Chapter 8
TWO DAYS LATER
Georgia basked in the warm sunshine on her face as she sat at a wrought iron table on the edge of the lawn.
The grass was long and a luscious emerald green in color.
Wildflowers were poking up through the stems in reds and yellows.
While she had waited for breakfast, Georgia had picked a few, weaving them together into a crown that she now wore.
She was served by her new lady's maid, a young girl named Dorothy, who was painfully shy but very attentive in her duties. Dorothy appeared from the house carrying a tray. When she glimpsed Georgia's crown, she almost dropped it.
“Oh my, Your Grace. I'm terribly sorry–took me fair by surprise!” she yelped, blushing furiously.
“I'll make you one if you like,” Georgia giggled, used to having a relaxed attitude towards staff. Living with them tended to have that effect.
“I'm sure I couldn't, Your Grace. Mrs. Marks would have a fit.”
She kept her eyes downcast when she spoke.
“Our secret, then. I used to make them for my older brother. He wore them as an indulgence to me,” Georgia smiled sadly, thinking of Elias.
If he is still living, then why would he abandon me like this? No matter what Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Clarissa say, he was never feckless.
After leaving the tea things, Dorothy left to take care of the rooms Georgia had been given and the unpacking of her clothes.
These had been delivered by carriage the day before, which was the day after the wedding.
Georgia turned her attention to the letter that was in progress on the table in front of her.
“...as I was saying, Hermione. The wedding itself was the strangest affair.
Almost no one in attendance but the bare minimum required as witnesses.
The chapel was old and very chilly and dark.
Which was much like its master. I do not think I need fear my new husband forcing himself upon me.
He has made it very clear that this is to be entirely a marriage of convenience.
My rooms are at the opposite end of this sprawling monstrosity of a house from the Duke's.
And what of the Duke? I have not seen him.
Not since the ceremony, in fact. Apart from servants, I have seen no one, which is making for rather a lonely existence.
With the exception of my lady's maid, the staff appear to have been instructed to keep me at arm's length.
They will not engage with me beyond what is needed for politeness.
When can you come and visit me, Hermione? I do so need a friendly face.”
She paused, feeling a sudden upwelling of emotion. She blinked back tears, angry at herself for giving in to her emotions.
He has promised to aid me in my search for Elias. The Duke, I suppose I must call him by his name, we are married after all—Keaton has promised it, and I must take him at his word until I have reason to doubt.
“Miss Roseton,” Keaton's voice was clipped, cold, and abrupt.
Georgia whirled, seeing the Duke appear in a doorway of the veranda.
“My name is Georgia. And according to my marriage certificate, I am no longer Miss Roseton,” she rolled her eyes.
Keaton's head swiveled to her, and he strode towards her, stopping halfway, his cane exploring the air in front of him.
“There is usually a table here,” he noted.
“I had it moved into the sunshine,” she replied, “the shade was chilly this morning.”
Keaton advanced towards her, slower this time, cane questing ahead of him until it struck the leg of a chair opposite her.
“I should have made myself clear, though I did order the staff to make sure you were aware of my standing orders. No furniture is to be moved or routines altered without my express orders.”
Georgia immediately felt guilty, suddenly understanding how such an order would be essential for a blind man to navigate about his home. Furniture would need to be in expected places, or Keaton would be constantly colliding with things.
I should have thought more carefully about the kind of house I was coming into. I will be more thoughtful in the future...
“I understand, Keaton,” she said carefully.
She waited for a reaction to her use of his name. His head twitched towards her for a moment, catching the absence of an honorific. He opened his mouth, drew breath as though to speak. Then he appeared to think better of it, simply nodding.
“I will endeavor to be more considerate,” Georgia finished, satisfied with her small victory.
“I would greatly appreciate it,” he replied, and there was even a hint of warmth in his voice.
She smiled. “On such a splendid day, it would be a shame to be indoors. Do you think we could walk in the gardens? I have not seen you since the wedding day and don’t know when I might see you again. Perhaps you could show me around?”
