Dorothy leaned ever so slightly toward the window, her breath caught between curiosity and dread. The house revealed itself not gradually but in a sudden, commanding rise of pale stone, each column and cornice speaking of age, consequence, and unyielding grandeur.
The journey from London to the Duke’s estate had taken days, the carriage stopping only to change horses and allow them a brief rest. Each night, they stayed at private lodgings to rest from the day’s travel. On the night of their wedding, Dorothy had retired to a spacious chamber set aside for her alone. A sumptuous dinner had been brought to her room, but Magnus had taken a separate suite. Though the linens were soft and the fire warm, Dorothy had lain awake throughout her wedding night, feeling the distance between them and the weight of her new responsibilities.
Dorothy paused to take in the sight. This was her husband’s domain as well as her home now, and yet, as her eyes traced its endless windows, glittering like watchful eyes, she felt an odd shrinking within herself. A duke’s wife ought to gaze upon such magnificence with pride; she ought to feel a sense of triumph in stepping across a threshold barred to so many. Instead, Dorothy felt the whisper of panic at her throat.
The lions of stone flanking the steps seemed to judge her unworthy before she had even set foot upon the stairs. The clipped hedges, the perfectly aligned rows of trees, every detail so precise it left no room for imperfection, no allowance for laughter or warmth. A house of legacy, yes, but not, she feared, of belonging.
Magnus assisted her down, his hand firm and steady, and yet she hardly felt it. Her thoughts were already leagues away, reaching for her sisters. How she longed for their chatter, their gentle teasing, their shared secrets. Now they were miles distant, and their companionship would be reduced to paper and ink, each word delayed by the slow cruelty of distance. A letter would takedays to reach them and longer still to return. How was one to pour a whole heart into a few lines then wait, suspended, for the comfort of reply?
Dorothy gathered her gown and placed her slipper upon the first marble step. It felt ceremonial, as though she were being ushered into a role she scarcely recognized. The house loomed higher with every step, the open doors yawning wide, waiting to receive her with staff lined at each side. The bride who crossed that threshold would never again be the girl who had written long letters by candlelight in her papa’s drawing room.
By the time she reached the top step, her pulse was unsteady, her composure hard won. She entered not with the eager delight of a bride anticipating her new life, but with the uneasy knowledge that she was stepping into a world that might never forgive her for not belonging to it.
She scarcely had time to draw a steadying breath when the click of footsteps approached. A tall woman emerged, severe in her posture though not unkind in her countenance, her cap and keys marking her authority at once. She curtseyed with the smoothness of one long accustomed to such duty.
“This is Mrs. Redmond, the housekeeper,” Magnus said with a sigh.
“Your Grace,” the woman said with a low and respectful tone. “It is a delight to meet you. Welcome to Walford Manor.”
From behind Mrs. Redmond, a slight figure appeared, a young girl with downcast eyes and hands clenched in her apron. Her curtsey was quick, almost startled, and she did not lift her gaze beyond Dorothy’s hem.
“This is Eugenia,” Magnus supplied. “My niece.”
Dorothy’s gaze caught at once, her heart tightening. The niece Magnus had spoken of. The child who would, in some measure, become part of her daily charge.
Dorothy, compelled by an urge she could not resist, lowered herself slightly so that her face was closer to the girl’s. The child’s features were delicate, framed by chestnut curls that caught the light, and though her expression was guarded, Dorothy thought her quite pretty.
“It is very nice to meet you, Eugenia,” she said warmly, her voice softened as if coaxing a frightened bird. “I have been told we shall spend time together.”
The girl shifted her weight, cheeks coloring faintly, but no reply came. Her lips pressed tighter, as though the words she might have spoken had been locked away.
A hush followed, one Dorothy longed to bridge but could not. She lingered a moment longer, hoping to catch the child’s eye, yet Eugenia’s lashes remained lowered. Dorothy lingered in her crouch a moment longer, willing some response from the girl, before she straightened at last, smoothing her skirts witha faint sigh. Her eyes lifted to Magnus, as though seeking an explanation for the child’s reserve.
But he was already watching her.
The sight unsettled her. His gaze was fixed not upon Eugenia, nor upon Mrs. Redmond, but wholly upon her, intent, searching. Heat touched her neck, and she straightened her back instinctively, as though posture alone might answer whatever unspoken question lingered in his look.
Had she erred? Had she said too much, stooped too low, revealed some eagerness unbefitting a duchess? The thought pricked at her, and yet there was something in his expression she could not quite unravel. Something softer, stranger, almost at odds with the severe marble and portraits surrounding them.
“Why do you look at me so, Your Grace?”
“We have had a long journey,” He merely regarded her a moment longer, as if her question did not matter. Then, with the calm authority that never seemed to desert him, he looked away. “It is time everyone retired to bed.” His glance shifted to Dorothy once more, but the intensity of his look was already veiled. “I shall show you to your chambers. I trust the maids have all in readiness.”
Mrs. Redmond, ever attentive, inclined her head. “Yes, Your Grace. Her maids are already in her chambers, awaiting her arrival.”
“Very well,” Magnus replied. His hand fell loosely behind his back. “See that Eugenia is put to bed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Dorothy was beginning to perceive why Magnus was spoken of with both fear and reverence in all of England. The very air of the house seemed to echo his command. The servants moved with a precision bordering on severity; no gesture was careless, no gaze unmeasured. Magnus, himself, was pristine in bearing, his step purposeful, his gaze cool and assured, and he seemed to be the axis upon which the great machine of the household turned. His aura filled every space, brooking no resistance, and she could not help but wonder, as she walked at his side, how such authority, so natural, so intimidating, would translate into the intimacy of a husband.
“Why do you tarry there, Miss Lockhart?” At the head of the staircase, Magnus halted, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure against the dark-polished balustrade.
Startled, Dorothy gathered her skirts at once, her cheeks warming beneath the intensity of his regard. “You forget yourself, Your Grace.”
His left brow lifted. “Forgotten what, pray?”
“That I am no longer Miss Lockhart,” she returned with a little lift of her chin. “I am the Duchess of Walford.”
