Chapter 5
Lillian looked up at the massive fir tree that had been brought into the drawing room by the head gardener and half a dozen men. Its branches were huge, extending in all directions. The scent of pine filled the room.
“What do you think, Mrs. Greaves?” she asked the housekeeper, who was hovering at the periphery of the mayhem.
Branches were scattered about, having needed to be clipped to allow the tree through doorways. The gardener, Mr. Richards, eagerly awaited their approval.
“Quite lovely,” Mrs. Greaves praised. “It’s been years since we’ve had such a handsome Christmas tree. I cannot help but think His Grace shall be well pleased also.”
Lillian bit her lip to keep from blurting that she didn’t particularly care whether Wentworth liked the tree or he didn’t.
She wasn’t decorating the manor house for his delectation.
She was doing it for herself, because she was lonely and bored and she was spending her first Christmas in a foreign land with a husband she scarcely knew.
A week had passed since the duke’s unexpected arrival, but despite his initial pronouncement that he had joined Lillian at Wentworth Abbey to spend time together as husband and wife, little had changed between them.
He hadn’t visited her bedroom in the evening.
He was as indifferent as ever, much to her frustration.
They spent meals at the opposite ends of a grand, carved mahogany table that had been in his family’s possession for over one hundred and fifty years.
Following dinner, he excused himself to his study, and she retired to the library, where she had been painting, writing letters, and scouring the shelves for any books that could be of interest.
Apparently, the Dukes of Wentworth past harbored an innate fondness for Latin, philosophy, horse breeding, sheep farming, and agriculture.
Hence, her painting and letter writing had won the majority of her time.
Lillian’s friends, at least, would be well amused to hear of her rustication in the English countryside.
“Thank you, Mr. Richards,” she offered to the head gardener. “You and your men have done an excellent job of finding us the perfect Christmas tree.”
He beamed. “It was our pleasure, Your Grace.”
With a bow, he and his men began filing from the drawing room, collecting pruned branches as they went.
Footmen arrived next, each bearing a crate of decorations with which to adorn the tree.
According to Mrs. Greaves, they had been kept tucked away in the attic in the hope that a new mistress would one day wish to prepare the household for Christmas again.
The maids set to unpacking under Mrs. Greaves’s direction, and Lillian decided to help.
Before long, they had the candles hung on the tree, along with an assortment of glass ornaments in varying colors.
The footmen worked steadily around them, busier than bees in a hive as they adorned the drawing room with more greenery and a kissing bough bearing mistletoe.
By the time they had completed their endeavors, Lillian’s lower back was aching and her feet were sore.
She thanked the servants for their efforts and settled on a chair by the hearth, enjoying a moment of solitude after so much bustle, the warmth of the crackling fire enveloping her.
She had scarcely been seated for any time at all before she heard footsteps entering the room.
Turning her neck to an almost uncomfortable angle, she discovered her husband striding across the Axminster, his gaze fastened upon the towering tree.
Wearing country tweed, leather riding boots, and a crisp white shirt beneath his waistcoat, he looked every bit as effortlessly handsome as he had on the day he’d arrived at Wentworth Abbey.
His dark gaze met hers across the room, searing in its intensity, his face an inscrutable mask. “Lillian.” He swept into an elegant bow. “I hope I’m not intruding?”
Actually, he was interrupting, much as he had by his unexpected arrival at the estate. This was the most solitude she’d enjoyed all day. But there was a vulnerability in his voice that was ordinarily absent, a hesitance that rendered him suddenly far more human than he ordinarily seemed.
The lofty, impenetrable duke’s mask had momentarily fallen, and she intended to seize the opportunity.
Lillian recalled what Mrs. Greaves had said about it having been years since there had been a Christmas tree at Wentworth Abbey.
And suddenly, she suspected she knew the reason for his lack of customary polish and perfection.
“Of course not,” Lillian reassured him, summoning a sunny smile that would have done Mother proud as she rose from her seat. “We just finished decorating. What do you think?”
