Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Good mornin’,” Elspeth whispered as she stepped into the breakfast room, dressed simply for the day.
The following morning had dawned through Elspeth’s windows with a crisp London chill that blew in cadence with the billowing white curtains that framed them. It had been a stark contrast to the damp, earthy air of Inverhall, of her Scotland.
Much as she hated to admit it, though, she was incredibly well rested after her first night at Arrowfell House. She’d pulled the lush duvet up to her chin as she savored her last few moments in bed before going downstairs to break her fast.
She was in no mood to spar before her first cup of tea.
“Hmm,” the Duke murmured behind the day’s newspaper, finishing the last bite of toast.
Elspeth took her seat and smoothed her napkin onto her lap. “And what is expected of me today?”
The Duke did not lower the paper. “I expect nothing of you.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then sat back slightly, caught off guard by his answer.
At last, he folded the newspaper and stood up, brushing a crumb from his waistcoat.
“Except to remain out of trouble,” he added. “I will be occupied with my duties and shall not be available until dinner.”
He pushed in his chair and made for the door. Just before he exited, he paused and spoke without turning, “There are matters that require my attention. I have been away for far too long, and the demands upon my time are considerable.”
Elspeth couldn’t help but notice how impeccably dressed and composed he looked, especially for such an early hour.
He was impossibly tall, and as he passed through the doorway, she caught the precise cut of his coat.
His tailor had clearly taken great pains to ensure the fit was nothing short of exact.
His light brown hair was slicked back, the ends falling in controlled ringlets at the nape of his neck, and his beard was neatly trimmed, framing his sharply defined features with maddening precision.
Much as he makes me blood boil, I cannae deny he is a sight for sore eyes.
“Very well,” she responded. “Good day, Yer Grace.”
“Lady Inverhall.” He nodded once.
And then he was gone.
The breakfast itself was nothing short of impressive: silver trays of eggs, soft rolls, sausages, grilled kidneys, roasted tomatoes, and smoked fish.
It was everything a London table ought to offer.
And yet, as she nibbled on a roll and sipped her tea, Elspeth found herself longing for the earthy satisfaction of her morning meals at Inverhall: thick oat porridge with cream and honey, fresh mushrooms fried in butter, tangy cheese from the neighboring glen, and even the bracing sharpness of pickled onions.
She leaned back in her chair, full but unsatisfied, her mind already drifting.
Would she ever go back home?
Elspeth had been left to her own devices, a prospect that usually thrilled her. But in this strange, silent house, elegant and unfamiliar, it did not feel like freedom. It felt like being placed in a beautiful glass cage.
The rest of the morning, she spent wandering the townhouse. It was a gilded labyrinth compared to Inverhall’s solid, timeworn stone. Everywhere she looked, there were polished surfaces, pale silk draperies, and gleaming chandeliers. Even the doorknobs sparkled.
It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the man who occupied it—distant, contained, and difficult to read.
As she meandered the halls, her gaze drifted over the intricate tapestries with vibrant patterns and pictures, the gleaming mahogany floors, and the sheer, undeniable wealth that permeated every corner.
But it was the walls that truly captivated her. They were adorned with countless paintings that drew her in like a moth to a flame. She studied the grand landscapes, heroic battle scenes, and exquisite still life.
Aye, but somethin’ is missin’…
Elspeth realized that there were no family portraits. No stern-faced ancestors glaring down from their frames, no smiling duchesses with elaborate coiffures.
None, except for one.
In a quiet alcove in the foyer, near the main staircase, hung a single portrait. It was a warm, dignified painting of a woman, her features soft but intelligent, her blue eyes holding a gentle wisdom.
Elspeth felt an inexplicable pull toward it. She noted the light brown ringlets that framed her face and the familiar hue of her irises.
That, she surmised, must be Hugo’s mother. It was the only splash of intimacy in an otherwise impersonal collection of exquisitely curated art.
When the housekeeper passed by with a feather duster, Elspeth stopped her.
“Mrs. Whipple, if ye daenae mind me asking, this portrait…” She gestured to the painting. “It is quite lovely. Is this His Grace’s maither?”
Mrs. Whipple paused, stiffening almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, Lady Inverhall. I am sure you could tell from her eye color. That is the late Duchess. A truly kind soul, she was. May she forever rest in peace.”
