“Do stay by the fire until you are warm. I will see you for dinner at seven."
With this final remark thrown back casually over his shoulder, Dorian Voss walked out of the library, closed the door and left Rose standing alone in front of the fire.
She touched a wondering finger to the lips that had tasted his and felt the lingering tingle of his touch. Why had it felt the way it did when the duke kissed her? Rose did not want to feel such overpowering sensations, especially not at this man’s hands. She had spoken the truth when she said she did not want to be charmed by Dorian Voss.
And yet, when he kissed her, there was still something inside Rose that longed for more and was only sorry that he hadstopped. Wanting to drive the thought of that dark gaze and perfectly shaped mouth from her mind, Rose closed her eyes, only to find the image of him all the stronger.
Thinking again of wolves, Rose shivered, although in mind, heart and body she was now far, far from feeling the cold.
Chapter Eight
“What instructions should I give Mr. Smithers for the arrangement of your private sitting room, Your Grace?” asked Gladys, Rose’s new lady’s maid, a cheerful young redhead of strong build and healthy complexion.
At Westvale Park, Rose had always shared her mother’s maids. There had been several of these over the years, and Rose had been close to none of them. Now Duchess of Ravenhill, she found that not only was she unable to answer the simplest questions put to her as mistress of the house, but that she did not really even know how to speak to her maid.
“I am not sure yet,” Rose admitted self-consciously, looking through into the empty room of her suite that was supposed to be transformed into a sitting room. “I would write to my mother but she is so busy with my father and I have never had a sitting room of my own. At home, I had only a bedroom and a dressing room.”
Gladys was still looking expectantly at her and Rose felt helpless. This was her fourth day at Ravenhill House and she had no more idea yet how to answer questions like this than she had done on her first arrival.
Rose had so far failed to answer questions on which of the duchy’s extensive collection of jewelry she would require to be kept at home and which in the bank vault, what menus should be planned for the winter, or whether she required the services of a dressmaker. Other people had always arranged jewelry, menus and clothing and Rose did not know where to begin.
She was also beginning to suspect that the staff were becoming frustrated with her ignorance and timidity. How could they not? It frustrated even Rose herself.
Mrs. Jennings’ tour of the house and introduction to its staff on her first day at Ravenhill had flowed over her as comprehensively as the wedding service. There were too many people, too much detail and too many unspecified responsibilities apparently on Rose’s own shoulders.
Tiny but extremely quick-moving and efficient, Rose suspected the housekeeper found her new duchess faintly ridiculous, although she could not say the woman had been anything other than polite.
“Perhaps a desk for writing letters?” Gladys offered and Rose clutched at this.
“Yes, a desk of course. I must have a desk, mustn’t I?” she gabbled.
“Which desk would you like, Your Grace?”
Rose was stumped once more by this further question. Was the maid asking for size, style and color, in order to give instructions to a carpenter? Or would Mr. Smithers the butler be sent to town to buy one matching her specifications? How stupid she felt!
“I do not know,” she admitted, rather shamefacedly, just as Mrs. Jennings bustled past the open door and stopped there.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust breakfast was to your satisfaction,” she said, her sharp eyes scanning the scene. “Is everything well, Gladys?”
“I was consulting Her Grace on plans for her private sitting room,” the maid informed the older woman respectfully.
“Very good. Do let Mr. Smithers know as soon as possible,” replied the housekeeper. “It has been so long since Ravenhill House has had a duchess but I am sure we must do our best to make Her Grace comfortable.”
Before the woman could move on down the corridor, Rose stepped forward and held out a hand.
“Mrs. Jennings, I wonder if I might ask your opinion,” she implored, conscious that her behavior was likely odd butdesperate enough to ask anyway. “What is the best arrangement for a sitting room? I am afraid I do not know.”
She cast her eyes down, not wanting to see whatever look passed between the two servants in the face of her ignorance. When Rose looked up again, Mrs. Jennings was regarding her directly with an appraising expression. Rose supposed that the housekeeper saw right through her.
“Perhaps we might view the furniture stores in the attics and you can select whatever suits your tastes, Your Grace. If you do not like what we have, we will send out for whatever you require.”
“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,” Rose rushed to reply. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jennings. I had no idea…”
“Go and tell Mrs. Greene to check the linen rotation in the East Wing without me, Gladys,” instructed Mrs. Jennings crisply, before Rose had even finished her sentence. “I will accompany Her Grace to the attics to choose furnishings.”
Curtsying, Gladys departed and Rose followed gratefully after the small but fast-walking housekeeper.
“Desk, table, shelves,” Mrs. Jennings counted off on her small, neat fingers, having already made some pencil notes on a small pad she carried in her pocket. “Now we must look at seating. Isuggest a high-backed chair for your desk and a chaise-longue for reading in comfort.”
