Chapter 6 #2
The manor came into view, and its charming, ivy-covered house had an elegant design—two enormous wings flanking the main building, stretching in either direction, and pedimented windows adorning the structure. It was a jewel of a country house; it struck a kingly profile against the dull sky.
When the vehicle halted, he turned to Cecilia and pondered waking her, but decided not to bother. He slid his hands under her back and knees and tucked her head to his chest. As he stepped out of the carriage, she jolted awake.
“W-what in heaven’s name are you doing?” she spluttered, squirming in his arms.
“Taking you inside,” he said calmly. “I figured it would count as carrying you over the threshold.”
He nodded to the footmen, and they opened the large double doors as he stepped into the marble foyer.
“Let me down,” she ordered him. “Now.”
“As you wish,” he let her down on her feet, mischievously letting her slide down his body first, and took perverse pleasure when she blushed furiously. “Welcome to your new home.”
She looked around, and his eyes followed her. The lobby was a masterpiece of dark wood paneling, richly upholstered furnishings and brass fixtures, but a barrage of memories, very few of them good ones, began to pummel his mind.
He dimly heard her say, “You have a lovely home.”
“I cannot take credit for it.” Cassian gently turned her to the line of staff quietly waiting behind them. “Mr. Andrews and his wife, Mrs. Joan, are the butler and housekeeper here. They are the ones who have cared for this house in my absence.”
“Your Grace,” the butler bowed deeply while his wife curtsied, her dark grey dress sweeping the floor.
While the butler had greying dark hair, his wife had a rich russet hue to hers.
Cecilia smiled, “I am pleased to meet you both.”
“So are we, Your Grace,” Andrews dipped his head. “We have a skeleton staff here, as this is a country house. We have five footmen and five maids. Cook is preoccupied preparing our supper, so I do apologize on her behalf.”
“I understand,” Cecilia replied. “I will meet her another time, I suppose.”
“May I offer you a tour of the house, Your Grace?” Joan offered.
“Thank you, but no,” Cassian declined politely. “Please have the bags delivered to our private chambers. I need to show you something, Cecilia, so you can decide—” he gestured with a flourish to the staircase, “—please. And Andrews, I will speak to you later.”
With a parting smile, Cecilia followed him up the grand staircase with ornate balustrades and then down several lengthy passages. Mentally, she realized and mapped the size and scope of the manor.
He led her to a green drawing room and offered her a seat.
Shucking his jacket, he turned up his shirtsleeves and lit the oil lamps around the room, then turned and leaned on the wall.
“There are two wings in this house, Cecilia. I want you to choose one to live in. If you want, you can take the East and I can take the West, so we stay out of each other’s way. ”
Cocking her head, Cecilia asked, “Why the East?”
His brow lifted. “It was a harmless suggestion.”
“Coming from you that easily?” She narrowed her eyes. “I do not trust it.”
“You think there is something nefarious there?”
“Knowing you, or well, knowing what I know of you, my bed might end up being the Rack,” she replied.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Cassian reiterated, “I do not hate, dislike, or harbor any ill-will for you, Cecilia. Your bed is a bed, not a torture chamber from the Dark Ages.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then I choose the West wing.”
“And as I have told your brother, we will not be taking visitors or social calls, nor am I too fussed about ever going out in public together—”
“What?” Cecilia gaped.
He cocked his head. “So, you do want to feed the gossipmongers gullets?”
She stood. “As ignominious as our wedding was, we are a Duke and Duchess now, and as such, we must maintain appearances, or people will think that there is something wrong and worse rumors will start to go around.”
He crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“How soon do you figure?”
“By the next week or so—”
“Absolutely not,” Cassian shook his head. “I am not setting foot in London before the three-week mark. We can go to the market town any time you like; they have decent shops and tea houses, but I am not going to London yet.”
Her lips flattened in displeasure, but she nodded in compromise.
“And when we do go to London, you will be in control of whatever outing we do attend,” he noted. “Or the ones we will host, for that matter.”
Narrowing her eyes, Cecilia said, “Let me guess, you are averse to planning events as well.”
“Very much,” he grinned. “Think back, sweetheart. Do you recall one time you have heard the Duke of Tressingham throwing a ball, or hosting a luncheon, or even a hunting party?”
The light was dim, but Cassian saw the realization dawning on her; it was true, not once since he had come into his majority had he ever hosted a ball or any sort of formal party.
“Fine,” she replied tiredly. “I’ll do it. Can you show me to my West wing now?”
“I would love to.”