Georgia was more than capable of exploring the gardens on her own, but she wanted to make an overture of peace to Keaton. The only way they would be able to co-exist for a month together would be for there to be peace between them.
But I will not bend the knee. I will make an effort, but I am not the one being difficult. It is for him to thaw out.
Keaton reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and took out a fob watch. It seemed the same as a normal watch but lacked a glass to cover it. He touched the hands absently and nodded to himself.
“I have an appointment in one hour. But in the meantime, I can take you for a tour about the gardens.”
He rose gracefully, as did Georgia. She was initially uncertain about what to do next.
Do I let him put a hand to my shoulder, or will he offer his arm?
The answer came when the Duke set off along a paved path, cane sweeping ahead of him. Neither. Georgia hurried to catch up. As they walked, Keaton pointed out particular flowers, naming them and inviting her to sample their scent.
“You have chosen a garden of smells rather than colors,” Georgia whispered when the realization struck her.
“The latter would be pointless for me. I wish to appreciate my garden, and so it must provide for other senses. I can identify each flower by its scent and pick out individual aromas from a crowd.”
The corner of her lips lifted. “That is quite remarkable. How long did it take you to learn this skill?”
“Necessity is the mother of invention, Miss Roseton,” Keaton replied.
Georgia stopped walking. It took Keaton a moment to detect the fact. He paused too, lifting his head as though listening. She caught the flare of his nostrils and knew that he was picking out the scent of her perfume from among that of the flowers.
“I am Georgia Deverall, Duchess of Westvale,” she declared again.
“Legally, but not morally,” he replied.
She glared at him, and he stared back, unyielding and silent.
“Then I choose the legal. I would be addressed properly. By my name.”
“I will not call you Duchess, not ever,” he muttered.
“Nor do I ask it,” she retorted. “Simply call me Georgia, as I use your own name.”
“Without my leave. I have no problem being addressed by my honorific.”
As cold and impenetrable as granite. Georgia felt there was no getting through to him. No way to break through his high walls to reach the man beneath.
“I cannot spend a month living like that. Being called Miss Roseton by you, and I expected to call you Your Grace.”
She threw up her hands, marching away a few paces before halting and hugging herself.
Frustration boiled within her, threatening to over-spill.
She looked back at Keaton, who was staring into the middle distance.
Except she knew that he wasn't. His other senses were all focused on her, hearing and smell pin-pointing her and following her.
It only looked like he was ignoring her.
“Why?” Keaton asked at last. “We are not husband and wife. Nor even friends. We have found ourselves in this situation and must make the best of it in public. But we are not in public now. So, why pretend?”
“Because I cannot live with a stranger!” Georgia exclaimed, unable to understand why he needed this explained to him.
“We are strangers and your actions have thrown us together,” Keaton reminded, his own voice rising in response.
“But must we remain strangers? Should we not seek the path of least resistance? I am willing to try.” She walked back to him, knowing her scent would be stronger.
I am not manipulating him but merely making him aware of my presence. He cannot ignore me for an entire month!
Keaton took a deep breath, and Georgia thought that he was savoring her scent. It gave her a brief thrill, a moment of excitement at the notion of being appreciated by a man.
“Very well,” he conceded at last. “I am willing to try also.”
Georgia smiled brightly, feeling relieved.
“Thank you,” she said.
For a moment, she found herself lost in an examination of his face.
There are few men whom I could stand before unabashed and just stare at. At least not without giving an impression I do not mean to or attracting entirely the wrong sort of attention.
Keaton was beautiful. There was no other word for it.
His face might have been sculpted by a Renaissance master.
Georgia could not help but think of the kiss, the feel of those lips upon hers, pressing, hard.
The feel of his arms about her, holding her close to him.
His body against hers. Hard against soft.
She blushed at the images that cascaded through her mind and felt a glorious liberation that she did not need to be embarrassed by them. He could not see, would never know.
“Shall we continue to explore?” He quirked a brow.
Georgia jumped, brought from her thoughts back into the real world.
“Yes, it is lovely and I should like to see more,” she managed.