“Shall I serve, Your Grace?”
The question hung dead in the air for a minute as Diana looked around the dining room. She knew such a space should give her pleasure.
Hungerford Manor was a grand one indeed, and the dining room was certainly a fine example of its grandeur, with a ceiling painted in an Italian style, bearing cherubs and angels, with white pillars along either side of the room, golden and gilt frames for paintings and mirrors on the wall, and a mahogany dining table so long that Diana felt rather foolish sitting at it all alone. It was as though she were a mouse on the kitchen table, stealing cheese off the edge.
“Erm …” She struggled to speak as she looked up from her plate towards her husband’s chair that should have been filled yet remained empty. The duke should have been back some time ago, but he was not, and his chair was a stark reminder of how bare he sometimes left this house.
“Your Grace?” She was urged on again.
Diana found it difficult enough these days speaking to people, let alone when she knew things were improper, such as a missing husband who had a dinner waiting for him. She looked to the man who had spoken to her and felt that jolt in her chest that she felt every time she looked at him.
“I suppose that is best,” she said softly and tried to summon a smile, but it was gone in the next moment, and she looked down at her porcelain plate again, afraid to look at him for very long.
The butler bowed and moved to the door, opening it carefully to allow the servers into the room to bring in the plates of food. As they busied around her, Diana stole another glance at her husband’s butler.
Mr Owen Arnold.
Even taller than her husband, he cut quite the striking figure in any room, something that the staff seemed very aware of as they all looked to him whenever they entered a room. His hair curled around his temple, dark chocolate brown in colour, leading down to angular features that would have belonged on some Michelangelo statue of the human form rather than a staff member.
The brown eyes, though, were what struck Diana most whenever she looked at him. They were the colour of cinnamon sticks and held a softness to them that always made her want to lean towards him.
“There, Jenkins, that’s right,” he said gently, adjusting the servers and footmen’s orders until everything was placed correctly on the table. He must have felt Diana’s keen gaze, for he looked to her and offered her a smile. She offered a small one back before snapping her gaze back down to her plate.
I am ogling my butler. Good Lord, what would my husband say if he knew?
She thought it unlikely he would ever find out. He was gone most days at the moment. Her eyes flitted to the vacant chair again, but it remained firmly empty.
“Shall I tell you what our cook has prepared this evening, Your Grace?” the butler said and moved to stand at her side. She adjusted the napkin on her lap and sat tall in the high-backed chair as she looked up to him.
“Perhaps I should wait a few minutes longer,” she said nervously. “My husband might yet turn up.”
“Ah …” Mr Arnold’s simple sound made her go rigid.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am afraid, Your Grace, your husband left a message for me when he departed a few minutes ago.”
“For you?” she asked, then glanced around at the other staff members, worried that she might have been heard when her voice pitched high. She hadn’t even known her husband had come back to the house, let alone departed again. “I mean … did he leave a message for me?”
“No, Your Grace,” Mr Arnold said, wincing with the words in a way that screwed up his handsome features.
“Oh, very well,” she said, trying to be formal and ignore the irritation that bloomed in her chest. “What did his message to you say?”
“That he would not return home until tomorrow.” Mr Arnold picked up another napkin and laid it over his forearm, in the practiced way, before reaching for a carafe of claret and pouring her a glass. “He is staying in Bath for tonight and will not return until tomorrow.”
“Is he staying at his townhouse?” she asked, eager to still have some conversation before she faced an empty room, with nothing but the capon dressed in red wine and nutmeg to keep her company.
“I do not know, Your Grace,” Mr Arnold said as he placed the carafe back down again. Something about these words was odd, making her turn her head more towards the butler.
Where else would my husband stay in town?
Since they were married, Gilbert had insisted they retired to his country seat in Farleigh Hungerford, saying that he was tired of London, only Diana was quickly discovering what that truly meant. Gilbert travelled often to Bath and London, seeing friends and parties of the ton; meanwhile, Diana stayed at home.
He meant he did not want a wife to frequent such parties in London.
“Now, cook has prepared your favourite for this evening,” Mr Arnold continued, earning her attention again. “Our first courses consists of capon with red wine and nutmeg, served on a bed of cabbage. We have a potato pudding, and of course, a light soup of carrots and greens too.”
He gestured to another bowl with his white-gloved hand, where a footman promptly lifted a cloche, revealing a tendril of steam that wove its way up to the painted ceiling.
