“The holly,” he admitted ruefully. “I do believe it was getting even with me for having been made to sacrifice itself for the embellishment of my door.”
“It is deceptively prickly, is it not? Shall I take it from you?”
He stared at her hands. “You were holding the wreath. Did the holly not stab you?”
“Oh no, Your Grace.” She smiled, showing him her palms, which were mottled and scarred. “My hands are toughened from my years in service. When I was a maid of all work, I had to do the scullery. More than one incident with boiling water has rendered much of my hands numb. A bit of holly is no match for me.”
A sudden, almost violent desire to drop the wreath and take her hands in his assailed him, so strong and vehement he had to swallow hard against a rush of longing. He loathed the thought of her enduring the pain of such scalding burns, the difficult life in service she’d endured already for one so young. But he also admired her for her steadfast perseverance.
He knew without asking that she would have worked with those raw, burned hands. That it was a miracle they hadn’t festered, given all the duties she must have had.
“I insist on carrying it,” Quint managed, struck by the fervent wish that their circumstances were different.
That he wasn’t a duke and she was not his housekeeper. That he wasn’t hideously scarred and embittered, that she was notworking herself to the bone in service. That they were man and woman, unencumbered, and he would be free to speak with her, to court her.
But that was yet another foolish notion, and he ought to have known better.
Turning away from her, he strode back toward the manor house, his footfalls crunching on the gravel and snow, wind whipping cold air against his cheeks as he bore the wreath like an albatross. A footman was waiting, opening the door. Quint held back, allowing for Mrs. Yorke to precede him. Had the entire household seen him chase after her out to the gardens? He needed to take greater care, it would seem, for the last thing he wanted to do was cause gossip belowstairs by exhibiting favoritism where she was concerned.
He trailed after her through the maze of corridors to the great hall and then out the front door, where he could finally relieve himself of his burden by hanging the wreath on a brass hook mounted to the panel for just such a purpose. The wind whipped up just as Mrs. Yorke stepped past him, straightening the bow to her liking. They stood in such proximity that a silken tendril of her hair brushed over his cheek.
The startling intimacy sent desire crashing over him.
She cast a bright smile at him. “There. It is perfect, is it not?”
“Perfect,” he agreed tightly.
But once again, it wasn’t the blasted wreath he was speaking of.
“Mrs. Yorke?”
At Mary’s voice, Joceline jumped, startled from her reverie. She had been overseeing the airing out of the bedchamber thedowager duchess would be using, a room that had been sealed up for what was obviously a considerable amount of time. It wasn’t the task that had given her pause, sending her mind wandering, however. Rather, it had been the realization that the room had quite plainly belonged to another woman. A woman whose belongings had been sealed away, and yet whose watercolors and pictures and other belongings had been left quite as if their original owner had left the room for a moment, intending to return.
“Yes, Mary?” Joceline asked, unable to dispel the heaviness in her heart.
This room had belonged to the duke’s wife.
“What am I to do with the jewelry case?” Mary asked as, around them, maids removed coverings from furniture and dusted and mopped.
“I’ll need to speak with His Grace,” she said, wondering how she was to handle such a delicate matter.
She had never needed to inquire about the belongings of a dead spouse at any of her previous situations. Navigating such a treacherous subject would be difficult enough with anyone, let alone the Duke of Sedgewick.
“Leave it where it is for now,” she added. “The duchess’s belongings are to remain where they are until I tell you otherwise.”
“Of course, Mrs. Yorke,” Mary said agreeably.
Joceline sighed. The dowager was to arrive soon, and they couldn’t afford to lose any time in their preparations. She was going to have to seek out the duke now so that the maids she had delegated to the room opening could complete their duties.
“See that the maids carry on while I’m gone,” she instructed Mary.
The walk through the servants’ stair and halls felt as if it took an eternity, dread weighing heavily upon her. Over hershort tenure at Blackwell Abbey, she had made astonishing leaps where the duke was concerned. She feared undoing all the progress with the uncomfortable interview that was bound to ensue.
Finding Sedgewick was yet another adventure as she emerged to the great hall. He was not in his study where she had expected him to be at this hour. Nor was he out riding, she discovered after inquiring with Dunreave. The duke was, astonishingly enough, in his library.
Joceline sought him there, knocking lightly at the door before he bade her to enter. She crossed the threshold, offering him a curtsy.
“Your Grace.”
