Awestruck, Aurelia paused before a landscape by Claude Lorrain.The Duke’s collection was as discerning as any of the great museums and galleries of Europe, packed from floor to ceiling with the most significant works by the most talented hands.Before her hung every visionary since the Middle Ages, and she wanted to weep from the beauty of it all.
This was to be her home!Her children would grow up knowing nothing but comfort and splendor.She—an orphan girl of no known origin—would never want for anything.In return, Aurelia longed to make the Duke of Brantingham proud.She wished him never to regret his choice of wife.
Soon, distant, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.A man’s voice echoed on the marble.Aurelia’s heart began to race as she listened to his approach.In a moment, she would come face to face with the man who occupied her every thought since she’d been sixteen years old,though they’d never met.
Yet Aurelia would know the duke when she saw him, and prayed that he would recognize her as the woman he’d been waiting for all this time.
CHAPTER TWO
Selwyn preferred to work in his private study whenever he was in London, as it was situated in a quiet, out-of-the-way part of the house.Bookcases lined the walls, their shelves filled with leather-bound ledgers and archives recorded from his various estates.A single gas lamp illuminated the room, and a small fire burned in a corner grate, warming his toes beneath the serviceable desk behind which he sat.
Here, the low ceilings didn’t echo, and the oaken floorboards didn’t creak.He could labor without distractions, without the noise of the street drawing him from his figures, or the chime of the doorbell keeping him from his mountainous correspondence.
Selwyn wrote to his agents and solicitors, his farmers, neighbors, and fellow investors.He received petitions from charities both in Yorkshire and in London, and rarely went a day without a line from one of his siblings.Now he tackled the Herculean task of hosting a Christmas gathering for the Charlton family.
This was their first real Christmas without Mama, their rock and anchor.His moral compass.The one person he could trust with both estate business and personal matters weighing heavily on his mind.In many ways, Mama had known him better than he knew himself, and he’d strived to follow her advice in all things.
He missed her terribly and had only recently come out of mourning.Selwyn felt naked without the black silk armband that had been his constant companion these last twelve months.Today, he wore a grey sack coat and trousers, intending neither to go out nor to accept any calls, as he had a great deal to accomplish before his sisters and brother arrived.
Although he was the Duke of Brantingham, Selwyn never stood on much ceremony whenever he was alone, for he was simply a man born to an occupation of considerable responsibility.He wasn’t a king or a god.He paid his bills and his taxes like everyone else in the world.
He drank from the teacup on his desk before returning his focus to an invoice of household goods.Money was never an issue—thank Heaven!—yet he preferred to keep an eye on his expenditures.He worked hard and took an interest in every aspect of the dukedom, as he’d been brought up to do.
Yet he wasn’t a saint.He’d grown lonely over the course of the year.Shrouded in mourning, he’d been exiled from feminine companionship and had refrained from joining his friends at hunting meets and shooting parties.He’d abstained from amusement of any kind, but felt himself coming out of his shell, gradually returning to the world of the living, and wanting to again be a part of everything that made his dutiful life bearable.
This Christmas gathering was to be his return to society.Selwyn longed to make this week a pleasant reunion for him, Margery, Fanetta, Peregrine, and all of their kinfolk.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Yes, come,” Selwyn called without glancing up from his paperwork.
Dowell, his butler, entered looking unusually ruffled.“Forgive the disturbance, Your Grace, but there is a young lady at the door who claims to be your fiancée.”
He gaped at the man.“What?”
“I am afraid she has made her position quite clear—inhermind, at least,” explained Dowell.“She says she has written, though I cannot recall your receiving any correspondence from a Miss Goldsworthy, sir, but as I am not privy to every detail of your personal life, I hesitated to dismiss her without speaking to you first.Shall I show her into the drawing room, Your Grace?”
Selwyn rose from the desk, abandoning his work and his tea.“No, we don’t want a madwoman venturing further into the house.It’ll be far easier to throw her out if she’s near the door.”
“Very good, sir.”The butler bowed.“I shall have her removed from the premises at once.”
“Not just yet,” he said, brushing past the fellow.“I confess I’m intrigued.After all, it isn’t every day that a man meets his fiancée.”Selwyn laughed at the thought, for marriage had been the furthest thing from his mind these last few years, and he had a younger brother who could wear the coronet if need be.“Let me take a look at her.I promise I’ll let her down easy.”
Rather than navigate the labyrinth of corridors, saloons, and staterooms that comprised Brantingham House, he climbed down the narrow, twisting service stairwell at the rear of the house—a shortcut he’d taken since boyhood to escape his nanny, his tutor, and his annoying siblings—and emerged from behind the green baize door.
Selwyn reached the great hall in record time.He descended the broad, sweeping marble staircase, which was such a contrast to the bare, chilly passages utilized by his servants.
He spied her from a distance, clearly having the advantage over her.She did not see him coming and instead stood before a landscape painting.
Miss Goldsworthy wore a fashionable woolen traveling costume in a shade of rich verdigris.A matching green bonnet concealed the color of her hair, but he suspected that it would be some variation of red.She struck him as a redhead, which wasn’t an unwelcome prospect.She was not his fiancée, of course, but an attraction would make their interaction more pleasant.He could ease his way back into society by making small talk with a stranger.
“Are you an admirer of Claude Lorrain?”he asked, referring to the painting.
She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled at his words.“I appreciate his work, certainly, but I admire what artists are doing in France right now, at this moment—the impressionists depicting life as they see it on the streets and in the cafes.”
The young woman took an interest in modern art, though he preferred the Baroque era.“Isn’t the creation of all art, no matter the subject, a contemplation of the world around us?I’m sure it was much the same in Lorrain’s day.”
“Yes, of course, but I fear we spend so much time romancing the past that we lose our appreciation of the present.”
