She hesitated, lingering, eyes fringed with lush, dark lashes, heart-shaped face impossibly pretty. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“There is no peace in this room,” he told her. “You may as well come in, and I’ll give you some direction on what is to be done with the contents of the chamber.”
“Of course.” She crossed the threshold, the door naturally gliding closed at her back.
When she entered the room, it was as if the heavy weight upon his chest lifted and he could breathe again. He despisedthe effect this woman had upon him. He hated himself for acknowledging it.
And yet, it simply was.
“The pictures should all be taken down,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking beneath the tremendous, twin weights of regret and grief. “See that they are stored in the attics where they will be well protected and covered.”
“I will see that they are packed away with great care, Your Grace.”
Her voice was calm, soothing. Pleasant. Edged with sympathy he didn’t deserve.
“Thank you, madam. The furniture may remain for my mother’s use. Bring in pictures for the walls from other bedrooms if you must. The rest of my wife’s belongings may be packed away as well.”
Difficult words to say. Necessary words. He could not live in the past. For so long, he had been unable to force himself to address these lingering parts of Amelia. To admit to himself that she would never return. To celebrate Christmas without her. To live again.
Perhaps the time had come to do both.
“I’ll see to that as well, Your Grace,” Mrs. Yorke said, her calm efficiency helping to soothe his jagged nerves.
“Thank you.” Belatedly, he recalled that he wasn’t wearing his gloves. They remained on the table behind him. He flexed his scarred fingers, feeling the familiar tightness of the fire-damaged skin.
Her vibrant, green gaze dipped to his hands, and his gut clenched as he awaited her reaction, her revulsion. But she exhibited neither disgust nor shock, her expression never changing as her eyes returned to his.
“You needn’t thank me, Your Grace. I’m sorry for my mishandling of the circumstances this morning. Am I tounderstand that you wish for the dowager to be given this room after all?”
“Yes,” he told her, his voice tight with suppressed emotions, the single-word response all he could manage.
“I will direct the maids to return, then, supposing Your Grace finds it acceptable to do so?”
“Of course, Mrs. Yorke. Do whatever you must. I only ask that you are discreet with the removal. I haven’t been in this room in over two years, and I’m feeling somewhat…overwrought.”
“I understand,” she told him softly.
And he knew that she did, in her own way. She had lost her father. Had been thrust from the bosom of her loving home and into service, denied the life she might have had, the husband and family that may have one day been hers. He swallowed hard against a fresh wave of unwanted emotion, snatched up his gloves, and left the room without another word before he did or said something truly reckless.
Joceline emerged from the servants’stair that evening after dinner, feet sore, back aching, heart heavy. She had personally overseen the packing of the former duchess’s pictures, making certain that each one was well wrapped in cloths before assigning them to footmen who waited to carry them into the attics for safekeeping. With each watercolor, she had felt another piece of her heart breaking for the Duke of Sedgewick, understanding how painful it must have been for him to be surrounded by the remnants of his wife’s things after he had avoided them for so long.
But it wasn’t just the duke’s heartbreak that had affected her through the long hours of somber removal. It was the secret they shared as well. When she had ventured back to the duchess’s bedchamber, he hadn’t been wearing his gloves. Nor had he bothered to put them back on. Instead, he had stood before her, his scars there for her to see, his grief unfettered. He had been a broken man, one who had loved his wife very much. One who had been vulnerable instead of formidable, weary instead of icy. And he had allowed her to see a part of him he kept from others, as if he had shared a secret that was theirs alone.
Fanciful thinking on her part, she knew, but the bond she couldn’t help but to feel between herself and the Duke of Sedgewick seemed to grow exponentially with each passing day. Or perhaps it was merelyherfeeling that bond, imagining it existed. Either way, she would never know. Housekeepers and dukes didn’t cross boundaries. She was here to manage his household, not to develop tender feelings for the man. Besides, he had clearly been hopelessly in love with his wife. It was wrong of her, but she couldn’t quite quell a sudden stab of envy, not without its accompanying guilt. Who was she, who had no place in the Duke of Sedgewick’s life, to be jealous of his dead wife?
As she passed His Grace’s study, the low rumble of his voice took her by surprise.
“Mrs. Yorke,” he called.
She halted, turning to find his door partially ajar, the duke seated at his desk in the slant of the opened door. “Do you need me for something, Your Grace?”
“Come inside, if you please,” he invited with an odd half smile on his beautifully sculpted lips.
She did as he asked, hesitating near the open door, all too aware of how dangerously handsome he was and how inappropriate her feelings were where he was concerned. Shefelt something for him. A tenderness she’d never felt for another. A deep pull of attraction.
“How may I be of service?” she asked brightly, banishing those wicked thoughts.
“Close the door, if you please.”
