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They were already descending the stairs, and Polly peered down the passage in question. “Well, let’s see. There’s the master’s study, the dining room, the drawing room, and the grand saloon. Oh, and, of course, the master’s workshop.”

“His workshop?”

“That’s right. But no one’s allowed in there unless His Grace is in the room, and then it’s only t’ clean the fireplace.”

“No one?” Rosalind stopped. She was only one step from reaching the entrance hall. “Not even Mrs. Frost or Vickers?”

“No, Your Grace. He keeps the door locked when he’s not inside.” Polly appeared suddenly stricken. “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. It might be different for you. His Grace . . .” She swallowed. “Well, he’s not ’ad a wife ’ere afore.”

“Of course,” Rosalind said. “I understand.”

Polly gave her a hesitant smile, and behind her, the mechanism in the longcase clock whirred in preparation for chiming the five o’clock hour.

“Would you like to go directly to the dining room, Your Grace?”

“I think that would be best,” Rosalind said. She did not want to be late, and there would be time enough to explore the house tomorrow.

Polly led her down the passage to the sound of the clock’s chimes. Stopping beside an open door on the right, she stepped aside to allow Rosalind to enter.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“I do not believe so. Thank you, Polly.”

At Rosalind’s dismissal, the maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried back the way they had come, leaving Rosalind to enter the magnificent dining room alone.

White plaster molding decorated the ceiling and walls, standing out against the eggshell-blue walls. Alcoves containing marble busts of Sebastian’s ancestors ran the length of one wall whilst half a dozen enormous windows all but replaced the wall on the opposite side. A multicolored Persian rug lay on the hardwood floor beneath a long mahogany table and twelve matching chairs. Two place settings had been laid out on one end of the table, and although there was no sign of Sebastian, a footman stood in the corner of the room, ready to assist with the meal.

Grateful that she would not be required to maintain a conversation with Sebastian along the entire length of the table, Rosalind crossed the room to look out of the window. The sun was setting, casting shadows across the stone terrace outside and turning the water in the distant pond dark. She rubbed her arms with her hands, feeling unexpectedly chilled, and moved to stand closer to the fire.

The silverware and crystal on the table glistened in the light of the chandelier above the table. Rosalind counted the candles. Then she counted the fleur-de-lis on the crown molding, followed by the plaster roses along the mantel. And still Sebastian did not come. From out in the hall, the longcase clock chimed a single note marking the half hour and awaking Rosalind’s ire. It was one thing to pass his unwanted bride off to his housekeeper upon their arrival; it was quite another to fail to show up for dinner. She looked at the footman. He shifted uncomfortably.

Visualizing where the redheaded servant had been standing when she had alighted the carriage, she dug deep to remember his name. “It’s Marcus, is it not?” she said.

Surprise lit his face. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Well, Marcus, it appears that His Grace will be taking his dinner later, so if you would be good enough to inform the kitchen that I am ready to eat, I should like to begin my meal.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He stepped away from the wall and pulled out one of the chairs.

Rosalind sat, and when he was sure she was comfortable, Marcus stepped out of the room. Moments later, the first course appeared at her elbow. Wedding jitters had prevented her from eating more than half a piece of toast for breakfast. Anger was doing its utmost to spoil her dinner. Only the knowledge that Mrs. Shoup would be hurt if she refused to eat kept her at the table. Somehow, she forced down half a bowl of soup, a few bites of venison, and even fewer pieces of boiled carrot.

At last, when her stomach could stand it no more, she set down her serviette and rose to her feet. Startled, Marcus stepped forward to help with her chair.

“Would you pass along my apologies to Cook, Marcus? Everything was lovely, but I find that I am suddenly not feeling well. I think it best if I retire early.”

A look of concern crossed his countenance. “Do you require assistance, Your Grace?”

“No. I can find my own way,” she said, and holding her head high, she walked out of the room.

She swept down the passage and into the entrance hall. Lifting her violet skirts, she started up the stairs, her breath coming out in short bursts as she battled her emotions. Why would a gentleman who had been so solicitous to her in the carriage be so rude to her now? Surely he could have endured sharing a meal with her for a short time. It was as though the adult Duke of Kelbrook had reverted to his fourteen-year-old self the moment he’d set foot inside his stately home.

She reached the door to her chambers and thrust it open. Cutting through the small sitting room, she entered the bedroom. A fire was burning, and Polly was turning down the bedcovers.

“Your Grace!” The maid started, dropping the sheet in her hands. “Forgive me. I had not expected you to return so soon.”

“It has been a long and exhausting day, Polly. Help me with my stays, and once I am out of my gown, you may go.”

Polly nodded and hurried around the bed. She worked quickly and quietly, and before long, Rosalind was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a dressing gown over her shift.