“I will need your previous address in the village so that a footman may retrieve the rest of your things.”
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirt before she forced them to still. “My… address.”
“Yes,” he said, tilting his head slightly, studying the sudden stiffness in her posture.
She hesitated and tried to hide her alarm, but not quickly enough to escape him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked quietly; his voice softened, but his eyes sharpened, examining hers.
“No,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier certainty. She wet her lips, aware of his gaze following the movement. “I shall write the address down for you once we’ve reached your home.”
“Very well,” he said at last.
Silence settled between them, filled with the rhythm of the carriage wheels and the faint brush of winter wind against the glass.
Madeline let her gaze drift toward the window. Snow stretched across rolling fields, pale and glittering. She felt the tension in her body ease a fraction now that Hale was far behind. Yet a different tension remained, tied entirely to the man sitting across from her.
’The Duke’s presence felt too large for the small carriage. Every time she looked away, she felt the weight of his gaze return to heras though drawn by a pull he didn’t understand or didn’t care to hide. She tried not to dwell on the heat fluttering low in her belly, tried to focus on the rhythm of the wheels beneath them and the muted hum of Tessa’s quiet fidgeting.
Gradually the noise of the village faded and was replaced by open countryside and the rustling whisper of winter wind against the carriage windows. The motion steadied her breathing, though it did nothing to numb the awareness curling warm beneath her ribs.
The view outside widened as they left the narrow lanes behind. The carriage passed through wrought-iron gates and rolled along a sweeping drive bordered by evergreens dusted with snow.
Kirkford Hall appeared through the trees like something out of a storybook, all warm stone and towering windows catching the afternoon light.
Madeline inhaled softly.
It was the grandest home she had ever seen.
When the carriage stopped, Tessa immediately seized her hand. “Come, Miss Watton! I want to show you the music room, and the big staircase, and Mrs. Hayward’s gingerbread jar?—”
“Tessa,” the Duke said firmly.
The girl froze and her shoulders slumped marginally. “We have to do proper things first, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
Madeline kneeled beside her. “Proper things do not take long. And then you may show me everything.”
Tessa brightened instantly. “Everything?”
“Everything,” Madeline promised.
The girl nodded vigorously and the Duke’s eyes softened, just barely.
Inside, the grand entrance hall glowed with lamplight. Servants lined up as the Duke entered.
“This is Miss Madeline Watton,” he said. “She will be staying with us. Prepare a room for her beside Theresa’s.”
A chorus of “Yes, Your Grace” followed.
Mrs. Hayward clapped her hands. “Come along, all of you. No need to stand about staring.”
The servants dispersed, leaving silence and warm air around them.
The Duke motioned toward a set of doors. “Miss Watton, if you please.”
She followed him into a study lined with bookshelves and deep mahogany tones. The fire crackled low, the scent of woodsmoke curling through the room.
