10. CHAPTER 10
S he would never have found the way without Lucy.
The castle was a labyrinth. Corridor after corridor, each turn opening onto another stretch of polished stone, another painting, another window with a view so fine she had to stop herself from gawking.
Ten minutes of walking just to reach the guest wing.
She was supposed to be mistress of all this, yet she could not find her friends without an escort.
Lucy pointed to two doors near the end of the corridor.
"These are Mrs. Carteret's rooms, Your Grace. And the ones across the hall are Dr. Harrison's."
Vivienne knocked on Margaret's door first. Being alone with Paul in his bedchamber would not be proper, and Dalton was being tolerant enough. She wouldn't give him cause to doubt her.
"Enter!"
Margaret's sprightly voice called, and Vivienne opened the door.
Shades of yellow and gold decorated the sitting room. Cheerful. Warm. It suited Margaret. The older woman was at the writing desk, but she rose with a briskness that belied her seventy years.
"I came to see how you were settling in," Vivienne said. And because what she wanted was the company of someone who expected nothing from her.
"Settling in? My dear, I am positively wallowing.
" Margaret spread her arms as though to embrace the room itself.
"Have you seen the view? I have been trying to describe it to my son, but he will have to come and see it for himself.
Three-quarters of a page and I still have not managed to do it justice. "
The delight was so unguarded it loosened a tightness in Vivienne's chest she had not known she was carrying.
Margaret had always been able to receive good fortune without suspicion, to find wonder in a window and say so without embarrassment.
Seven years of living with this woman had taught Vivienne that joy didn't require an occasion. It required attention.
"Would you like to have tea with me?"
"I thought you would never ask. But can we have it here? As much as I long to explore this magnificent pile, my knees have opinions about stairs, and I have learned to respect them."
Vivienne turned to Lucy, who waited by the door. "Could you have tea sent up for Mrs. Carteret and me?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
The title still sat wrong. She saw Margaret catch it too.
"It is so strange," Vivienne said, sinking onto the settee beside her friend, "hearing people call me that."
"Stranger for you than for anyone, I should think.
" Margaret took her hand in her warm, dry, papery one.
"But I will tell you something, my dear. We always knew you were well-born. It wasn’t just your accent or your manners, though those were unmistakable.
You had a way of carrying yourself. Something in the set of your shoulders. "
"So you think I belong here? That this…" She gestured at the gilded molding, the damask curtains, the cut-glass vase on the mantel that probably cost more than the rectory's annual coal bill. "This grandeur suits me?"
Margaret considered it, her head tilting to the side.
"Only you can decide if it suits you, dear. But I think it is the world you were born into. Whether you choose to remain in it — well, that is a different question, and one you need not answer today."
A knock at the door. Margaret called entry, and Paul came in.
He looked better than he had at the church, but not by much. His coat was the one he wore for house calls, good serviceable wool, and he tugged at the cuffs as he entered. Vivienne recognized the gesture from seven years of watching him brace himself before delivering bad news.
His gaze moved across the gilded cornices, the silk wallpaper, the marble-topped side table. Not with Margaret's frank enjoyment. Something more guarded.
"Grace." He looked relieved to see her, then caught himself. "I'm glad you are here. I was wondering how one finds anyone in a place this size."
"One asks a servant," Margaret said. "They seem to know everything."
Paul gave a tight smile that stopped at his mouth. He turned to Vivienne. "How are you settling in? Are you comfortable?"
"I think I should be the one asking you that. I am the hostess, after all."
He stiffened. His jaw set. The same expression he wore when a patient made light of a symptom he took seriously.
"Only in the strictest technical sense. As your doctor and friend, your well-being remains my primary concern. So many changes in so little time would be disorienting for anyone." A pause. "More so for someone with your condition."
There it was again. Every time he said your condition , your affliction , or given your circumstances , it relegated her to the position of a patient. She found that she didn't want to play that role anymore.
