Chapter 19 The Ghosts of Home #2
They made their way back to the entrance hall, where John and William—the two footmen who’d ridden ahead to secure accommodations—stood looking distinctly uncomfortable. Their usually immaculate livery bore traces of mud, and their expressions suggested the afternoon hadn’t gone according to plan.
“Your Grace,” Thomas began with obvious reluctance, “I regret to inform you that suitable lodgings aren’t available in the village.”
Damien’s eyebrows rose. “Not available? Surely the Swan and Crown—”
“Has been closed for repairs since the roof collapsed last month, Your Grace,” William interjected. “And the smaller inn…” He exchanged a glance with his companion. “Well, Your Grace, let’s say the accommodations wouldn’t be suitable for Her Grace.”
“Meaning?” Eleanor asked with the direct practicality Damien had come to admire.
“Meaning it’s little better than a tavern, Your Grace, with rooms that… aren’t entirely private,” Thomas explained delicately. “The proprietor was most apologetic, but he simply cannot guarantee appropriate accommodations for persons of quality.”
Damien felt a familiar twist of embarrassment at yet another reminder of how far his family’s influence had fallen. “I see. And the carriage with our servants and supplies?”
“That’s the other difficulty, Your Grace,” William continued. “We encountered Richards on the road. The carriage has thrown a wheel again. He estimates they won’t arrive until tomorrow afternoon at earliest.”
Which meant no proper beds, no change of clothes, no servants to manage the basic necessities of civilized travel. Damien glanced at Eleanor, expecting to see dismay or perhaps outright rebellion at the prospect of spending the night in an abandoned house with minimal provisions.
Instead, she looked thoughtful. “How much food did we bring in the carriage?”
“Enough for tonight and breakfast, Your Grace,” John replied. “Cook packed quite generously, anticipating possible delays.”
“And candles? Oil for lamps?”
“A modest supply, Your Grace.”
Eleanor nodded decisively. “Then we’ll manage perfectly well. The library has a functional fireplace, and the sofa will serve adequately. Your Grace,” she addressed Damien with all seriousness, “I trust you have no objections to camping here for one night?”
Damien stared at her, caught between admiration and disbelief. “You’re suggesting we actually stay here? In this condition?”
“I’m suggesting we make the best of circumstances beyond our control,” Eleanor replied with a slight smile. “Unless you prefer to ride back to London in the dark?”
The prospect of another half-day’s journey, losing precious time when estate matters were urgent, decided him.
“Very well,” he said, turning toward the footmen.
“Take a message to the village. I need the senior carpenter and whoever serves as local magistrate here first thing in the morning. Tell them the Duke of Westmore has returned and requires their immediate attention regarding restoration work.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” John replied.
“And secure lodgings for yourselves at this questionable inn,” Damien continued. “Her Grace and I will manage here.” He paused, looking around the empty house. “How fitting that I should be camping in my own ancestral home,” he added with rueful amusement.
After the footmen departed with obvious relief at escaping what they clearly viewed as an unpleasant situation, Damien found himself once again alone with Eleanor in the echoing vastness of his childhood home. The afternoon was waning, and the temperature was beginning to drop noticeably.
“Well then,” he said with determined cheerfulness, “I suppose I should demonstrate my manly valor. Can’t have my duchess freezing on her first night at Westmore Hall.”
Eleanor followed him back to the library, where he surveyed the available materials. Several pieces of damaged furniture had been left behind as worthless—a table with broken legs, chairs with split seats, even some ruined books whose pages could serve as tinder.
“Seems almost sacrilegious,” Eleanor observed as Damien began breaking apart a chair that had clearly seen better days.
“Better to serve a useful purpose than rot away entirely,” he replied, though he handled the carved wood with respectful care. Years of camping in less than ideal conditions during his search for Dominic had taught him the value of making do with available resources.
He knelt before the library fireplace, grateful to find the chimney clear and the grate still functional.
Arranging torn book pages as tinder, he built a careful pyramid of increasingly larger wood pieces, then produced a tinderbox from the supply box the footmen had brought in.
He struck flint against steel with practiced ease.
“You are quite proficient at this,” his duchess commented. “Even though the damp wood makes it more challenging than usual.”
“Nothing quite like sleeping in the cold to teach a man how to build a fire in various conditions.”
The spark caught the paper, which flared briefly before igniting the kindling.
Damien blew gently on the small flame, coaxing it to spread to the larger pieces.
Despite the moisture from the unheated house, within minutes a cheerful fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows on the library walls and providing blessed warmth.
Eleanor gave a happy gasp and clapped her hands together like a delighted child. “Oh, well done! I wasn’t entirely certain the wood would catch, given how long it’s been sitting in this cold house.”
Her spontaneous joy caught Damien completely off guard, and he found himself grinning at her obvious pleasure in his success.
“Three years of unconventional living tends to broaden one’s skill set,” Damien replied, settling back on his heels to watch the fire take hold. “I’ve made camp in some rather primitive locations while tracking Dominic. You learn quickly that comfort is often something you create for yourself.”
Eleanor moved closer to the fire, extending her hands toward the warmth. In the flickering light, her profile was striking—the elegant line of her throat, the way firelight made her smooth skin glow. Damien found himself thinking that perhaps this makeshift arrangement wasn’t entirely unfortunate.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked, noting that the library, while dry, still held the chill of a house long unheated.
“Perfectly comfortable,” Eleanor assured him, though he caught her suppressing a slight shiver. “Though I confess, this isn’t quite how I imagined spending the evening.”
“Nor I,” Damien admitted. “I’d planned to install you in the village’s finest accommodation while I dealt with the more unpleasant realities of the estate’s condition.”
“Instead we’re camping together in your family library,” Eleanor observed with wry amusement. “Our first night truly alone, and we’re reduced to burning furniture for warmth. How unconventional.”
Damien found himself acutely aware of the fact that they would be spending the night alone together without servants to distract them. The realization alarmed him.
“Indeed,” he said quietly. “Most unexpected.”