Chapter Six
R osilee snuck another peek at the duke, but this time, instead of getting his side profile, his gaze met hers head on. She blinked, her lips threatening to twitch into a smile. Good thing Mr. Bishop and Ben were up front with the driver, or she might have had trouble keeping a composed face with them teasing the poor man, too.
“Laugh if you want,” he said bluntly, broodingly. “I know you’ve wanted to do so since this morning.”
Her eyes roamed over his swollen face with a hint of sympathy. Honestly, she wanted to give a good chuckle, but thought it more prudent to press her lips together and resist. “I do not wish to laugh.”
“Little liar.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked instead. “You’ve stopped sniffling, at least.”
The man grimaced. “I’ve been better. But nothing a few hours away from that cursed cat won’t eventually cure.”
“Well, I suppose we should be grateful it wasn’t a lion.”
His look turned more sour. “I look like a monster.”
Rosilee did smile then. “Never say so! Though I must say, you do have a rather fearsome appearance.”
“Monsters are fearsome.”
Amusement sparked inside her. “You are not a monster, Your Grace.”
He looked unconvinced but didn’t reply further.
Traveling hours upon hours in a carriage—she’d lost count of how many—wasn’t always comfortable, and the lingering consequences of the cat had been bothersome for the duke. The man must surely be eager to reach his destination and to leave the whole ordeal behind him.
She certainly was.
Fortunately, they had arrived at the outskirts of London a while ago, so it shouldn’t be much longer. Rosilee peered out the window, her face lit with curiosity. “Is this it? Are we close to your home?”
“I don’t know,” he said, glancing out the window himself, his fingers tugging absently at his cravat. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in London, though I imagine we should be at the house soon.”
As if the universe mocked his uncertainty, the carriage rolled to a halt.
Rosilee finally let out the chuckle she’d been holding back. It must have been a long time indeed if he couldn’t readily recall. With a wry smile, and without waiting for Ben or Mr. Bishop to open the door, she pushed it open herself and jumped out, stretching out her cramped limbs.
At last.
Her gaze lifted to the house, and she stilled mid-stretch, absorbing the sight before her. “Is... is this it?”
She turned to the duke.
He stared too; his mouth slightly parted.
She couldn’t blame him. The house was almost completely obscured by a mass of vines that clung to the stone walls, their green tendrils creeping over the windows and door. The once- grand entrance was barely visible, hidden behind a curtain of ivy. The whole building had a forlorn, abandoned look, as if it had been forgotten by time.
Well, it has, hasn’t it?
The duke cleared his throat. “It’s a bit weathered, I admit.”
“It looks like a jungle,” Rosilee said slowly. “And we are going to explore.” Laughter bubbled forth. “I must say, Your Grace, I was expecting something a bit more... grand. You didn’t tell me you were such a plant enthusiast!”
The man glared at her, though with no true heat in his gaze. “This is not how I remember it,” he said defensively. “It must have... gotten out of hand.”
Rosilee raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. Her eyes darted over his mop of hair, which also seemed a bit overgrown. “Out of hand? It looks like the plants have taken over entirely. Are you sure there’s a house under there?”
The duke huffed, his attempt at dignity strained. “Of course there is. It’s just in need of... some care.”
Mr. Bishop joined them, his face devoid of emotion. “Looks like the estate has missed you,” said flatly.
The duke shot Mr. Bishop a withering look.
“Ah, well, a little pruning,” the man continued, “and it’ll be good as new. Maybe.”
Could this man truly be a servant? Rosilee had her suspicions, but she nodded along, amused. “Well, at least it has character.” A lot of character. “I can hardly wait to step inside.”
Mr. Bishop ran a hand through his hair. “If it’s anything like the outside,” he said, leading the way toward the house, “we’re in for a treat.”
As they approached, the vines rustled, and a portly woman burst out from behind them, her face flushed and her hair in disarray. She wore a faded brown dress and an apron, waving her hands frantically as she rushed toward them.
“Your Grace! Your Grace!” she cried, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “Oh, it’s really you! I thought I was dreaming when I saw you exit the carriage!”
The duke stopped in his tracks, surprise in his voice, “Mrs. Prune? What are you doing here?”
