Through the rain-blurred window, she caught glimpses of a massive stone structure emerging from the gloom. Towers and turrets, ancient and imposing.
Ashmere Castle.
The carriage rolled through an arched gateway into a courtyard. Servants appeared with umbrellas, moving with practiced efficiency despite the downpour.
The Duke descended first, then turned to offer his hand.
Cressida hesitated. Accepting his assistance felt like capitulation somehow. An acknowledgment of something she wasn’t ready to name.
Thunder cracked overhead, jolting her out of her uncertainty, and she took his hand. His fingers closed around hers, strong and warm, and for a moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like if this were different. If she were arriving as a guest, welcomed and wanted, rather than a problem to be managed.
“Come,” he said.
He led her toward the shadowed castle entrance.
Cressida couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into something far more dangerous than a storm.
Chapter Three
“Mrs. Agnes will see to your comfort,” the Duke’s voice cut through the driving rain as they stood in the entrance hall, water pooling at their feet on the ancient flagstones.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his attention already turning toward a corridor that presumably led deeper into the castle.
“Your Grace.” A woman of perhaps fifty years, with steel-gray hair, appeared as if summoned by thought.
The housekeeper,Cressida assumed.
The older woman had sharp, assessing eyes that softened considerably when they landed on Cressida. “Oh, you poor dear. Come, let’s get you warm and dry.”
Cressida opened her mouth to thank the Duke, but he’d already disappeared down the shadowed hallway, his coat dripping a trail behind him.
“Don’t mind His Grace,” Mrs. Agnes said, her tone suggesting long practice at making excuses for her employer. “He’s not accustomed to guests. Come along now.”
Her hand was gentle but firm on Cressida’s elbow, guiding her up a grand staircase that had likely seen centuries of aristocratic feet. Portraits lined the walls, stern-faced men and women whose painted eyes seemed to follow their progress with disapproval.
“We rarely entertain,” Mrs. Agnes continued, her voice echoing in the vast space. “Why, I cannot recall the last time we had a lady staying over. It’s quite wonderful, truly. Gives the staff something pleasant to fuss over.”
Cressida found herself warming up to the woman despite her exhaustion. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Agnes.”
“Kindness costs nothing, My Lady.” The housekeeper pushed open a heavy door, revealing a bedchamber that took Cressida’s breath away.
Rich burgundy curtains framed windows that overlooked the storm-tossed grounds, while a fire already crackled in the grate. Soft velvet upholstery and deep blankets invited her to reach out and touch, and the fire beckoned with promises of warmth.
“Now, I’ll have a bath drawn immediately,” Mrs. Agnes said. “You’ll catch your death in those wet things.”
True to her word, servants appeared within minutes bearing a copper tub and steaming buckets of water. She shooed them out with brisk efficiency once the bath was ready, then turned to Cressida with an assessing look.
“I’ll find you something suitable to wear. Though…” She tilted her head. “You’re a bit more…”
She gestured vaguely at Cressida’s figure.
“Generously proportioned than most?” Cressida supplied wryly, having heard various euphemisms throughout her life.
Mrs. Agnes’s lips twitched. “I was going to saywomanly, dear. There’s no shame in having a proper figure. I’ll see what I can manage.”
An hour later, Cressida descended the staircase feeling simultaneously refreshed and acutely self-conscious.
The gown Mrs. Agnes had procured—pulled from who knew what dusty wardrobe—was a deep sapphire blue that might have been lovely, had it actually fit. Instead, it clung to her curves with almost indecent precision, the bodice straining across her breasts and the fabric pulling tight at her hips.
