They walked to the house in companionable silence.
“Mrs Boswell is like family,” he said as they mounted the steps. “It’s important she understands why you’re here. I never lie to her, though I can avoid the subject if you prefer.”
“No. I would rather she hear the truth than jump to conclusions.”
“And what is the truth?”
She cast him a sidelong glance as they entered the hall. “That you saved my life and offered to marry me because it suits us both. We’re still considering our options.”
“Put as succinctly as ever.”
Mrs Boswell was pacing in the hall. A smile of relief brightened her countenance when she saw them. “Thank heavens. I was about to raise a search party.”
“Miss Woolf will be staying.” He braced himself, fearing his housekeeper might succumb to a fit of the vapours when she heard the rest. “I’ve asked her to marry me. We’ve decided to take a few days to see if we suit.”
Mrs Boswell pursed her lips to hide a beaming smile and blinked away tears. “That is wonderful news. Truly splendid.”
“No one must know I am here,” Miss Woolf said quickly, almost too quickly. “It’s vital it remains a secret for now.”
Mrs Boswell made the obvious assumption. “Yes, of course, ma’am. You may be certain the staff are loyal to a fault. Your reputation is safe within these walls.”
“Tell Molière we have company and to amend the menus accordingly.” He arched a covert brow at Mrs Boswell when she failed to stop grinning. “It’s been a long day. Miss Woolf would like to retire once her room is prepared.”
“Certainly, my lord. The Peacock Room in the guest wing is ready. I took the liberty of leaving a fresh nightgown on the bed. One never knows when guests might arrive half-frozen or in need of a bath.”
Gabriel almost smiled. Mrs Boswell’s excitement was uncharacteristic, but perhaps it was contagious, for there was something oddly satisfying about having Miss Woolf in his house.
“Follow me, Miss Woolf,” Mrs Boswell said.
The woman was a step ahead when he interjected, compelled by the need to escort Miss Woolf to her chamber himself. “You may lock the doors and retire. I shall show Miss Woolf to her room. If I can still remember the way.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs Boswell grinned again.
He shook his head faintly. The woman had the air of a matchmaker. Soon she’d be inviting the vicar to join her for tea.
They climbed the staircase, the plush red carpet cushioning their steps, the gilt balustrades gleaming in the candlelight. Portraits stared down from the high walls, rows of ancestors in silks and armour, their painted eyes following every move.
Miss Woolf’s gaze flicked from the chandeliers above tothe endless rise of steps, a tension in her shoulders betraying how easily splendour could smother.
“They’re merely things, Miss Woolf,” he said, reading her silence. “Objects collected over the years, ornaments to distract a family from its troubles. Gray was right. Strip this away and there’s no difference between us.”
“The more we have, the more we think we need,” she said.
“A curse of the aristocracy.”
He led her through the endless corridors, their footsteps the only sound, yet memories invaded his mind. Wild parties. Incessant laughter. Drunken songs and licentious acts, nightmares for a young boy. Some wounds were not soothed by wealth, nor time.
He glanced at Miss Woolf. In her, he saw civility, intelligence and grace. Perhaps that’s why he clung to her friendship.
“Ah, here at last.” He paused at the guest chamber, opened the door, and stepped aside. “The Peacock Room, named for its exotic wallpaper. The bird is a symbol of new beginnings. Fitting that you should sleep here tonight.”
She entered the candlelit room, passing close enough to stir that same whisper of familiarity he’d felt at The Burnished Jade. “It’s a beautiful room,” she said, crossing to the hearth to warm her hands. “I’m sure I’ll be comfortable, if not a little lost.”
“You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.” He drew her attention to the bell pull. “The maids are on hand should you need anything.” He paused, wanting to ask if she’d read the new anonymous poem, and what she thought of someone baring their soul in such a raw confession. “Good night, MissWoolf. Do I have your word you’ll remain here until morning?”
“You have my word.” She returned to the door, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer. “Good night, my lord.”
He stood in the corridor as she closed the door and turned the key. After the terrifying events of the evening, he should have gone straight for the brandy decanter. Instead, he found himself smiling. After a decade of shadows, the house itself seemed to draw its first steady breath.
