in Mr. Mosgofian’s direction. “Isn’t it?”
“Er, yes, of course,” Mr. Mosgofian said. “I’m afraid I don’t remember which ones, though.”
Tory nodded and went back to examining the room. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” the duke agreed. “Wait until you see it tomorrow … er, when I can give you the full tour.”
Mr. Mosgofian nodded approvingly. “Shall we see you to your room, Miss Phelps?”
“Oh yes, I should unpack.” A nap was in order too, if she could get one. It had been a long flight – two flights, actually, with the transfer in New York – and worrying over Benny and what he might do the minute the plane took off didn’t help. He was acting awfully nice before she left – suspiciously nice.
“If you’ll follow me.” The duke headed for the staircase.
“When will I meet, um … your wife?” Good grief, she’d almost said Mrs. Duke! She’d have to be more careful or they’d think she was a complete redneck.
“Tomorrow – I’m afraid she’s absent right now. That’s also why you don’t see much staff around – they’re traveling with her. But she should be back late tonight. Your room is in the west wing.”
“Wing? The house has wings?” Oh, she was so blowing this. Shut up, Tory, shut up!
They reached the top of the stairs, turned left and headed down a wide hallway. She noticed the stairs continued to the third floor and wondered what was up there. “How many rooms are in this house?”
The duke glanced over his shoulder at her. “Thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six,” she mouthed at Mr. Mosgofian who walked beside her down the hall. He nodded back casually, as if he visited mansions all the time. Maybe he did.
The duke stopped and turned to a door. “Ah, here we are – the Swan Room.”
“Swan room? Why do you call it that?”
The duke opened the door and waved her inside. “You’ll see.”
Tory entered and saw. The walls were powder blue with all-white furniture and a dark wood floor. But what got her attention was the bed frame in the shape of a swan, like it was swimming through the room. The sight made her gasp. “I’ve died and gone to Heaven …”
“Let’s not use the term ‘die,’ shall we?” Mr. Mosgofian said as he set her bags down and stared at the bed. “You’ll sleep well in that, I hope.”
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “But is it comfortable?”
“It is,” the duke replied. “I know you must be terribly tired, and it’ll be dark soon. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having your dinner prepared and will have it sent up.”
“Yes, I am tired,” she agreed, studying the room. “Thank you.”
“Would you like to have a bath drawn?” the duke asked.
“Drawn?” she said with a curious smile.
The duke glanced at Mr. Mosgofian as if he’d made a mistake. But Mr. Mosgofian shook his head. “Stately old houses like this have some eccentricities, you see,” he explained. “And this one more than most. Not all of the rooms here have plumbing.”
That got her attention. “Really?”
The duke put his hands behind his back and smiled. “Also, my wife is a bit of a history buff. Sometimes … she insists on living as they did in the olden days. So we keep parts of the estate accordingly – let her have her fun.”
“Which you tolerate quite well, Your Grace,” Mr. Mosgofian added.
The duke shrugged. “The things we do for love.”
Tory felt a prick of jealousy, but did her best to ignore it. “Well, I guess if you’re into that sort of thing and have the budget, why not?” What else could she say? Mr. Mosgofian had warned her before she left the States that the woman she’d be tutoring was a bit odd, though very smart. He just happened to leave out the part where she was a duchess.
“Well, I think this wraps things up for now,” Mr. Mosgofian said. “Why don’t you rest, and I’ll check in with you at a later date?”
She glanced between him and the bed. “Sure.”
He nodded to her and the duke in turn and headed for the door. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Phelps. I’m sure you’ll sleep like a baby in that bed.” He walked out, the duke following.
Tory looked at the beautiful bed again. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait to crawl into it, dinner and a bath notwithstanding. What sort of dreams would she have in such a pretty thing? She supposed she’d find out …
Tory woke the next day feeling like she’d slept for a week. She’d had some weird dreams, but she always did when sleeping in a strange place, at least until she got used to her surroundings. Last night’s, though, were so vivid, so wonderful, so full of light. She wished she could remember more than just a flicker of them.
She sat up with her usual stretch and yawn, then admired the room. It was so much brighter than the day before, granted she’d arrived at nearly dusk. Still, the light was definitely different. Maybe Sussex didn’t have as much air pollution as California. “Wow,” she whispered. “Perhaps that’s why I dreamed the way I did. That or the weird hot chocolate I drank last night …” She got out of bed, took care of business in the old-fashioned bathroom (emphasis on old) and went to get dressed.
“Where’s my luggage?” she muttered as she searched the room. Her bags were nowhere to be found. There was a soft knock at the door and Tory spun to face it. “Yes?”
“May I come in?” a woman asked from the other side.
“Er … yes?” Tory said, unsure.
The door opened and a young blonde, blue-eyed maid walked in, a huge tray in her hands. “Breakfast, Miss.”
