Chapter 9 #2
The mistress’ chambers, with walls papered with hues of green, gold, and cream, was at once both feminine and elegant.
The four-poster bed with its canopy stood across a beautifully made fireplace.
Various furnishings of polished wood and upholstery were scattered about the room.
Landscape paintings and flowers arranged in vases gave the room a softer touch.
Dahliah moved to a vase and touched the petals.
“There is a hothouse in the estate?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Baker said. “The late duchess, had it built some twenty years ago. It has been maintained by Joshua, the head gardener.”
Dahlia thought she heard sadness in Mrs. Baker’s voice, but she could not be sure.
“I would love to see it soon, if that is acceptable.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Baker’s face lit up. “I will inform Joshua that you wish to see it.”
The rest of her chambers were shown to her. The door to the right was her dressing room. To the left was her sitting room which adjoined with the master’s chambers.
At this, Dahlia fought a blush. She was suddenly nervous. Unsure of what exactly Peter had in mind for their wedding night, she proceeded as if it were any ordinary night.
Any ordinary night for a bride in a dark castle with a duke of ice.
Biddy drew her a bath, the warmth of the water alleviating aches that she did not know she had, the scent of the soap relaxing her nerves.
Food was brought up to her chambers, answering her unvoiced question of whether Peter would be dining with her.
Dahlia ate sparingly; indeed, she could not eat much with the thoughts swirling in her mind.
She stood up and entered her bedroom. She walked to the window and looked at the nighttime view.
A vast forest spread before her, white with its blanket of snow.
There was still no moon, but somehow, the snow made everything brighter.
Dahlia traced the cold windowpane with her finger. Would he come to her tonight? He had not said so, and yet, everyone knew what was expected of a wedding night.
Well, I have a vague idea of what happens.
Your husband will lie in bed with you and kiss you, and it will be nice. Those were her mother’s words. And Celine’s: Trust your husband.
From those two accounts, it must not be altogether too bad. But even with that, she could not quiet her mind.
Will he come?
Perhaps that was her primary worry.
“Will that be all, M’Lady—Your Grace!” Biddy sputtered. “Forgive me, M’Lady—Your Grace! It will take some getting used to.”
Dahlia laughed, glad to have Biddy with her in this new place.
“Never mind that, Biddy.” She held her hands near the fire. “Are your new accommodations sufficient?”
“Oh, very much, M’Lady—Your Grace.” Biddy fairly bounced in place. “As the mistress’ lady’s maid, I have a room all to myself! No Alice to share it with!”
“I am glad it is to your liking.”
“Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Baker run a tight ship, they do.” Biddy’s eyes displayed her amazement. “The castle is enormous, M’Lady—Your Grace! The talk is that His Grace is a very strict master, very strict indeed, but very generous and fair as well.”
Biddy moved closer to her and whispered, despite them being alone.
“The maids say how difficult it is to get a position here, but once you’re here, you must take care never to get dismissed for the wages are unmatched in the county, and you get no trouble from anyone. His Grace seems more than a decent master, if you ask me.”
“Biddy, you arrived just a few hours before us; how do you know so much already?”
“Us London folk know how to make people talk, Your Grace.” Biddy’s face lit up. “Ah! I finally got it right, M’Lady!”
Dahlia could not help the rolling laughter that came out of her.
Peter, candle in hand, and clad in his sleeping attire and banyan, opened the door to the sitting room. He knelt by the fireplace and proceeded to light a fire. When it was sufficiently warm, he poured himself a drink and sat by the fire.
Fatigue had not given him the sleep he desired. Instead, he had lain in bed, mind too active for his liking. Finally giving up, he got up and headed to the sitting room.
What am I to do with you, wife?
That was, of course, the source of his restlessness. No—not really. He knew what he needed to do, but it was more the question of how he would do it. This little redheaded woman was far more trouble than he had anticipated. Since their arrival at the castle, she was constantly in his mind.
Perhaps because it is your wedding night! Would that it were morning so that this cliché of a night might be over with!
Peter ran his hand across his forehead. He looked around the room, wondering if it was time to update the décor. His eyes rested at the pianoforte near the window, and on impulse, he walked to it and lifted the fallboard. He gently ran his fingers across the keys.
“It has been a while, old friend,” he whispered to himself.
