“Lily.” Lady Brimsey held her daughter’s face between her hands. “Be careful. Not because I do not trust the Duke. Because I do not trust feelings that arrive faster than you expect them to.”
Lily covered her mother’s hands with her own. “I will be careful.”
She meant it. She always meant it.
The carriage arrived at ten. Aunt Margaret was already inside, dressed in a traveling pelisse of deep gray and an expression of weary tolerance that suggested she had accepted this excursion as one accepts an unpleasant but necessary medical procedure.
“If I am to spend three days in the countryside with a Duke, a collection of social climbers, and a man who presses ferns,” Margaret said as Lily climbed in, “I will require a great deal of wine.”
Lily settled onto the seat opposite and tucked her skirts around her legs. The carriage lurched forward, and London fell away behind them. Soon, the crowded streets gave way to greener lanes and wider skies.
Somewhere ahead of them, Thornwaite Hall was waiting.
CHAPTER 15
“Is everything prepared?” Hugo asked one of his footmen at Thornwaite Hall.
“Yes, Your Grace. The guest rooms have been aired, the fires lit, and Cook has confirmed the evening menu. The wine has been brought up from the cellar as you instructed.”
“Good. Thank you, Marsden.”
Marsden bowed and withdrew. Hugo stood alone in the entrance hall of the house he had not visited in nearly two years and let the silence settle around him.
Thornwaite Hall was vast. The entrance hall alone could have swallowed a London townhouse. Its vaulted ceiling arched overhead like the ribcage of some ancient beast, its marble floors polished to a mirror finish that reflected the light pouring through the tall windows. Portraits of Hugo’s ancestors lined the walls in gilded frames. Their painted eyes following every stepwith the impassive judgment of men who had built an empire on land and lineage and the absolute conviction that they deserved both.
Hugo’s father hung above the fireplace. The fourth Duke of Thornwaite, painted in his prime. His jaw was set, and his shoulders squared. His gaze carried the cold authority of a man who had never once looked at his younger son without finding him lacking.
Hugo turned his back on the portrait.
He had not stuttered in front of anyone in months.
He drew a breath. Held it. Released it through his teeth in a slow, controlled exhale.
He was not seventeen. He was not the boy on the marble floor with tears on his face and his brother’s contempt ringing in his ears.
He was the Duke of Thornwaite. Today he was hosting a party, and the woman he could not stop thinking about was arriving within the hour. He would greet her with steady hands and a steady voice and not a single crack in the armor he had spent fifteen years constructing.
He straightened his cravat. He checked his reflection in the hall mirror. He arranged his features into the expression of a man who owned the world and found it mildly entertaining.
The first carriage arrived at half past two.
Lord Wilfrey emerged from it with the precise, unhurried movements of a man who approached country estates the way he approached everything else: with meticulous preparation and zero spontaneity. His coat was dove gray, his boots were immaculate, and he carried a leather case that Hugo suspected contained either botanical sketches or a journal in which he recorded the soil composition of every garden he visited.
“Your Grace.” Wilfrey extended his hand. “Magnificent property. The grounds are exceptional. Is that aCedrus libaniI spotted near the east gate?”
“I have no idea. But I am sure it will be thrilled to learn you noticed.” Hugo shook his hand and gestured toward the house. “Welcome. Your rooms are in the east wing. My man will show you up.”
Wilfrey followed the footman inside. Hugo watched him go and felt the familiar, low-grade irritation that accompanied every interaction with Lord Wilfrey, a man who could identify a cedar of Lebanon from a moving carriage but could not identify the extraordinary woman who had been standing in front of him for three Seasons.
The second carriage brought Edward and Sophia. Edward clasped Hugo’s shoulder in the wordless greeting of old friends, and Sophia kissed his cheek and told him the house was beautiful.
More carriages followed. Sir Philip Hale arrived with his wife, a cheerful woman who exclaimed over the rose garden before she had fully exited the carriage. Lord and Lady Harcourt, Sir Philip Graves, and Lord Ashton. Lord and Lady Pemberton. Mr. and Mrs. Thorne.
Then the Stapleton carriage.
Lady Stapleton descended first, her traveling cloak parting to reveal a gown of dark green that complemented her sharp features. Her gaze swept the facade of Thornwaite Hall with the cool appraisal of a woman assessing property value rather than architectural merit.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsy. “What a splendid estate. One forgets how impressive the countryside seats can be when one spends too long in London.”
