by Devon, Eva
It was as terrifying as it was thrilling.
The idea of having to host people in this place was overwhelming, but simultaneously, the idea of exploring its meandering and wandering halls, seeing every tapestry, reading every book…That? That was magical.
She could not wait to be cast under its spell.
As she took the stairs that led up to an ancient archway, the double doors swung open before she could touch the great iron knocker. A butler in a starched livery peered at her as if she’d crawled up from the bottom of the lake across the long acre of groomed grass before the place.
It was not something she appreciated, but she understood. She was not the sort of person the duke was accustomed to entertaining, let alone marrying. And she was not renowned for any particular thing.
No doubt, the swiftness of her engagement, and her family’s lack of pedigree, had been discussed in the servants’ hall. Still, the butler stepped back, lifted a gloved hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, and said, “Miss Bly, I presume?”
For one rather weak moment, Georgiana wished she could shrink up into a little ball and roll away. The butler peered at her with neither pleasure nor particular welcome. She was not surprised, for she had neither looks to recommend her nor grandeur.
Her clothes were that of a barely acceptable miss. Her face, she knew, was plain.
What about her could possibly inspire the Duke of Thornfield to ask for her hand?
Any person with any sense would know it was something nefarious. So she lifted her chin, determined not to seem meek. One had to go at this with a sense of unflappable determination.
If she were the slightest bit timid, everyone would sense her weakness. And one thing she had learned about society was when one displayed weakness, one would be devoured.
She gave the butler a slight smile, but before she could say anything, a voice bellowed from the top of the steps. “Miss Bly, you are late. Lateness is not a tolerable quality.”
Her eyes snapped up and locked on the Duke of Thornfield. He stood at the top of the stairs, peering down at them like some great god.
Zeus came to mind.
No, not Zeus. Zeus was too gregarious.
Thornfield, with his chiseled features, dark eyes, and imperious nature, was rather cold and distant.
Hades.
Yes, Hades made far more sense. A god, but a god of a much darker world.
As Thornfield took one step down at a time, light cast into his dark hair, leaving it a strange blue-tinged mass of thick waves.
Unlike so many gentlemen, it was clear he did not spend hours at his toilet perfecting curls or pomading until his hair would not move an inch.
Oh no.
His hair was a bit wild, which seemed odd because he was such an ordered person. The soft, waving curl did not give him a relaxed air, as one might expect.
No, it only served to amplify his intensity, to sharpen the hardness of his face.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, she curtsied. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I came as fast as my limbs would carry me.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending, before he swung his gaze to the door then back to her. “You walked?”
“Indeed. It is not such a distance,” she replied simply, preferring not to explain that the coaching horses were being used for other purposes.
Thornfield’s face was unreadable. “It is good to know your health is not delicate.”
Delicate? Of course it wasn’t. But the slight arch of his brow did seem to indicate he might think her health was on the same sort of strata as a milk maid rather than a lady. “You requested my presence,” she said tightly. She’d only just arrived and already he was provoking her irritation.
He did not bother to offer his hand to her in greeting before he said tersely, “You’ve come alone? You have no chaperone?”
“Do I need one?” The last thing she wished was to be accompanied by her fluttering younger sisters, and Elizabeth and her mother were far too busy taking care of the kitchen garden. Her father… No doubt, he’d have been delighted to come, but she did not wish to have to constantly be shushing her own papa.
He gave her the oddest look. “Unmarried ladies usually have them.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Are you planning to ruin me? Again.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. “Your sense of humor is questionable.”
“But you acknowledge that I have one,” she said as cheerfully as she could under the rather gloomy circumstances. And she found herself wondering if her future husband had a sense of humor at all.
If he did not, that boded most ill.
“Come,” he all but barked, his voice filling the cavern-like foyer. The tones seemed to boom off the marble floor and ricochet off the muraled ceiling. “We shall begin at once. And the first thing you must do is have an audience with my aunt. She will determine just how…lacking you are.”
He turned and started down the hall, clearly expecting her to obediently follow.
It was tempting to let some tart reprimand out. It was equally tempting to pop him in the nose. She did not; she wasn’t a child. But oh how he tested her.
Lacking, indeed.
She understood the disdain he felt for her given the greatness of his position was the way of things, but it felt… Botheration. She wasn’t something questionable to be scraped off one’s shoe. And she wasn’t going to allow him to treat her thus.
“You are being rude again, Your Grace,” she called to his back.
The Duke of Thornfield hesitated halfway down the hall, and Georgiana was certain he had heard her. There was a slight bunching of his shoulders, an angle to his head as he hesitated for one single moment.
Would he apologize?
“I am not rude,” he said. “I am a duke. And you’re taking up a good portion of my morning with unexpected necessities. I was supposed to be inspecting plans for drainage in my southern fields.”
Had she just been called slightly more important than a drainage plan? Or had he suggested that the drainage plan was preferable to time spent with her?
She had a feeling with Thornfield it was going to be difficult to discern. But one thing was already crystal clear—he was incapable of apologizing.
