“Oh, that’s lovely!” Camelia beamed. “What books do you enjoy? I adore novels; perhaps we could read one together?”
“There will be no time for reading. You and Pamela have work to do,” the Duke butted in as a footman brought in the soup.
“If you insist on labor, do get rid of the enormous library you have. Books, like women, grow restless when they are neglected. And if Lady Pamela agrees, reading makes for a good pastime. It is educational and enjoyable.”
“Itisa fine pastime,” the Duke conceded, his jaw tight. “But not now. A duchess has duties, and Pamela must prepare for her debut.”
Camelia purposefully ignored him and kept her eyes on Lady Pamela. “Lady Pamela, would you like to give up reading?”
Lady Pamela’s lips tightened, and she nodded meekly. “Perhaps not, Your Grace.”
Camelia tried hard to suppress a victorious grin.
“You may read in your free time, after your lessons.” The Duke’s tone left no room for argument, and they left it at that.
They quietly enjoyed the soup until Camelia decided to break the silence again.
“I saw a beautiful portrait in the hall of a young lady with raven hair just like yours.” She pointed at Lady Pamela. “Who is she?”
Lady Pamela paused, her expression tightening. “That’s my aunt.”
“She’s quite lovely,” Camelia said.
“She died years ago. It’s not a topic for dinner,” the Duke interjected curtly.
A thick silence draped the dining room like a mourning veil.
Camelia’s heart twisted, the spoon frozen halfway to her lips. Whispers she had overheard resurfaced: the late Duke’s daughter, a girl who had simplyvanishedfrom Society, her name erased from guest lists and dance cards as cleanly as chalk from a slate.
The rumors were gossamer-thin, shrouded in mystery, yet they struck a chord deep in Camelia’s chest as she remembered the beautiful portrait.
Is she the same woman?
The secrets of Brentmere might be darker than she had initially assumed, and nothing frightened her more. Yet the portrait’s haunting familiarity tugged at her, an elusive recognition she couldn’t quite place.
Shaking off the unease, she convinced herself it was simply the resemblance to her husband, as they were related. But a faint shadow of doubt lingered in her mind.
The Duke sipped his wine, then fixed her with a steady glare that made her squirm in her seat. “I’ve drawn up a schedule for you and Pamela. As you are aware, you’ll have duties to fulfill, and preparing Pamela for her debut is paramount.”
Camelia tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “A schedule? How very… organized you are, Your Grace.”
The Duke didn’t smile and kept his voice firm. “Indeed. In the mornings, you’ll oversee Pamela’s lessons. Etiquette, dancing, and conversation. In the afternoons, you’ll manage household affairs and correspond with the ton. In the evenings, we’ll dine together, and you’ll ensure that Pamela’s comportment is flawless. I expect precision,especiallyfrom my Duchess.”
Camelia’s lips twitched, amused by his rigidity. “Do you schedule our smiles as well?”
Lady Pamela choked on a morsel.
The Duke’s eyes darkened. “Be careful, Duchess. You’ll learn to speak with respect and follow my lead, both here and elsewhere.”
Camelia’s cheeks flushed at the implication, her mind flashing to his earlier words about disciplining her.
“If I am not mistaken, I was promised some freedom, Your Grace. I’m sure that I’ll manage your schedule, but only on my terms,” she said calmly, although her heart beat frantically beneath her corset. “Do not be surprised if I add a touch of spontaneity to your schedule.”
“Camelia,” he warned. “If you fail at your duty?—”
“I will not fail, Your Grace. Trust me. I have two sisters who can vouch for me,” she said confidently.
“Your sisters are not my daughters.”
