She was the Duchess of Thornwaite. She lived in this house. The man on the other side of that connecting door was her husband.
She looked around the room. The wardrobe held gowns that Hugo had purchased for her. The dressing table held silver brushes engraved with the Beaumont crest. The window overlooked gardens she would walk through tomorrow and the day after and every day for the rest of her life.
She had wanted freedom. She had wanted travel and intellectual partnership and a life that did not require her to shrink. And she had gotten all of those things, packaged inside a marriage to a man who gave her everything except the one thing she could not bring herself to name.
She rose from the bed, smoothed her skirts, and went to find her husband.
Hugo’s study was smaller than she expected, and the intimacy of the space surprised her.
Books lined three walls. Maps of Europe and the Mediterranean hung beside botanical illustrations and a single landscape of the Thornwaite grounds. A brandy decanter sat on the desk beside a stack of correspondence.
And on the wall behind his chair, there was a portrait.
A woman. Young, fair-haired, with soft features and a gentle mouth. Her eyes held something sad and warm. She wore a pale gown that caught the painted light the way real silk catches candlelight. She looked like Hugo. The resemblance lived in the jaw, the brow, and the angle of the cheekbone.
His mother.
Lily looked at the portrait for a long moment. Then she looked away.
Hugo stood by the window. He had removed his coat and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. The late afternoon sun caught the gold of his hair. He gestured to a chair.
“Sit. You must be exhausted.”
She sat. He poured brandy and set a glass before her. She took a sip and let the warmth settle.
“Are the chambers comfortable?”
“Very much. Thank you. For everything.”
He nodded. He leaned against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “Lily… You must know that… Well, this marriage will not be conventional.”
She set her glass down. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I will not cage you. You wanted a life with Wilfrey that would give you freedom, travel, and a partnership that did not require you to disappear. I cannot offer you Wilfrey, but I can offer you the rest.”
“What I wanted,” she said, choosing her words with care, “was to travel without worrying about my family’s reputation. To live freely without endangering them. To have a life that was mine.”
“And now you have it.” He held her gaze. “You may travel wherever you wish. Not immediately. We will need to make some appearances together this year to quiet the last of the gossip. After that, you are free.”
“A free bird.”
“If that is what you want.”
She smiled. It was small, and she knew it did not reach her eyes. She had gotten what she wanted. The freedom. The security. The name and the title and the protection of a man powerful enough to silence scandal sheets and fund expeditions to Naples.
Yet somehow, sitting in his study with brandy in her hand and his mother’s portrait watching from the wall, it did not feel quite right.
“What about you?” she asked. “What will you do?”
Hugo’s mouth curved. “I am not husband material, Lily. I know that. But I will do my best to make this marriage enjoyable for you. You will not be bored. That much I can promise.”
She was not sure what that meant. She nodded.
He set down his glass. “Walk with me? The grounds are worth seeing in this light.”
They left the house through the garden entrance and crossed the south lawn, where the grass was warm beneath the late sun, and the air smelled of cut hay and roses. They walked side by side, not touching, and the distance between them felt both deliberate and fragile.
“How is Dorado?” Lily asked.