Tory’s eyes riveted on the fancy silver coffee service. “Oh, wonderful – caffeine!”
“Yes, Miss,” the maid replied in a delicate British accent.
Tory finally looked at her and did a double take – she could’ve just stepped out of one of those old PBS series Mom used to watch. Her black maid’s uniform was floor-length, complete with white apron and cap.
The maid set the tray on a table near the window and turned, catching her stare. She curiously studied Tory’s T-shirt and pajama shorts. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but I’ll be needing those.”
Tory looked at her jammies. “These? And where are my suitcases? I don’t see them anywhere.”
The maid swallowed hard and forced a nervous smile. “His Grace wishes you to wear what is in the armoire, Miss.”
“Armoire?” Tory looked at the intricately-c
arved wardrobe across the room, back to the maid, back to the wardrobe. “Okay,” she said cautiously, walked over to it, opened it and gasped. “What the …?” She turned to the maid. “But … these are … hey, what is this?” She pulled out a light blue velvet gown. It was gorgeous, but what was she supposed to do with it?
The maid hurried over. “A wonderful choice, Miss.”
“Choice? You mean I’m supposed to wear this?” Tory said in confusion. Then it dawned on her. “Wow, your boss’s wife really is a history nut.” She looked the maid up and down. “You’re proof enough of that.”
“Her Grace is … different. But she has excellent taste, Miss.”
Tory examined the contents of the armoire further. “I have to agree. These are beautiful.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Tory smiled. “I’m Tory. You don’t have to keep calling me Miss.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Tory frowned, but managed not to roll her eyes. “To-ry. And you are?”
The maid blushed. “Becky, Miss.”
“Becky. Fine. I’ll call you Becky, you call me Tory.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Tory sighed in frustration.
“Miss Tory,” the maid quickly corrected.
Tory smiled. “Better. I don’t think I could take being called just ‘Miss’ all the time.”
“Yes, Miss Tory.”
Tory shook her head before turning back to the clothing. “What else is in here?”
“Everything you need, Miss Tory. The rest of your wardrobe is in the bureau.” Becky pointed to a tall white dresser trimmed in gold paint.
“Incredible,” she whispered to herself. “The duke and his wife must be loaded.”
“What’s that, Miss Tory?”
“Nothing.” Tory went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. “What is all this?”
“Clothing, Miss Tory.”
Now she did roll her eyes. Ask a stupid question … she pulled out a long white stocking. “Holy cow … is this silk?”
“Yes, Miss Tory,” Becky replied obediently.
Tory continued to rummage through the drawers. The top drawer was full of undergarments from the eighteenth or nineteenth century. No wonder she had to study up on all that history before coming here – the duke’s wife was nuttier than squirrel poop! “So, um … when do I meet the duchess?”
“You’ll meet Her Grace after your breakfast.”
“Okay, fine.” She looked at the breakfast tray. “I could do with coffee first. Then I’ll tackle getting dressed.” For this freak show, she added silently.
“Sir Aldrich will also be joining Her Grace this morning,” Becky said as she followed Tory to the small table.
Tory stared at the richly colored tablecloth and four chairs. Everything about this place was gorgeous, if screwy. She sat and looked at Becky. “Who?”
“Sir Aldrich Barrow. He lives a half day’s ride from here.”
“Does he now? Well, good for him.” She poured herself a cup of coffee as Becky removed the cover from the tray. “Wow!”
Becky smiled. “Enjoy your meal. I’ll return to help you dress.”
Tory marveled at the bacon, eggs, fried potatoes and apple slices on her plate. “Ah, sure. Go do whatever it is you do.”
Becky looked at it too. “His Grace thought you would enjoy an American breakfast.”
“His Grace is right,” Tory concurred as she picked up her fork. “What does the duke normally eat for breakfast?”
“His Grace usually enjoys eggs, sausages, fried bread, fried tomatoes and black pudding, Miss.”
Tory grimaced. She’d seen pictures of that on Buzzfeed, and wondered how anyone in England managed to eat such breakfasts (which usually included baked beans as well) and survive. A heart attack on a plate. She took a sip of coffee before saying, “Well, all right. Anything else I should know?”
Becky stared at her in confusion. “No. I’ll go now, Miss Tory.”
“Fine,” Tory said through a mouthful of potatoes. “See you later.”
Becky curtsied, which almost made Tory choke on her food, and left.
As soon as she was gone, Tory sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Oh, please don’t let all these people turn out to be weirdos. I didn’t come all this way to play dress-up.” She went back to attacking her breakfast.
Chapter Six
Sir Aldrich Barrow crested the hill and reined in his horse. It was a beautiful day, which made Stantham Hall appear all the more magical. He loved coming to visit his friend the duke and his lovely (if unconventional) wife Cozette. They were an odd pair, but extremely intelligent and forthright – two things he valued in his small circle of friends.
