“I shall never ask you for anything, Dorian Voss!” she declared in an angry voice and fled the room.
Chapter Nine
“Will you wear the blue woolen dress again today, Your Grace?” enquired Mabel the following morning after the fire was lit and the curtains drawn. “The day is to be a cold one again.”
“Yes,” agreed Rose, feeling the iciness of the air as soon as she swung her feet from her warm bed. “The blue dress and matching shawl, please, Mabel.”
After a good night’s sleep Rose felt calmer, even slightly contrite for her outburst the previous evening. Certainly, Dorian Voss should not have teased her over something so serious as their future children. At the same time, Rose recalled that he was no more a willing participant in this marriage than she was herself.
From what she knew of him, rather than suffering a supposed honeymoon with Rose at Ravenhill House, the duke would likely prefer to be out sketching, seeing his friends in Londonor carousing with women like Lady Lepford who understood everything and everyone…
Rose paused for a moment on her way to the washstand, where Mabel had already poured warm water into the basin. She did not like to think of Dorian Voss with Lady Lepford, although she guessed she had no right to object.
The duke had made it clear to Rose from the outset that he did not consider this a real marriage or her a real wife. Likely he kissed all his women just as he kissed her. She was cross at herself for enjoying it so much, but did not see how she could help it when her response seemed to come from her blood rather than her mind.
Maybe Lady Lepford could not help it either, Rose reflected charitably as she washed and cleaned her teeth. The Duke of Ravenhill might be good at kissing, in the same way that some other men were good at cards or shooting. Still, she doubted she could be so sanguine if she were to see her husband and his former lover together.
“Will you be going out today, Your Grace?” Mabel enquired politely as she laid out Rose’s clothes on the bed. “I have put out some flannel petticoats and thicker stockings.”
“They will do very well whether I am inside or out,” Rose commented. “One cannot have fires lit everywhere one goes.”
“You may have fires lit in any room you wish,” Mabel offered instantly. “His Grace would not want you to be cold. If you tellme where you wish to sit after breakfast, I shall send one of the scullery maids to be sure the room is warmed.”
“There is no need,” Rose said quickly, not wanting to make a fuss. “I shall likely wander about. I am still finding my way around Ravenhill House.”
In fact, Rose intended to return to the attic stores by herself and browse the many items of furniture and decoration. She knew now that she could simply ask Mrs. Jennings or another servant, and her choice would be brought to her rooms. The housekeeper had also mentioned the possibility of consulting haberdashery catalogues and samples of fabrics for soft furnishings. She decided she would request these.
Rose also planned to browse further among the many family portraits of the Dukes of Ravenhill, and even in the library, as long as Dorian wasn’t using it. She doubted that he would welcome any disturbance.
For a week, life ran along unvarying lines. Rose took good care not to bother the duke with her deeper concerns. When they met occasionally at mealtimes, she made light conversation about the weather, news from her family, or even her small adventures in furnishing her private rooms. Her husband answered in good humor and Rose tried hard to be content with that. He did not kiss her again.
In the gallery, she had discovered all kinds of interesting pictures, including another portrait of Duchess Juliana. This time, the beautiful blonde woman had posed with all five of her children, ranging from a sweet baby girl in her mother’s arms to a strapping youth beside her chair, the other children gathered in the foreground.
“You look so happy,” Rose said aloud to the painted group, something she often did with pictures when she was sure she was unobserved. “You do not look at all solemn and bored as family portraits are wont to be. I shall come back and see you often, Duchess Juliana. I like to be around happy people.”
In the library, Rose had less luck in finding anything relating to her fascinating predecessor at Ravenhill House. There were family records, of course, but these were dull legal documents, setting out marriage contracts, dowry settlements and dower house occupation from the last century. There was also an old family bible, with the dates of birth of all Juliana’s children inscribed on a front page.
Rose supposed she had really wished to find a book of Duchess Juliana’s poems somewhere. A diary would be too much to hope for. The library was simply too big, however, and she felt that she could spend the rest of her life searching it without result. Even the index cabinet that she eventually discovered provided only limited help.
The shelves for poetry contained only the works of famous poets, ancient and modern. As Juliana’s poems had only beencirculated in the family circle, they would likely not be shelved with the published works of Virgil, Shakespeare and Pope.
Nor did the shelves assigned to“Ravenhill House”deliver what Rose wanted. Mounting one of the metal spiral staircases to the mezzanine level as directed in the index file, Rose found only books and pamphlets on the estate’s architecture, art and agricultural practices. They appeared to have been written by experts and there seemed no personal family works there at all.
Returning to the index cabinet, Rose perused the master listing once more, her eyes falling on a classification marked“Private.” Could this be what she sought? This collection was tucked away towards the back of the library and Rose had to return to the fireplace and light a candelabra before proceeding again into the shadowy, almost hidden nook where these books were kept.
A large and comfortable green leather armchair sat among the shelves, with a table at one side. Setting down the candelabra, Rose began to browse. She could immediately see that many of the titles were in French and sighed, guessing that she was no closer to the right track.
“Ten Nights in the Convent of Love,” Rose translated to herself in a whisper and almost laughed at this title before turning to another. “Lessons in Love from the Venetian Contessa.”
Was Dorian Voss secretly as much an aficionado of romance novels as Rose herself? Or had these books belonged to his deceased cousin?
“A Wife in Every Port for Captain Henri,” she translated the title on another spine.
That one did not sound very romantic to Rose. Wasn’t it illegal to marry more than one wife if you were a Christian? Perhaps this one was actually a thrilling adventure story about a criminal like Bluebeard who would be caught and tried for his crimes at the end. Out of curiosity, she picked it up and began to flick through the pages.
“Oh my!” she gasped aloud as she saw the plates of lurid illustrations that accompanied the story, almost dropping the volume on the floor.
Rose had never seen anything so scandalous in her life. Picture after picture showed naked people engaged in indecent acts, on beds, on chairs, against walls and in poses that would never have crossed her mind. For a panicked moment, she thought only of putting back the book and running away. If anyone saw her with such a book in her hands then…
