“You presume correctly.” His gaze dipped to the mess of candles scattered over the floor. “What is the meaning of this?”
Well. She couldn’t cast poor Mary beneath the carriage wheels, could she?
Joceline pinned her brightest smile to her lips. “Forgive me my clumsiness, please. I will see to it that the hall is tidied at once.”
The duke scowled. “Someone else shall see to it. You are dismissed, madam.”
“Dismissed, Your Grace?”
“I am giving you the sack,” he enunciated coldly.
Sacked? She had only just arrived three days before. And an arduous journey it had been, too, taking the 5:15 a.m. train from King’s Cross in a cramped carriage. She had traveled for many hours, hopeful that her situation at Blackwell Abbey would provide some much-longed-for permanence. To say nothing of the handsome sums she had been promised by the duchess.
“Have I done something to displease Your Grace?” she asked hesitantly, wondering if it was the dropped candles that had so distressed him.
Her Grace had mentioned that her son would be exacting. That he was content to be a hermit in the wilds of the north and that he did not prefer the company of others. That he was stern and forbidding, frigid and aloof, and that she must not expect a warm reception upon her arrival.
The dowager duchess had neglected to say that he would dismiss her upon arrival, however.
“I have no need for a housekeeper,” he snarled. “Or this…this…greenery. Have it removed before you go.”
“The greenery is part of the decorations I have organized for Christmas, Your Grace,” she explained.
“We don’t decorate for Christmas at Blackwell Abbey, Mrs. Young.”
“Mrs. Yorke,” she corrected firmly, though she knew she shouldn’t.
But he had already given her the sack, had he not? Her small rebellion could not cost her anything more than what she had lost.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked with deadly menace.
Were she younger, less hardened by the world, no doubt, Joceline would have flinched and wilted at the duke’s impenetrable frost. But the shell around her heart was quite firm.
She held his gaze, still smiling. “My name, Your Grace. It is Mrs. Yorke.”
“It hardly signifies, madam. You’ll be gone before tomorrow. Dunreave will see to the arrangements taking you to Durham.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She offered him another curtsy.
“Good day.” He nodded and then stalked past her.
For a moment, his scent swirled in the air he had just disturbed with his cantankerous retreat. It was a pleasant scent—musky and spicy, with hints of citrus and amber—quite unlike the man who wore it.
What an absurd contrast he was. Beautiful on the outside, harsh and angry on the inside. She sighed heavily as his footsteps faded down the hall, echoing in the grim silence that she had noted upon her arrival at Blackwell Abbey three daysbefore and which made sense now that she had finally met the master of the estate.
At least she had yet to make herself at home in the plain, chilly housekeeper’s room she had been given. Her valise was still mostly packed. But there was the matter of her incredibly brief tenure here, and no personal character from the duke to be sure, not after he had so rudely dismissed her.
Frowning, she bent to retrieve the fallen candles, placing them carefully in the apron she had donned to help Mary and the footman, Peter, with the Christmas decorations. The day had begun bright with possibility. She had made use of the holly hedges in the garden, which were quite overgrown and in need of a sound trimming anyway. And then there had been some fir boughs which had been added. How pleased she had been with the overall effect. The trees had been cut from a wooded area out of sight of the manor house and hauled on a wagon. With Christmas approaching, she had been eager to make Blackwell Abbey festive and welcoming as the dowager duchess had requested of her.
But she had been quite wrong in believing her efforts would be appreciated by the duke. It was not the first disappointment in her life, and she knew without question that it wouldn’t be the last.
If only the dowager had been firmer in her warning. Joceline would never have traveled so far, uprooting her life in London, lured by the promise of many more pounds per annum than she had previously earned. Now, she would have to somehow find the funds to return, secure lodging, and start anew.
Dread curdled her stomach as she picked up the last fallen candle and stood, apron full of decorations she’d intended to place on the Christmas trees. But then, with sudden clarity, it occurred to her that the Duke of Sedgewick was not who had hired her as housekeeper. His mother had.
Joceline’s smile returned.
With renewed determination, she moved toward the drawing room.