Prune?
Rosilee stared at the woman.
Mrs. Prune came to a halt in front of him, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. “What am I doing here?” she repeated, her eyes wide. “Why, I’ve been here all along! Holding the fort, as it were. I never left.”
Rosilee snuck a peek at the man.
“I see,” he said, glancing at the vine-covered house. “Are you... holding the fort on your own?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Wiggins is here, too.” The words had scarcely left her lips when the door of the house creaked open and a tall, wiry man appeared, his face lined with age. He wore a faded waistcoat and trousers, and his spectacles were perched precariously on the end of his nose. He squinted at the duke, then broke into a wide grin.
“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, hurrying over. “Welcome back! It’s been too long!”
“Yes, it has,” the duke said, his discomfort unmistakable. “I see you’ve been... busy.”
Mr. Wiggins chuckled, glancing at the house. “Oh, yes. The garden’s grown a bit wild, I’m afraid. But we’ve done our best to keep the inside tidy. Not easy, with just the two of us.”
“Thank you,” the duke said gruffly. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
The reunion was sort of sweet.
Mrs. Prune beamed. “Oh, it’s nothing, Your Grace. We’re just glad to have you back.” He glanced at Rosilee and Mr. Bishop. Ben joined them, too. “And who are your guests?”
The duke introduced them, and Mrs. Prune clucked with approval. “Such a lovely young lady,” she said, nodding at Rosilee.
Rosilee smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Prune.”
Mrs. Prune chuckled, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “And forgive the garden. The vines are rather tenacious. They’ve a mind of their own, it seems.”
The duke cleared his throat. “Shall we go inside? I’m sure we could all use some refreshments.”
Mrs. Prune nodded, leading the way to the door. “Of course, Your Grace. Right this way. It’s not as grand as it once was, but it’s still home.”
Rosilee glanced around as she curiously followed the woman down the hallway, where a fire had been lit in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. The furniture was old but well-kept, the cushions plump and inviting. A large rug covered the floor, its colors muted with age. No sense of home , however, could be found here.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Prune said, bustling about to arrange cushions and dust off chairs. “I’ll have some tea brought up shortly. And perhaps a bite to eat. You must be starving after your journey.”
The duke nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Prune. That would be most welcome.”
Rosilee glanced at him.
The poor man.
He looked as if he had swallowed something prickly.
And for some reason, a prickliness wedged in her own chest, refusing to dislodge.
Blake’s gaze swept over the drawing room, the interior as outdated as a two-hundred-year-old haunted castle... but kept neat and tidy. Even so, this house held no good memories for him. Haunted, indeed. The echoes of his father’s voice, booming with threats, the slam of doors during drunken rages, and the cries of women—whether in pleasure or in pain, he could never tell—lingered like ghosts trapped within the fabric of the fraying wallpaper, always pressing to break free.
You survived.
True.
You are not that boy anymore.
Doubtful.
He shouldn’t have come back here. He should have rented a place. Bought a place. Anything else. But part of him—a part he could never tell anyone about—wanted to prove to himself that the horrors that clung to these vine infested walls had no more power over him, over his life. None. He glanced at the door leading to the gardens before stealing a glance at Lady Rosilee.
And perhaps he had another, more selfish reason.
He wanted her to remember.
At the same time, he dreaded it, too.
“It’s a lovely haven, despite the tenacious vines,” Lady Rosilee said with a quirk up her lips.
Blake made a strangled sound. “It’s not—” A lovely haven . It wasn’t lovely at all. But what was the point of refuting her? Her optimism was as stubborn as the ivy strangling the walls. And if she said it was lovely, so it must be. Her word might as well be law.
“It’s not . . .?” she pressed.
“It’s nothing.” He strode over to the hearth that Mr. Wiggins must have lit. “The fire seems content enough.”
“Such a droll reply,” she countered, her laughter light and infectious, and despite himself, Blake felt an almost smile tugging at his lips. She stepped up beside him. “Content, hmmm? Is fire not the breath of love?”
“Romantic words for a fire.”
“You cannot argue that in winter, especially, fire isn’t romance. For indeed it is—it’s love.”