"I am quite well, Paul. Thank you for asking." She kept her voice steady. "And you? Are your accommodations comfortable?"
"More than adequate."
Not fantastic , as Margaret had said. Not magnificent . More than adequate. A man's words when he has decided to be unimpressed.
"And where have they put you?" he asked.
"In the duchess's chambers. On the east wing."
"Of course." His mouth compressed. "He is wasting no time thrusting you into the role, is he?"
She understood his bitterness. Paul had married her just a few days ago — or tried to — and before the day was out, a stranger had claimed his bride and installed her in a castle where she slept in a duchess's bed while Paul slept in a guest room on the far side of the building.
The humiliation would sting. But underneath it, she sensed something else.
Paul had been the authority in her life for seven years.
Her doctor. Her adviser. The man who explained her condition, managed her treatment, and decided what she should pursue and what she should avoid.
He had never been unkind about it. But he had been firm, and she had deferred, because he was the expert and she was the one with the broken mind.
Now someone had eclipsed that authority.
Not another doctor. A husband. A duke. A man whose position and wealth and sheer force of presence made Paul's quiet competence disappear.
It was not jealousy alone she heard in his voice, though jealousy was there.
It was the discovery that in Dalton's world, Paul Harrison was superfluous.
"Dalton did not thrust me into anything," she said. "He has been patient and undemanding. But if I am his wife, those were my rooms. It would have been strange to put me elsewhere."
"It also places you close to him and far from your friends. Convenient, would you not say?"
"We have no reason to question the accommodations, Dr. Harrison.
" Margaret's voice had gained the firmness she used on the parish children when they tested her patience.
Gentle, but with an authority earned over decades of managing difficult men.
"Nor to cast aspersions on the duke's intentions.
If he had wished to keep Vivienne from us, he need only have refused to let us come.
His willingness to house us speaks well of him. "
A flush crept up Paul's neck.
"You are right, madam. I apologize." He turned to Vivienne. "I worry about you. That is all."
"I understand. But for the moment, there is nothing to worry about. The duke has been very considerate. He has given me no reason to doubt him."
She meant it. And the fact that she trusted Dalton after mere days was not a thing she cared to examine. Not yet.
"I must ask a favor of both of you." She looked from Margaret to Paul.
"Dalton is explaining my amnesia to the staff.
But I would rather we did not mention my marriage to Paul.
" She held his gaze because she owed him at least that.
"The servants might think poorly of me. A woman who married one man while still wed to another, even unknowingly — "
"My lips are sealed, my dear," Margaret said at once. "Very wise."
"Paul?"
A beat. His eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Of course. The whole fiasco reflects poorly on all of us. I have no desire to discuss it." Another beat. "It will be as though it never happened."
The words had a finality that made her wince.
She had hurt this man. Not on purpose, but she had taken something she could not give back.
Had let him believe she was free when she was not.
She should have searched harder for her past before attempting to build a future.
Her cowardice had created so many problems.
"Thank you," she said.
A knock spared them from the silence. Lucy entered with the tea service, followed by two more maids bearing trays of sandwiches, scones, and small cakes. Margaret's eyes widened at the extravagance.
Vivienne poured. Margaret reached for a scone. Paul took his cup without comment and set it on the side table. Vivienne let her gaze move across the trays.
And stopped.
On a small plate near the center of the spread, half hidden behind the sandwiches, lay a cluster of small, golden-brown biscuits, their tops crinkled and glossy.
Something pulled at her.
"What are those?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Lucy dipped a curtsy. "Cornish Fairings, Your Grace."
Vivienne reached out. Took one. Brought it to her lips.
She was aware that snatching biscuits before she had even taken the first sip was not how a duchess behaved at tea. Her hand had moved before her mind weighed in.
She bit into it .
Ginger. Cinnamon. A deep, dark sweetness. Treacle, perhaps? The spice bloomed across her tongue, and the sweetness followed, so comforting that she closed her eyes.
And the room was gone.