A soft, slow melody filled the room. Peter closed his eyes and let memory guide his hands. He had quite forgot how playing the piano soothed him. He started on another piece, one that was just as beautiful and unhurried as the last, but this one, he knew, was sadder.
Peter felt her presence in the room. He lifted his eyes to the door and found Dahlia standing there, seemingly transfixed by his playing.
“You play beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, please do go on.”
Peter continued the piece, his fingers somehow moving on their own without his mind guiding them. For there was now only one thing on his mind—Dahlia.
Did she wait for me?
When he finished playing, he found her closer to him.
“Come stay by the fire, Dahlia.”
“Thank you, I am rather cold.”
“Would you like some sherry?”
“Oh no, thank you. I was—was looking for the kitchen.”
“Did Mrs. Baker not serve you food tonight?” He frowned.
“Oh, she did! I just had not realized how famished I was. I ate very little…” she stopped.
“Was the food not to your liking?”
“It was very good, Your Grace. I just—well, I wasn’t hungry then.”
A slight blush appeared on her cheeks. He could hear her thinking.
“What is on your mind, Dahlia?” But no sooner had the words left his mouth then he regretted asking them, for indeed, he knew her answer.
“I wasn’t sure if you would come to me tonight.”
Peter drew in a breath.
“You were tired.”
“Yes, and you must have been as well.”
“Yes.”
“But here we both are.”
“It would appear so.”
Silence followed, only the crackling of the fire disturbing the room.
“Why did you not?”
“Why did I not what?” He knew perfectly what she asked, but because he had no answer for her, he evaded the question.
Dahlia shot him an annoyed look.
“Oh, you know what I am asking!”
When Peter only stared at her, she mumbled.
“It was supposed to happen tonight—at least, that is what I was told.”
Peter stood up and walked to her. By the fire, he felt warm, but he was certain that it was not just the fire that affected him.
Peter was drawn to her. There was an awareness in him that made his skin tingle.
In the light of the fire, her green eyes seemed to darken; looking to him like depthless pools, they pulled him to her.
Her burnished red hair, which hung loose around her shoulders, gave him a feeling of intimacy such as he had never felt before.
He was undeniably drawn to her. And if he was not mistaken, she was to him.
He moved closer to her, their faces only a breath apart.
“It?”
The blush that started from her neck spread all the way to the roots of her hair. Peter couldn’t quite stop the smirk.
Her eyes shot daggers at him.
“Yes, it—oh, you know!”
“I beg your pardon, but I do not know.” It was getting harder to keep a straight face.
“Peter!” She pushed at his chest then moved away, hands clenched at her sides.
Peter tried to catch her eye, but she looked at everything save him. He could not help it, baiting Dahlia was a thoroughly amusing activity.
“Dahlia, how am I to understand you if you cannot express your thoughts properly? Do you think me a mind reader?” His voice almost cracked from holding back his laughter.
“You are infuriating!”
Dahlia stormed out of the sitting room, leaving behind a laughing Peter. Just as he was able to catch his breath, Dahlia returned, arms crossed across her chest, her face wearing a haughty look.
“If Your Grace would please point me to the direction of the kitchens, I would be very grateful.”
Her look and her tone, in such contrast with her words, made him laugh again. A laugh that he, being a wise male—or at least a male who wanted to live till morning—bit back.
Gathering himself, Peter inhaled deeply. He picked up the candle and motioning for her to follow him, proceeded to the direction of the kitchens.
After Dahlia gathered the items of food she found in the kitchens—bread, butter, and milk—she marched past Peter, who stood by the entrance of the kitchens, watching her and chuckling at his own private joke.
His laughter irritated her. She would leave him behind! She walked faster.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Peter drawled. “But unless you wish to head outside, I suggest you turn around and head the opposite way.”
Infuriating man! How could she have ever considered having a true marriage with him?
When they reached the corridor to the private chambers, Dahlia stopped and turned around to face him.
“I believe I can find my way from here, Your Grace.”
Without waiting for his reply, she walked quickly away, head held high. When Dahlia noticed the light of the candle still following her, she turned to Peter.
“Are you following me, Your Grace?”
“Certainly not, Your Grace.”
Dahlia narrowed her eyes at him.
“I am merely heading to my chambers.” He gestured down the corridor with the candle he held, smile still in place.
“Hmph!” How she longed to wipe the grin off his face.