“She looks warm,” Elspeth mused, tracing the outline of the frame with a delicate finger. “But I cannae help but notice that there are no other family portraits. Not of his faither or any other ancestors, for that matter.”
Mrs. Whipple did not speak for a moment, her gaze flitting toward the grand staircase as if expecting the Duke to appear.
“His Grace, he prefers his privacy, My Lady.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I will say that His Grace and his father, their relationship was, shall we say, strained. Perhaps complicated? I do not want to speak out of turn—”
“Strained? How so?” Elspeth asked, her eyebrows rising.
The housekeeper gave a small shake of her head as she resumed dusting.
“Some things, My Lady, are better left unsaid. Especially within these walls.” She lowered her voice further, her eyes meeting Elspeth’s once more.
“His Grace carries much. More than he shows. You would do well to tread carefully around certain subjects.”
With that cryptic warning, Mrs. Whipple bobbed a quick curtsey and resumed dusting the hall, her movements once again brisk and efficient.
More than he shows…
Elspeth watched her go, a fresh realization dawning on her.
It made sense. The Duke’s cold, controlled exterior, his rigid insistence on order, his fear of losing control. It all suddenly clicked into place, hinting at a depth she had not glimpsed before nor considered.
Perhaps she had not wanted to consider it. But here, in his halls, she felt compelled to.
Aye, there is more to the Duke of Arrowfell than I had initially thought.
And the absence of family portraits spoke volumes about the secrets he kept locked away. Elspeth knew very well what that felt like.
She decided that she had had enough of the indoors and made her way quietly to the gardens that were nestled behind the impressive townhouse.
She savored the comforting scent of lavender, lemon balm, and chamomile, carried in the soft, early spring breeze, and especially within London proper.
She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she approached a small bench to sit on. Sitting back, she looked around at the flying birds and the fluffy clouds above her.
“Do you need anything, Lady Inverhall?” Abby, the maid who had been assigned to her, called from the house. “A warm cup of tea, perhaps?”
“Ye are too kind, Abby,” Elspeth said with a smile. “A cup of chamomile would be grand. Thank ye.”
“I will fetch it right away, My Lady.”
As Abby disappeared down the corridor, Elspeth sank deeper into the seat, letting her hands fall loosely in her lap. Yet her mind refused to settle.
It drifted—of course, it did—to the Duke.
She thought of him that day at the inn in Scotland, of his naked torso on that damned bed. Broad shoulders, taut with strength. The subtle taper of his waist. The way his hair had curled slightly after he’d bathed, softer than he let on.
She had wondered then what it would feel like to trace his spine with her fingertips, to press her hand against the warmth of him and feel something steady beneath it. Not that she’d admit such thoughts aloud. God forbid.
And now, here in London, the image refused to fade. The man infuriated her; he was condescending, exacting, and prideful. But her body paid that no mind. It remembered the shape of him, the scent of his cologne, the spark of something unspoken whenever he drew too near.
Elspeth exhaled slowly, lifting her hand to press her knuckles to her lips.
What a fool she was, wanting a man she could barely stand.
“Here is your tea, My Lady,” Abby said, suddenly materializing next to her.
How long have I been daydreamin’ about the cursed man?
“Thank ye.” Elspeth accepted the cup and took a small sip. “It is delicious.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank ye,” she said, pulling her shawl tighter still despite the flush creeping up her cheeks. “Any news from His Grace?”
“He has not left his study all day. Is there something you need? I could have a message sent—”
“That willnae be necessary. But thank ye, dear,” Elspeth whispered as she set her teacup down beside her.
The damn Duke of Arrowfell, she mused as Abby went back into the house.
He infuriated her. A part of her truly despised the man for forcing her into this life. Yet, there was a pull, and it was deep, stubborn, impossible to deny. She allowed her mind to drift back once more to that memory, deciding it was safe enough to give it space before letting it go.
She pictured him, lowering his towering frame into the warm water, the spring air thick with peat and pine, the scent of raw manliness clinging to him. She felt his strong arm slide around her waist, holding her close as they’d slept.
Aye, I’ll need to find better ways to occupy meself than with thoughts of him.
But beyond distraction, she knew there was a far more daunting task ahead.
She had to devise a proper plan, a way to navigate this Duke and the world he ruled. A way to secure a future that would be hers and hers alone.
And that would take all her cunning and fire.