He resumed his purposeful stride down the hall. Georgiana all but scurried after his rapidly disappearing form. He was so icy, she wondered if it was possible for him to freeze someone to death with a well-aimed glance. There was really only one thing to do. She’d ignore his strange attitudes.
Swallowing her unease, she took in the magnificence of the castle. She refused to be intimidated by him, duke or no. But that did not mean she could not be in awe of the beauty of her surroundings.
The carpet that they walked along was a beautiful, green-and-gold woven runner.
No doubt from Persia.
Paintings of vast sizes hung upon the burgundy silk-covered walls, depicting various battles from different time periods. She spotted one from the time of Charles I, another from the time of Queen Anne. And at last, one from the recent wars in Scotland.
This family had survived many a royal upheaval, and she was amazed to be part of it. It would make this bearable, the glorious history of the place. So when she followed him into the parlor done in the French style, she tried not to gape at the surroundings.
All her life she’d grown up in genteel but rather plain circumstances. They lived within their means, having to be rather careful with their pennies. This, to her, was splendor beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. Though it was a castle, the interior clearly had been updated in the last fifty years. The pale blue watered silk walls were accented with gold filigree and superb plasterwork.
An exquisite mural dominated the ceiling, depicting a group of Greek Gods frolicking around a pond, admiring themselves and each other in brightly hued garments.
She tried not to cock her head up to take it all in. Such a thing of course was not done, but it was so magnificent it was difficult not to.
A rather interesting and gruff female voice said from the end of the long parlor, “Do you like it, Miss Bly? It is exquisite, is it not?”
Georgiana knew she should, but she couldn’t quite look away from the sprawling painting that danced with such life.
“It is,” she agreed happily. “I find it to be most beautiful.”
The duke’s aunt, Lady Strathmore, nodded from her perch upon the blue watered silk settee. “The Italian man stayed in the house for over a year when I was a child. We got quite used to him, you know, and he painted most of the ceilings in the house. Quite good, he was. Poor fellow was always having a crick in his neck from looking up. Now, you must not develop such a thing, my dear.”
Georgiana wrenched her gaze down, and as she did her toe caught upon the edge of the woven Axminster rug. Just before she was about to make rather intimate acquaintance with said rug, Thornfield caught hold of her arm and righted her.
The touch of his hand upon her was firm, warm…charged with energy. She snapped her gaze to his, her breath catching in her throat.
“Thank you,” she managed as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Why the blazes did she have to go and almost trip?
He let go of her quickly and looked away. “Not at all,” he replied. “We shall add walking to your list of tutorials.”
She scowled at him, ready to castigate him for such a remark, but then a smile tilted his lips into a devilish grin.
“At least you have an appreciation for art,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Most people never bother to look up, let alone allow it to captivate them.”
The elder lady laughed delightedly at her nephew’s summation then gestured with a wrinkled, beringed hand to the delicate seats about her. “How true. Boring fools, the lot of them. Now, come along, come along. There’ll be plenty of time to examine the ceilings. After all, you will be mistress here soon.”
Georgiana swallowed, surprised how they had both seemed to compliment her love for the castle to overcome her clumsiness. Carefully, she took in the woman who was to be her family.
Silvery locks were arranged in a waving coiffure about her strong face. She looked a good deal like her nephew, but Lady Strathmore had a sort of sparkle to her eyes that suggested she was ready to make merry at any particular moment. Yet it was also clear she was steely. Her shoulders were back. Her spine was straight. And her gown of the deepest emerald green was the height of fashion.
No clinging to the previous decades, this lady.
“Do make yourself comfortable,” Lady Strathmore all but ordered.
Georgiana sat down with a growing determination not to appear ill at ease. In that moment, she drew upon her mother’s self-possession.
And for once she was most glad her mother had been the daughter of an earl. It had always seemed rather against her views and the joys she had in reading books from France. She quite admired the Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité proclamation, though she secretly whispered Sororité to herself whenever she read the credo.
At least her mother was not a complete stranger to the highest echelons of society and she had passed some of that education on to Georgiana, even if she was ill-suited to company.
Lady Strathmore reached for the elegantly made silver tea service beside her. “Will you take tea?”
She nodded, though she wondered if the duke would be taking notes on her consumption of the beverage, deciding how to improve her sipping.
Lady Strathmore seemed completely unperturbed by the turn of events. “There is much to be arranged. Now, you seem a most sensible girl.”
Georgiana wound her gloved fingers together, glancing from Lady Strathmore to her future husband. “I’ve always tried to be a reasoned person.”
“Of course, my dear, but one does wonder if a reasoned girl from Yorkshire from such a—forgive me—humble position will be up to the task of being the Duchess of Thornfield.”
Georgiana swallowed. Clearly, the duke and his aunt were in agreement about her suitability, or more correctly, her lack thereof.
Utterly mortifying, but it was an unavoidable topic.
