Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“ A nd then, if it pleases Your Grace, she took it upon herself to assist Mr. Peabody with the rose garden,” the butler recounted, his voice low and steady.
“Seems the old chap was at his wit’s end with the yellowing leaves. Her Grace, bless her soul, had him tending the roses in ways I never thought possible. The blooms are…magnificent, Your Grace. A sight to behold.”
He paused, a flicker of something akin to grudging admiration in his eyes.
Adam, who had been staring unseeingly at the wall as he half-listened from his chair, felt a flicker of warmth, a rare crack in the icy facade he habitually wore.
It was not in his nature to indulge in sentiments, least of all over domestic matters, but the butler’s words, though delivered with a hint of dry amusement, had struck a chord.
“And the horses,” the butler continued, his gaze fixed respectfully ahead, pretending not to notice that the duke was lost in thought. “Mr. Smith, the stable master, swears he’s never seen the creatures so plump. All thanks to Her Grace. Seems she has a knack for economy.”
The butler was one of the best, but even he could not quite keep his tone even.
Adam, intrigued despite himself, leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Economy?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. She found ways to improve their feed without breaking the bank.” The butler chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, shaking his head in wonderment. “A duchess should concern herself with balls and receptions, not horse feed.”
Adam, however, found himself strangely captivated. “And what of Mrs. Thornhill and the linens?” he inquired, his voice a low growl. “I was told the shipment would need replacing, but then heard it was salvaged?”
The butler stiffened, his gaze hardening. “Ah, yes. The storm. A most unfortunate affair. The linens were soaked through and through. Ruined, I feared. But Her Grace, with her…uncanny resourcefulness and knack for economy, managed to salvage them. A true miracle, Your Grace. A miracle.”
Adam, despite himself, found the beginnings of a slow smile creeping across his lips. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth.
“Uncanny resourcefulness,” he repeated, the words tasting faintly sweet on his tongue. “Indeed.” He glanced at the butler, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Adam felt a flicker of approval stir deep inside him—a rare crack in the stoic walls he had built around his emotions.
She understood the comfort that it is to carry old pain, Adam mused as the butler rattled off more business, absentmindedly rubbing his bad leg.
His gaze narrowed as he considered the triumphs of his new wife, and despite his best efforts, a slow, approving smile touched his lips.
She had solved the problems with admirable efficiency and an intrepid drive. He couldn’t help but admire her ingenuity. He had always been drawn to sharp minds, no matter where they resided—whether in an experienced lawyer or a spirited young debutante in her first season.
Adam’s fingers drummed idly on the arm of his chair, a rare display of approval for a woman who had until now been little more than a thorn in his side.
His movements, deliberate and measured, betrayed no outward hint of the tension coiled tightly within him. But his mind, ever active, lingered on her more than he cared to admit. She brought a vitality to the otherwise dull corridors of Oldstone Manor, a contrast to the somber mood that usually hung over him like a cloud.
He stilled his thoughts as he realized that he had, at some point, begun to look forward to her presence in a way that was both disconcerting and, oddly enough, comforting.
He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking a mournful tune beneath him, as the butler’s words lingered in the air—a chilling echo of the silence that had become his constant companion.
Adam’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He dismissed the man with a curt nod, the gesture sharp and brittle.
He thought of Rosaline. The memory, a fleeting ghost, brought with it the scent of her hair, an intoxicating blend of honey and sunshine. He closed his eyes, the image of her vivid—those piercing blue eyes, the defiant spark that ignited within them, the curve of her lips, the way her laughter, like a melody, chased away the shadows that clung to him.
He remembered the night of their stolen kiss, the feel of her trembling beneath him, her skin warm beneath his touch, the soft sigh that escaped her lips.
He remembered the feel of her in nothing but her thin nightdress, the delicate bones beneath his hands, the way her body, despite its slender frame, felt impossibly strong, impossibly alive.