But talk of the duchess’s strange behavior had made its way as far as Scotland and he pitied the duke and duchess at times. No wonder they hardly ventured to London anymore. When they did, the gossips sunk their claws deep into their affairs – and if there was nothing to hold on to, they were quick to whip up some tasty morsel from scratch and spread it throughout the ton.
True, the pair never lacked their share of invitations, but now the ton invited them for entertainment purposes, hoping Cozette would make a fool of herself. In Aldrich’s humble opinion, she was no fool, just a woman with an interesting history. She’d dressed and lived as a boy for years, not out of personal preference but as protective cover in the American wilderness. She just needed practice living as a lady to finally become one. That was his theory, anyway – one shared by the duke.
He spurred his horse down the hill. The estate’s grand country house, farmlands and tenants’ homes spread out before him, encircled by dense forest. Streams ran through the estate, and Aldrich looked forward to some fishing that afternoon. Spring days passing into summer’s on the estate was one of his favorite things, and he planned on enjoying every moment of this visit.
But this visit would be different, he knew. The duke had written that they had a tutor helping his wife and asked Aldrich if he could help with some of the lessons. Naturally he’d written back that he would provide any help he could. Now he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Would this obligation cut into his hunting and fishing? “Oh, what of it?” he said to himself as he rode. “Duncan is a friend, after all.”
Aldrich remembered the first time he met the duke, in London nearly six years before. Cozette had just dumped a punch bowl over the head of Viscount Worthington, who’d sorely earned it. It was a sight to behold and had the entire ballroom in an uproar. The countess hosting the ball found it a good excuse to fake an apoplexy and turn the entire evening into the most talked-about event of the season. Even rumors of the duchess’s talent for archery took a back seat as a topic of gossip.
Aldrich smiled, kicked his horse into a canter and entered one of the lower meadows. On the other side of it was the lane to the main house. He laughed, startling his horse as he recalled previous visits to the Stantham estate. He’d had to dodge an arrow or two, as Cozette liked to practice in the ballroom when it rained. She’d given him lessons when the mood struck her and his skill with a bow was improving. In time he might be as good as the duke himself, though neither would likely match the duchess’s proficiency.
Those were cherished memories. On the other hand, they also explained why Stantham Hall didn’t get many visitors. Not everyone was so sanguine about ducking arrows.
He reached the lane and slowed his horse to a trot. He’d arrive just in time for morning tea and Mrs. Dryden the cook would probably be preparing for luncheon. Not only were the duke and duchess known for odd behavior, they had an odd palate from living in America. It took getting used to, but Aldrich himself had grown fond of the pot roast the duke insisted upon every Sunday. The recipe came from a shopkeeper’s wife in the town near the ranch where the duke once resided, and was apparently legendary among the locals …
Aldrich smiled at the thought that he’d get to enjoy the dish a few times during his visits over the next few weeks.
He just hoped to get in his usual amount of sport as well. Hopefully the tutoring wouldn’t interfere too much. He specifically wanted Duncan to go fishing with him this week. He loved to hike up the creek that ran through the estate – there were some wonderful fishing spots, and some good places to swim. The water might be a little cold, but he didn’t mind.
Besides, he’d rather be fishing and swimming in cold creeks this time of year anyway. He didn’t own a town house in London, so he didn’t partake in the exhausting succession of balls that took place during the season. He wasn’t in the market for a wife anyway, so why bother?
Not that too many marriage-minded matrons would target him as a husband for their daughters. He might be knighted and come from a long line of warriors, but he didn’t have a great amount of money. What he did have was the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted, most of which involved the outdoors. That was what he was married to, and he loved every minute of it. Besides, it helped combat the loneliness.
Aldrich smiled at the thought and nudged his horse into a canter again.
Tory stared at her reflection in the mirror in shock. She was now clad in the exquisite blue day dress she’d pulled out of the armoire earlier, and matching blue slippers. At first she didn’t recognize herself. The woman looking back at her was lovely, refined-looking – totally not her. The image made her afraid to open her mouth – her American slang would dash the picture to smithereens. So when she did speak, all she said was, “Beautiful.”
“Indeed, Miss Tory, you are,” Becky said in wonder.
Tory blushed. “Thanks, Becky.” She turned around, admiring the fullness of the skirt, then ran a hand over her mid-section. “But do I have to wear this corset? This thing is murder.”
“It’s part of your daily dress, Miss Tory. Do you like your hair?”
“Better than my stylist back home ever did,” she said with a sigh. “But then, she’s not one for updos.”
“Updos?”
Tory pointed at her hair. “What you did. Putting it up, like for a wedding.”
“Oh no, Miss Tory. It’s nothing of the kind. For a wedding I would have done something very different.”
