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Balston House—Duchess’s Chambers

17 August 1810

As she had since Papa’s funeral four days ago, Sophronie sat curled in the window seat in her new rooms. She’d thought the guest bedchamber lovely, but the duchess’s suite was beyond exquisite. Swathed in shimmering gold, ivory, and various shades of greens and pinks, the entire décor shouted regal elegance. In addition to the bedchamber, the apartment included an enormous closet, a bathing room, a charming sitting room, and even a small chamber for a servant.

Her accommodations ought to hold her in thrall. However, grief cast a mantle of despondency over Sophronie, preventing her from enjoying or appreciating anything. Her heart ticked listlessly in her chest as she fingered the crisp black bombazine of her gown. She’d barely eaten and hadn’t left her chamber since the funeral.

That didn’t mean she’d been alone.

No, a constant stream of Evan’s relatives checked on her several times a day. Each brought something to cheer her. A flower, a book, a feather, a sewing basket, confections from the kitchen, and her favorite of all, a dappled, long-haired black and white kitten with a black mustache and the most intense green eyes she’d ever seen, a gift from Grandmother Gordonstone.

“The wee laddie willna fill the ache in yer heart for yer father, my dear, but experience has taught me that havin’ somethin’ to love and that loves ye in return lessens the pain a wee bit.” The kind elderly woman smelling of lavender and lilies had kissed Sophronie’s cheek. “I am delighted ye are a part of the family. I kent from the moment I set eyes upon ye, it was meant to be.”

Sophronie disagreed with that assessment but had refrained from saying so.

Sir Peppermint slept, curled into a tight ball, beside her on the ivory padded window seat. Sophronie ran her fingers over his tiny head. He flicked his ears but slept on. How she wished she might sleep as soundly. Alas, slumber eluded her, for when she lay upon the great, soft mattress and closed her eyes, memories of her father paraded past her mind.

She missed him so much, her chest actually ached, and as it had for days, her throat burned with unshed tears.

Two days ago, she’d sent a letter to London requesting her possessions and Papa’s be packed and shipped to Balston House. Another missive had been posted to Virginia for the same purpose. With the assistance of Evan’s man of affairs, additional correspondences had been sent to Papa’s solicitor in Virginia, his men of business in Virginia and London, various business associates, and the steward at their Virginia plantation.

There were other people Sophronie needed to write, but not now. Not when her grief was so new, she couldn’t fathom how she would survive the pain.

She studied her hand where a wedding band ought to rest—if she’d married for love. None did because she hadn’t. Evan had made no mention of giving her one either. That only confirmed her suspicion that he was a fortune hunter and had seized an opportunity of a lifetime handed to him on a silver salver.

How very peculiar to think of herself as the Duchess of Waycross now. In truth, Sophronie couldn’t as yet. Mayhap she never would, principally as she fully intended to leave once the obligatory year had passed. This interlude in Scotland was simply an unexpected detour on her journey in life.

Of her husband, she’d seen little. Faultlessly kind and considerate, he came to her bedchamber door every evening and wished her goodnight. That was the extent of their interactions. She had only begun to trust him, and this diabolical stunt—manipulating her father into giving Evan half of his wealth—proved she’d been right to be suspicious of him all along.

Of its own volition, her gaze meandered to the closed and locked door to his rooms visible through the open sitting-room door. That first night, she’d lain awake until dawn’s muted colors peeked over the horizon listening for the harsh sound of the key scraping in the lock. It had never come, and after the third night, Sophronie realized Evan intended to keep his word.

Their marriage would not be consummated.

She was relieved beyond words and unrepentant in her ongoing qualms.

If anyone else in the household knew the peculiar relationship between the new Duchess of Waycross and the duke—and assuredly others must be aware—no one breathed a hint to Sophronie.

Leaning her head against the windowpane, she watched crystalline teardrop-shaped raindrop after raindrop trickle an irregular path down the glass. The rain had begun this morning and showed no sign of easing, although given it was August, assuredly it must.

Scotland’s summer clime was much cooler than Virginia’s sultry, humid heat. Regardless, Sophronie missed her childhood home, although she wasn’t optimistic she’d return there when the year of her marriage to Evan came to an end.

Tilting her head as she petted Sir Peppermint, she searched the drive below.

Her luxuriant rooms overlooked the courtyard, and in the distance, past the keep, the corner of the stables was visible. She supposed that was deliberate, as the duchesses would’ve needed to know of the arrival and departure of their guests.

A soft scratching on the door preceded Larissa entering. Closest in age to Sophronie, Larissa had already formed a close, and what Sophronie hoped was a sisterly bond.

“I thought perhaps I could sit and read with ye or persuade ye to take refreshments with me in the library.” Larissa waited at the entrance, always careful not to intrude.

Sophronie still hadn’t explored the gallery that had so intrigued her. She would later, when her heart wasn’t broken and she could breathe without fear of tears overcoming her.

Patting the tufted cushion beside her, she swung her legs to the floor to make room for Larissa.

“Please, sit with me, Larissa. I would enjoy your company on such a bleak day.”

Grinning, her youngest sister-in-law closed the door and hurried to the window seat. “I asked the cook to make hot chocolate and shortbread for us.”

Larissa plopped onto the seat, kicked her slippers off, and folded her legs beneath her before gathering Sir Peppermint into her arms. “Hello, precious.” The kitten blinked sleepy bottle-green eyes at her and yawned widely. “I should’ve asked for warm milk for ye too.”