“Where are you, little flower?” he muttered under his breath.
He turned towards the orchard, a likely spot for a quiet retreat, his mind still tangled with thoughts of Camelia and what she may have had planned for Pamela.
I will find her, and when I do…
“Where are we going, Your Grace?” Pamela whispered, clutching her shawl tighter as they slipped through the winding garden path.
Camelia smiled faintly. “Do not worry, Pamela. You seem rather nervous, but what I have planned is quite exciting!”
Pamela glanced around, her eyes darting towards the manor windows. “We’re supposed to be at my embroidery lesson, Your Grace. If Father finds out we’ve ditched it?—”
“You think I fear my husband?” Camelia asked softly, a teasing edge to her tone.
Pamela stopped, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everyone fears Father, Your Grace. Even the servants tread carefully when he’s nearby. He silences rooms with just a look.”
Camelia’s lips curved. “Yes, he does have that talent, doesn’t he?”
Pamela’s face paled. “Then why disobey him?”
“Because,” Camelia said, glancing back at the manor with a glint in her eyes, “sometimes the only way to survive a man like him is to stop trembling whenever he passes by. It will drive him mad and keep him on his toes.” She winked at Pamela, who gasped softly.
The young girl was torn between awe and terror. “Oh, Your Grace… you’ll get us in trouble.”
“Perhaps,” Camelia murmured, stepping deeper into the maze of roses where the kitchen was located, “but at least it won’t be a dull demise.”
She took out a key and opened the kitchen door with a slight grin.
“Pamela, have you ever baked?” she asked, her voice bright but laced with urgency, desperate to form a connection with the young girl.
“No,” Pamela whispered. “Baking is not on the schedule?—”
“Good! And dash the schedule! Today, we will be making scones together. It’s messy, but it’s a joyous task. And, trust me, every bite of our hard work will feel worth it!”
Camelia ushered Pamela into the heart of Brentmere Manor’s kitchen, where the air thrummed with the heat of ovens and the rich aroma of fresh bread and simmering stew. She made certain that the space was cleared for them that very morning.
Preparing the ingredients reminded her of her childhood. Her muslin gown swished as she led Pamela to a flour-dusted wooden table, and her heart ached with hope to break through the girl’s icy reserve.
The only time she had seen Pamela genuinely smile was when Raph agreed to have an intimate brunch to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.
“Warmth and mess are what you truly need, not cold rules.” Camelia pulled out a mixing dish and tied an apron around her waist, offering Pamela another with a smile.
Pamela hesitated, eyeing the fabric as though it were a noose. “Your Grace… are you certain about this? What if someone sees us?”
Camelia forced a laugh as she adjusted the strings. “Then they’ll think the Duchess of Brentmere has lost her wits. Which, between us, may not be far from the truth.”
Pamela’s light eyes widened in quiet surprise, her hands clutching the apron like a lifeline. “Here, Your Grace? In the kitchen? What if the servants whisper? And… and Father will not like that I missed my lesson!”
Camelia’s carefree laughter echoed through the quiet room as she thrust a bowl of flour into Pamela’s hands. “Let the man rage! I don’t care if he storms in with his brooding scowl. Life’s too short for his rules, Pamela,” she said confidently, yet trembled with excitement as she remembered Raph’s promise of disciplining her if she ever broke his precious rules.
What would that entail?
Her mind wandered to their passionate kiss and the warmth of his strong hands against her fragile body.
“You’re trembling.” Pamela pointed at Camelia’s hands. “Are you scared that we will be caught?”
“I’m merely cold,” Camelia lied, though the warmth of the kitchen said otherwise.
Pamela eyed her curiously. “Does a duchess fear no one?”