She is beautiful, he thought, the admission a whisper against the silence. In spite of her scars, because of her scars, regardless of her scars.
They were a testament to her resilience, a reminder of the strength she possessed, a strength that mirrored his own, buried deep beneath the icy armor he had forged around his heart.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Finch began, ‘his brow furrowed with concern, “the situation with the tenants…it’s escalating.”
Adam barely acknowledged the man’s presence, his gaze fixed on the crackling flames in the hearth.
“Escalating?” he echoed, the word a mere breath in the stillness of the room.
“Indeed,” the solicitor continued, his voice a low hum. “Several complaints have been filed. Noise disturbances, property damage…” He paused, his gaze flickering towards Adam. “And, of course, the usual complaints about the lack of firewood.”
Adam finally turned his head, his eyes, cold and distant, sweeping over Mr. Finch.
“Lack of firewood?” he scoffed. “They have more to burn than they know what to do with.”
“Perhaps,” Finch conceded, “but they seem to disagree.” He cleared his throat, the silence stretching between them heavy with unspoken words. “Your Grace, you understand the importance of maintaining order within your domain.”
Adam leaned back in his chair, his posture rigid, a silent challenge in his icy gaze.
“Order will be maintained,” he said, his voice a low growl.
Finch, ever the diplomat, chose his words carefully. “Of course, Your Grace. However, I believe a more visible presence from you might be beneficial.” He paused, his eyes searching Adam’s face. “It has been some time since you interacted with your tenants.”
Adam’s hand tightened around the armrest, the veins standing out prominently. “My duties are many,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Indeed,” Finch agreed, his voice carefully neutral. “And perhaps a reminder of your authority…a show of strength, if you will…might be prudent.”
He let the words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Adam’s eyes narrowed. He knew what Finch was implying.
Adam’s jaw clenched. He would not be swayed by fear, by the ghosts of the past.
“I will consider it,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “But I will not be dictated to by rabble.”
Finch bowed his head, his expression carefully inscrutable. “Of course, Your Grace. As you wish.”
The door to his study swung open, and Rosaline entered.
“Your Grace,” she greeted with a curtsy.
Adam’s breath hitched. She was a vision in emerald green, a goddess descending, her flowing gown shimmering like dew-kissed leaves in sunlight.
Her dark curls, a raven’s wing against the pale skin of her neck, framed a face of breathtaking beauty. Piercing blue eyes, the color of a stormy sea, met his, and a jolt, raw and unexpected, surged through him.
He was mesmerized. Her movements were a study in grace, each step measured and deliberate, yet imbued with an effortless elegance that seemed to command the room.
Even Mr. Finch, a man of impeccable composure, faltered for the briefest moment.
“Duchess,” Adam greeted back.
Adam felt a strange heat bloom in his chest, a primal urge that threatened to consume him. He found himself acutely aware of the way the light played across her skin, illuminating the delicate curve of her neck, the subtle swell of her breasts beneath the emerald silk.
Rosaline moved across the room, her presence radiating a quiet confidence that seemed to fill every corner of the study. It was as though the very air itself crackled with anticipation, the oppressive atmosphere of the room suddenly charged with a vibrant energy.
“Duchess, allow me to present Mr. Finch, my solicitor,” Adam said, his voice cool and measured.
“Mr. Finch,” Adam continued, his voice carrying a touch of authority, “this is Her Grace Rosaline Fitzwilliam, my wife.”
“I–It is a pleasure to m–meet you, Your Grace,” said Mr. Finch, his face a mask of strained composure, as he stammered a greeting. His eyes darted nervously between Adam and the woman who had just become his duchess.
“Likewise, Mr. Finch,” Rosaline returned the greeting with a grace that belied the storm of emotions Adam suspected must be swirling within her.
Adam, watching her, felt a strange stirring within him. It was not merely admiration, not simply the satisfaction of possessing such a captivating creature. It was something deeper, a primal urge that threatened to consume him.
