“Yes. I planned to introduce you to my son long ago, but I feared he would drive you away. You are too precious to me, my dear, and Winston…” She shook her head. “He has a talent for breaking what he cannot understand. Even when he was a boy. Oh, how his father would scold him. All in the name of forging him into a strong man, of course. A Duke worthy of his title. I sometimes wish I had done more to temper my husband’s…fervor.”
Adeline said nothing, though unease pressed against her ribs. She had built her life carefully these past two years, hidden in laughter and whimsy, safe in Cordelia’s orbit. To step now into the seat of Greystone felt like venturing into a lion’s den.
And how much protection will Cordelia be able to offer me there? A house where she is not the mistress. A house where I know none of the staff and have no authority of my own.
When at last the carriage drew up before the great house, Adeline’s misgivings deepened. Greystone was vast, sprawling, as though each generation had tacked on a wing or tower without thought of harmony.
The result was a rambling pile of stone and timber, bristling with chimneys and turrets, its windows catching what little light remained of the day. They faced in every direction imaginable, reflecting the rambling gardens and the dark woods, the sea of waving grass that was the park, and the sullen glitter of the mere at its heart. Adeline stared glumly at the lake for a moment, watching the water ripple and churn, mimicking her inner turmoil.
Inside, the house was no less bewildering. Passage opened into passage, stairs wove into other staircases, alcoves and arches led in crooked sequence. Cordelia was quickly engaged by a servant, leaving Adeline to wander. She did so with trepidation but also a small measure of eagerness. The place breathed history. Its cold stone stairs were worn hollow by centuries of steps, and tapestries faded and frayed. The meandering staircases were fenced by richly carved balustrades that had been smoothed by generations of hands. She found herself drawn onward until at last she entered a music room.
It was small, tucked into a corner of the house, the air faintly scented with cedar. An old pianoforte stood against the wall,its keys yellowed with age. Adeline sat upon the bench almost without thinking, and when her fingers touched the keys, a melody rose unbidden. A tune from her childhood. It was soft and wistful; the kind her mother had hummed before all had gone so terribly wrong.
She was so lost in memory that she did not hear the door until it closed behind her with a decisive click.
“Who are you?”
The voice was deep and hard, carrying an authority that cut through the air like a blade. She turned. The man who stood in the doorway was broad of shoulder with dark hair unkempt from the touch of the wind. His eyes had the piercing sharpness of a hawk. They were dark blue, the color of an oncoming storm. He watched her intently as if he were hoping to predict her next move.
Adeline straightened. “I might ask the same.”
His brows snapped together. “This is my house.”
Adeline forced a smile, clasping her hands together in front of her. This was the Duke. Winston Burgess. A man who intimidated so fiercely that even his mother trod on eggshells. The man who frightened all who came before him and sent them running. And yet excitement warred with apprehension. He was handsome, and his body had the proportions of Hercules.
The room seemed smaller with him in it. She felt the magnetism of his presence. It pulled at her. It made her think unworthy thoughts. Thoughts of how those arms would feel wrapped around her.
“I am a guest and an employee of your mother,” Adeline replied evenly.
Something flickered across his expression. It might have been surprise, annoyance, or intrigue. The look could have even contained all three. His voice sharpened.
“My mother’s Lady-in-Waiting. I was not told of your appointment. My mother did not send word when you were acquired.”
“You know my position, which suggests that youweretold,” Adeline countered, “and I was not acquired. I am not property.”
“Surely that is exactly what a servant is,” Winston countered.
“With all respect due, Your Grace, that is a somewhat medieval notion,” Adeline said.
The Duke’s mouth tightened.
“People who preface their words with respect generally intend none.”
“I always speak respectfully.”
“Except when someone disagrees with you.”
“Except when someone dismisses me as property. As though I were a slave on a plantation in the Americas.”
Adeline found herself becoming breathless. They had drawn closer, as though their words, their bantering argument, were acting as magnets. Her heart thundered in her chest as her proximity to him sent her pulse racing.
It is simple anger that I feel. Anger at being confronted by an entitled, arrogant man who believes he is permitted to be rude simply because of his rank.
His mouth curved, not in mirth but in something darker.
“You have spirit. That is not always a desirable quality in a servant.”
“But then, I am not your servant.”