Romance? Love? Blake clenched his jaw, the words hitting harder than they should. “There is no such thing.”
“You mean love?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes.” He felt the force of her stare. It burned worse than the flames. “It’s a worthless sentiment.”
“Well, aren’t you a skeptic?” she replied with a hint of humor. “But what about all those men who kneel before their wives, showering them with affection and devotion? Isn’t that worth something to their wives? Isn’t that love?”
“Ludicrous,” he scoffed. “Trickery. It’s what we men do best.”
She laughed then. “Well, I cannot fully dispute that.”
Holding her gaze, he asked, “How do you do it?”
She arched a brow. “Do what exactly?”
“Stay so mystically optimistic.”
She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Someone has to balance out your brooding.” After a pause, she added, “Besides, life is only as dark as you let it be. Perhaps I just choose to see the light, even when it’s hard to find.”
Blake shook his head. “Light? I’ve searched for it. Seems it’s not meant for me.” His gaze flickered to the fire before he added, quieter, “Or maybe I just don’t deserve to see it.”
“Oh, pish,” she countered. “We all deserve light.
“And you think you’ll find it at the Lyon’s Den with Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Light can be found in the darkest of places, too.”
“Says the optimist.”
“Speaking of optimism, what is our next course of action?”
A throat cleared from the door. “Good question.”
Blake nearly rolled his eyes at Bishop, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.
“Mr. Bishop,” Lady Rosilee said with a smile. “Where did you go?”
Blake sighed at the light, enthusiastic tone that filled the dreary drawing room. Ah, I cannot win .
“I’m always around, Lady Rosilee,” Bishop replied smoothly. “Though it seems I missed a rather engaging discussion.”
“Not so engaging,” Blake muttered.
Lady Rosilee’s gaze swiveled to him.
Damn-bloody-nation.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She arched a brow. “What did you mean?”
“Another good question,” Bishop supplied. “The lady is full of them. Please keep them coming.”
Lady Rosilee chuckled.
Blake did not. “Shouldn’t you be guarding the door of residence?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are a butler? Give Mr. Wiggins some rest.”
“Do you even know the extent of a butler’s duties?”
This blackguard. Always challenging him. “I do, and It’s certainly not meddling, nor is it lingering.”
“I beg to differ,” Bishop said with ease. “That is our exact job.”
Blake glared at the man.
“This plan of yours?” Bishop pressed with a knowing grin.
Blake straightened, his skin prickling under their regard. His next move? The truth was, he’d obstinately refuse to think about a plan. How the devil was he to help her find the right husband when his chest throbbed at the mere thought?
Still, showing any uncertainty in front of Lady Rosilee wasn’t an option, so he cleared his throat. The damn cravat felt impossibly tight again. “I’ll be heading out shortly.”
Lady Rosilee blinked. “Out where?”
“To find you a husband, of course.”
Bishop’s amused drawl drifted over. “Just like that?”
“I have a few connections,” he replied, deliberately vague. “I’ll make it happen.”
Bishop, of course, couldn’t resist adding his commentary. “Ah, yes. The infamous connections. I’m sure your network will pull through as always.”
“Well, I, for one, have placed all my trust in you.” Lady Rosilee looked around. “Where is Ben, by the way?”
Bishop waved his hand. “He is helping Mrs. Prune ready a room for you, which reminds me, we shall have to find you a chaperone. These London folk love to get bees in their bonnets over the smallest of things.”
“I am her chaperone,” Blake said, recalling how she’d declined his same offer. He didn’t mind. He didn’t like people around him.
“A man cannot be a woman’s chaperone,” Bishop countered.
“He can if he is her guardian.”
“But you are not.”
That depended on the perspective. “I became her guardian the moment she placed her trust in me.”
“ She has an opinion her self,” came Lady Rosilee’s dry reply. “And I don’t mind being a ward, since, strictly speaking, I suppose I am.”
“Aren’t wards distant cousins or the like?” Bishop questioned. “You are anything but that.”
“Of course, but since the duke has no interest in me and has decided to help me, we might as well be siblings.”
Siblings?
Blake stared at Lady Rosilee.
God. No.