“It’s lovely.”
He wasn’t looking at the tree or the rest of the greenery embellishing the drawing room, however. His gaze was firmly fastened upon her.
His regard sent a rush through her that was familiar by now, an unwelcome reminder that although her husband didn’t appear to be interested in her, and despite her stern inward remonstrations that she should remain unaffected by his looks, she was deeply attracted to him.
Lillian cleared her throat, banishing such unwanted feelings. “Thank you, though I can’t claim responsibility for most of it. Mrs. Greaves directed us, and Mr. Richards found the tree. He and his men cut it and brought it here into the drawing room.”
Wentworth glanced around the room, as if belatedly taking in all the details. “It is just as I remember from when I was a lad.”
That same rawness had entered his deep voice.
Impulsively, she reached for him, placing her hand on his sleeve. “Have I overstepped?”
He covered her hand with his, looking back at her with a small, sad smile. “You’ve done nothing of the sort. Wentworth Abbey is your home now.”
It hadn’t felt that way when she had initially arrived.
But the more time she spent within these old walls, the more she felt as if it truly could be a place where she belonged.
More so now that he was here with her, even if he continued in his polite detachment.
Lillian had found a certain sense of accomplishment in putting her small touches on the duchess’s chamber and in replenishing the domestics so that the staff was proportionate to the manor house’s impressive size.
She hadn’t expected to enjoy her new role, even if it was what she had been trained for from the time she had been a young girl, watching her mother fasten diamonds at her throat and ears before being passed off to her nursemaid.
Lillian’s marriage to an English duke had proven the culmination of all Mother’s feverish dreams. Never mind what Lillian had wanted for herself, which she hadn’t ever had the privilege of learning.
The path for her future had been firmly decided at birth. She was a Penrose, after all.
“It is beginning to feel like home,” she acknowledged to her husband, keeping the rest of her thoughts to herself.
“I’m glad,” he said softly. “After the tragedy, I could scarcely bear to come here. Every corner of Wentworth Abbey was so alive with their memories. It was a bit like living with ghosts, the constant reminder of what might have been. But having you in residence has changed that.”
Her ordinarily closed heart ached for him and what he had lost to the unforgiving sea that day.
She and Alaric had never shared much of themselves with each other.
Their courtship had been largely transactional, like one of her father’s business dealings.
The duke had paid ceremonious, obligatory calls upon her.
He had been the consummate gentleman, always polite, always above reproach.
Then, he had closeted himself away with Father, and the betrothal had been done.
She’d had cause to wonder, in the intervening months, if she had been to blame for the coolness between them.
There had been that fleeting moment when they’d been alone, where it had seemed as if Wentworth might want her for something more than her tremendous dowry, when he had brought her desires so stunningly to life.
But then, her hopes had been quite firmly dashed. He had withdrawn during the course of their engagement. Even on their wedding day, he had been polite yet oddly removed.
After their betrothal had been formally announced, there hadn’t been sufficient time to get to know each other any better.
There had been a whirlwind of preparations for the wedding.
Dresses to commission, flowers to choose, a guest list to review.
There had been a month-long trip to Paris with Mother.
Then the culmination of all their efforts—the wedding itself—followed by their journey to England and the duke’s defection to Scotland.
“I am pleased if my presence makes it easier,” she managed to say.
“It does.” His dark gaze was searching on hers, laden with unspoken emotions and something else.
Something that made her heart beat faster.
The very air between them shifted, growing heavier. Hotter.
“Lillian,” he murmured, his head dipping toward hers.
He was going to kiss her again. Finally.
She knew it, and…
She wanted him to. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers once more. She wanted to know if the sparks within her were capable of catching flame again. Wanted to believe that he might grow to feel something for her, one day. That perhaps there could be more for them than this courteous chill.
He cupped her cheek with one hand, his warmth burning into her. And then, with agonizing slowness, as if he feared she would run away from him, he angled his head toward hers. Their lips meet. The kiss was gentle. Soft and slow.