Small by the standards of a castle—which rendered it merely expansive by ordinary measure—it boasted tall windows overlooking a rain-lashed garden and walls dressed in faded silk the colour of buttercups. The furnishings were of an earlier generation: elegant once, now settled into the dignity ofcomfortable age. A fire burned steadily in the grate, and a pot of tea had been set upon the table beside the settee where Molly had carefully installed her mistress.
“There now, miss.” Molly tucked the blanket more securely about Fiona’s legs. “Is this not preferable to that gloomy bedchamber?”
“Immeasurably.” Fiona accepted her tea and leaned back against the cushions. Her ankle throbbed, but no longer viciously—an aggravation rather than an ordeal. “Though I suspect I shall incur His Grace’s displeasure when he discovers I have absconded.”
“Mrs Blackley says he seldom comes to this wing. Something about memories.” Molly lowered her voice. “The servants say his mother favoured this room before she passed. He has not set foot in it since.”
Fiona glanced about with altered perception. The silk, the arrangement of porcelain upon the mantel, the careful preservation of every detail—nothing had been disturbed. It was not neglect, she realised. It was reverence.
“How long ago?” she asked quietly. “His mother.”
“Ten years, they say. Maybe twelve. She was ill for a long time before the end.” Molly glanced toward the door. “They say she loved him dearly, though she had her own way of showing it. She cared for him more than most, at any rate. She was the only one who learned to look at him without… well.”
“Without screaming?”
Molly coloured. “I did not mean—”
“I know.” Fiona stirred her tea absently. “It is not unjust. I can hardly claim superior conduct.”
The rain battered the windows without mercy. Fiona found herself imagining the gardens in summer—whether they softened under sunlight, whether order had been coaxed from their present desolation, whether the Duke ever walked among them at all.
She was contemplating a particularly bedraggled rose bush when the door opened.
“Mrs Blackley, I specifically instructed—”
The Duke of Thornwick halted in the doorway.
He was more formally attired than before—coat fastened high, cravat arranged with exactness, every inch of revealing skin concealed. His hair remained tied back, though several strands had escaped, lending him the look of a man who had passed his hands through it more than once in vexation.
“Miss Hart.” His tone was level. “You are not in your chamber.”
“How perceptive of you, Your Grace.” Fiona set aside her teacup. “I found the ceiling insufficiently diverting.”
“I gave instructions—”
“I am aware. Mrs Blackley conveyed them with admirable clarity.”
His jaw set. In the wan light, she could see tension drawn along the line of his cheekbones, through his shoulders, into the hands curled at his sides. He appeared less angry than unsettled—like a man confronted by a door he had firmly resolved never to open again.
“This room,” he began, then stopped.
“Belonged to your mother.” Fiona gentled her tone. “I was told. If my presence here causes you discomfort, I shall return to my chamber at once. I had no wish to trespass upon memory.”
Something crossed his expression—swift and unguarded. “You do not trespass. It has stood unused for years. I simply… did not anticipate finding it occupied.”
“And yet here I am.” She gestured lightly toward the chair opposite. “Since I have already committed the impropriety, you may as well sit. The tea remains warm, and I am in need of conversation. Molly has endured all my philosophical reflections upon convalescence at least twice.”
“Thrice, miss,” Molly muttered from her corner.
The Duke did not move. He stood in the doorway like a man poised for flight, every line of his body radiating discomfort. Fiona watched him and wondered what it must be like to live in a house full of ghosts, to walk halls that echoed with memories of people who had flinched from the sight of you.
“I do not—” He stopped. Started again. “I am not fit company, Miss Hart. I have spent too long in solitude to remember how civilised people behave.”
“Then consider this an opportunity to relearn. I promise you I shall refrain from shrieking this time.”
For the briefest instant, something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—but its ghost.
“You are persistent.”