His gaze lingered on her, taking in the curve of her neck, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her eyes held a mischievous glint. He found himself strangely intrigued, captivated by her defiance, her refusal to be cowed by his imposing presence.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Finch suggested, recovering slightly, “a meeting with their…duchess…would be beneficial for relations with the tenants.” He gestured vaguely toward Rosaline, clearly unsure of how to proceed.
Adam had not intended to involve Rosaline in these matters, and he certainly would not allow her to be dragged into the mire of his dealings with the tenants. These were his concerns, his burdens, and he would deal with them himself.
He would not allow anyone—least of all his wife—to bother herself with such trivialities.
“Oh, that sounds like an excellent idea, Mr. Finch!” she exclaimed, her voice a melodious chime that cut through the oppressive silence.
Her eyes sparkled with an unexpected enthusiasm, and Adam found himself staring, captivated. He had not anticipated her participation, let alone this…vivacity.
“It would be invigorating to escape the monotony of the estate for a while,” she continued, her tone playful, a hint of mischief in her voice.
Adam inclined his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “I expect decorum at all times,” he responded, his voice a silken thread of authority.
A playful glint entered her eyes, a challenge that both disturbed and exhilarated him. He found himself strangely intrigued by this woman, this unexpected spark in the stagnant waters of his existence.
She was a wild card, unpredictable and dangerous, and he, for the first time in a long time, felt a thrill of…anticipation.
Rosaline smiled sweetly, her eyes gleaming with playful defiance. “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, the words light yet edged with a hint of rebellion. “Though I must confess, I find the prospect of rigid decorum rather stifling.”
“Stifling, Duchess?” he countered, a slow smile curving his lips. “Perhaps you find the rules of this household unduly restrictive.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, her gaze unwavering. “Though I must say, the view from this window is quite…invigorating.”
Adam followed her gaze to the expansive view of his estate. “Indeed,” he conceded, his voice a low rumble. “The view is…quite impressive.”
He turned back to her, his eyes lingering on her face, taking in the delicate curve of her cheek, the defiant tilt of her chin. He felt a sudden, unexpected surge of desire, a primal longing that startled him.
He had always been a man of control, his emotions carefully guarded, yet this woman…she seemed to have the power to shatter his composure.
“I daresay,” Rosaline remarked, her voice laced with amusement, “that the view is far more captivating than the company within.”
Adam, taken aback by her audacity, found himself laughing, a low, rumbling sound that surprised even himself.
“Such a harsh assessment, Duchess,” he countered, feigning offense. “Though I must admit, you do possess a certain vivacity that makes this room considerably more interesting.”
Rosaline raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her gaze. “Do I now, Duke? Or perhaps you find me a tad too disruptive?”
“Disruptive?” Adam mused, a mischievous glint entering his own eyes. “Perhaps a touch. But far more entertaining than the usual dull discourse on the weather and the price of hay.”
Mr. Finch, caught in the crossfire of their playful banter, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His eyes darted between the duke and the duchess, unsure of how he should proceed. This was certainly not the decorum he had envisioned.
Adam, observing Finch’s discomfort, felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Let the man squirm. He turned back to Rosaline, a slow smile playing on his lips.
“I believe, Duchess,” he said, his voice a low growl, “that we may have much to learn from each other.”
Rosaline, her eyes sparkling with amusement, leaned forward, her voice barely a whisper. “I believe you are correct, Duke. I believe we may indeed.”
The ensuing banter between the two of them grew increasingly tense. For a moment, Adam felt a strange discomfort, but it was quickly overtaken by an odd exhilaration. There was something about the challenge of sparring with Rosaline that stirred him.
Finally, the duke, his patience wearing thin, growled, “we shall visit these disgruntled tenants after the Lockwoods’ dinner party. I have already endured enough social pleasantries this week.”
He rose from his chair, his back straight, an aura of finality hanging in the air.
With a curt nod, he dismissed both his wife and Mr. Finch.