He meant it as comfort. It landed as something else, something which made her wince.
“Find Charlotte, Papa.” Mary kissed his cheek. “Please.”
Lord Langham’s jaw tightened. “I do not need you to tell me that.”
The Duke appeared at her side. He offered Lord Langham a nod that served as both greeting and dismissal. “Langham.”
“Your Grace.” Her father bowed. “Take care of her.”
The Duke said nothing to that. He placed his hand at the small of Mary’s back, a touch so light she might have imagined it, and guided her toward the door.
“This is Tommy’s nursemaid. Mrs. Bridwell.”
The Duke stood in the nursery’s doorway while Mary stepped inside.
The room had been transformed in five days. Pale blue curtains hung at the windows. A sturdy oak crib stood against the far wall, dressed in white linens. A rocking chair sat beside it, and in that chair, a woman of perhaps forty rose to her feet and curtsied.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Bridwell had kind eyes and capable hands, and Mary liked her before she spoke another word.
Mary crossed to the crib. Tommy lay on his back, one fist curled against his cheek, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. Less than a week living in this new world, and already the most consequential person in London.
“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” Mary said.
Mrs. Bridwell curtsied again. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”
Mary wanted to lift him. She wanted to hold him the way she had five days ago, when his cries had stopped in her arms and the whole room had gone still. She did not. This was her first hour in this house as its mistress, and she would not begin her life here by overstepping.
The Duke cleared his throat behind her. “Come. I will introduce you to the household.”
In the corridor, Mrs. Cahill waited with her hands clasped. She curtsied when they emerged.
“Mrs. Cahill,” the Duke said. “You met the Duchess under unusual circumstances last week. I trust you will ensure she is comfortable in her new rooms.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Cahill turned to Mary with the practiced warmth of a woman who understood that a new bride in an unfamiliar house needed kindness more than ceremony. “If you’ll follow me, Your Grace.”
Mary followed Mrs. Cahill down the corridor, and the Duke remained in the doorway, watching them go.
Her chambers were at the end of the east corridor. The rooms were large and well-appointed, with pale green wallpaper and heavy curtains drawn back to let in the afternoon light. A young woman stood beside the dressing table, her cap straight and her posture perfect.
“This is Hattie,” Mrs. Cahill said. “Your lady’s maid. She’ll see to anything you need.”
Mrs. Cahill withdrew. Hattie unfastened the buttons along Mary’s spine, working her way down with practiced fingers.
“It’s a lovely gown, Your Grace. Finer than the last one, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“You saw the last one?”
“The whole house saw it, Your Grace. Mrs. Cahill had us at the windows.” Hattie eased the silk from Mary’s shoulders. “This one suits you better.”
Mary stepped out of the skirts and stood in her shift while Hattie hung the gown. She caught her own reflection in the mirror and paused.
She was a duchess. She was married to a man whose first name she had yet to use. Somewhere in this house, a baby who was not hers slept in a crib, and somewhere beyond London, her sister and his brother hid from consequences that had landed on everyone but them.
Mary pressed her palm flat against the cool glass of the mirror and closed her eyes.
Five days ago, she had been Lady Mary Gillies, standing in a vestibule, waiting to walk toward a man she did not love. Nowshe was the Duchess of Blackholm, standing in a stranger’s bedroom.
She opened her eyes. The woman in the mirror looked back at her, pale and composed, and Mary decided that composure would have to do until something better came along.