She cleared her throat, feeling as though she’d been thrown into the lion’s den. And yet, she wasn’t afraid, only nervous. “There is no going back now,” she said evenly. “I am a quick study and I will do my very best.”
Lady Strathmore gave a grim nod, indicating her doubts. “Indeed, no going back. And we shall have to do everything in our power to ensure you do not drown in the waters of the ton. You have had a season and been presented, of course?”
And of course…Lady Strathmore must’ve known that she had not.
Georgiana’s insides tightened. “I have only been to London once. When I was a small girl.”
The duke let out a derisive sound.
Lady Strathmore attempted a smile and said, “London is the center of the world, Miss Bly. As Samuel Johnson said, ‘When one is tired of London, one is tired of life.’”
“I find I cannot agree.”
She whipped her sharp gaze to her. “I beg your pardon?”
Georgiana did not back down, but rather leaned forward. “How can one say such a thing? For the wild moors of Yorkshire are the most glorious to behold. The countryside is absolutely breathtaking. Surely, if one was to spend their entire life in London and to never venture out, they would not see such beautiful places. And I assume that all those gentlemen who go out on tours to Europe, they must tire a little bit of London, or else they should never wish to leave.”
“Hmmph.” Lady Strathmore plunked a lump of sugar in a cup of tea and thrust it at Georgiana. “You have very strong opinions for one so young.”
“I confess, I do,” Georgiana said without apology. She took the cup and happily drank the exquisitely steeped beverage.
Much to her surprise, Thornfield was staring at her anew, but it was impossible to identify whatever thoughts were taking place within his enigmatic brain.
Lady Strathmore pursed her lips, looking like a gorgon preparing to attack. But then she arched an eyebrow and said, “I’m glad to hear it, my dear. A duchess needs strong opinions. And if you’re going to survive this ton, you’ll need to not only have them but also wear them well.”
Georgiana blinked, stunned by Lady Strathmore’s approval. “You don’t mind if I have strong opinions?”
“Not at all, my gel.” Lady Strathmore took a fortifying sip of tea. “You are the better for it.” She handed her nephew a cup of tea then stirred her own with a delicate silver spoon. “You know they’re all going to look down upon you, don’t you?”
The blunt truth was hard to take, but Georgiana nodded. “I do.”
“Let’s all be honest here.” Lady Strathmore drew in a long breath, which sent the lace on her fichu aflutter. “You are no one from nowhere. Your family is questionable. Your father’s behavior is most odd. And your sisters, well, there are a great many of them, are there not? Your financial situation is rather precarious, from the accounts we have heard.”
She couldn’t argue any of it.
Lady Strathmore removed her spoon, placed in on her saucer, and peered at her assessingly. “And yet you’re going to be the Duchess of Thornfield. Everyone will assume you have manipulated my nephew into marriage. Some will admire you for it. Others? They’ll try to cut you to ribbons.”
“And you?” Georgiana asked. She wouldn’t be shamed into a shrinking violet. “Do you think that?”
“I?” Lady Strathmore dramatically placed a hand to her bosom before she looked to Thornfield, then frowned. “No, my dear, no. My nephew is not easily manipulated. He sees those games a million miles away. Yesterday he might’ve declared you had gotten what you desired, but sitting here,
speaking with you now, I think marrying my nephew is the last thing that you desired. Am I mistaken?”
She studied her betrothed, praying he would agree with his aunt. But he said nothing. In fact, his jaw was tight as if the whole conversation was absolutely insupportable.
Georgiana blinked, grateful at least she would not have to contend with family who thought her to be a manipulative, scheming minx. “You are not mistaken.”
“Which makes this all the worse.” Lady Strathmore gave a sad shake of her head.
“Why?”
“Because,” Thornfield growled suddenly, “if this isn’t what you desired, and I’m not entirely convinced… Well, that shall make it far more difficult for you to negotiate. This shall be wonderful for your father, your mother, and your sisters. However, it will be a daily challenge for you.”
Those words hung in the air, threatening to crush her, but she drew in a deep breath.
Going to pieces over his honesty would do no good.
After a long pause, Lady Strathmore said with some delicacy, “We shall be holding a great many balls, Miss Bly. You have many sisters in need of marriage, have you not?”
“Shall we?” Georgiana asked, fighting off a groan of dismay “Be holding many balls?”
“It is what a duchess does,” drawled her future husband. “You will hold parties, teas, hunts, literary salons.”
“Literary salons?” Georgiana repeated, sparking up.
“Why, yes,” informed Lady Strathmore as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We do support a great many artists.”
At that, Georgiana could barely contain her enthusiasm. Her insides positively fluttered. “That is something I think I should like a great deal.”
“Good.” Lady Strathmore smiled.
The Duke of Thornfield blew out a sigh then stalked toward the tall windows at the far end of the room. It appeared the conversation was simply too much for him to bear. He stared out the polished panes, his remarkable physique silhouetted by the sun pouring in through the glass.
A genuine smile tilted Lady Strathmore’s lips and it did the most remarkable thing to her stern face. It made her…welcoming. Almost motherly.
