Chapter 10 #2
She stepped up to him, giving him the choice of blocking her entry or stepping aside. He remained where he was, looking down at her with amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I would not bring Gilbert to such a monstrous residence without preparing it first.”
“Monstrous?” Damien chuckled, his eyes boring into her as if he was trying to memorize every line of her face.
It was not an unpleasant experience. She felt naked before those eyes, and it quickened her pulse. This close, she could appreciate his handsome, if rugged, looks without being caught staring. This close, she could look nowhere else.
There was a nobility to his face that was not marred by the mask. His eyes were expressive, and though he rarely smiled, she thought she could detect the changes in his expression that would be laughter for another man.
Finally, he stepped aside, and Maria crossed the threshold. A portly woman with a round, beaming face and laughter-creased eyes stood just inside, holding a silver tray on which there was a crystal goblet of red wine.
“Welcome to Winterleigh, Your Grace. I am Mrs. Whitby, your housekeeper. We’ve met before, when you… you suffered from a head injury.”
“Good day to you, Mrs. Whitby. Of course, I remember you. I am glad that there is someone in this house who knows how to smile!”
Mrs. Whitby’s smile slipped as she glanced anxiously at her master. Maria did likewise, arching an eyebrow. Her heart thumped, wondering if she had taken the joke too far by teasing in front of a servant.
Damien stared back impassively, making Maria feel that he had stripped away her outer layers to gaze into her soul. She stared back, refusing to be the first to look away. His lip twitched, and Maria felt a surge of triumph.
“Please, accept this as a welcome,” Mrs. Whitby said, gesturing with the tray.
“Thank you,” she said to both, remembering that Damien did not drink.
The wine was rich and heady. For a moment, she held the wine on her tongue, letting herself experience every layer of the delicious drink.
“I procured a cask of that burgundy for you,” Damien said. “I hope you like it.”
“Delicious, but I can feel it going to my head already. I do not think I should finish the glass,” Maria replied.
That was not entirely true, but she had no desire for her husband to believe that she was too fond of spirits.
“Please, do. You are safe here. Where better to…lose your head?” Damien asked.
“That depends on where there might be a wolf hiding,” Maria said, sipping the wine again.
“No wolves in here, Your Grace!” Mrs. Whitby chuckled, missing the true meaning of the conversation. “His Grace doesn’t even keep dogs.”
“You are not a hunter then?” Maria asked Damien.
“I do not need hounds to hunt.”
“Then how do you track your prey?”
“I lure it to me and then close the trap.”
Maria felt heat rising in her cheeks and tried to disguise it by lifting the glass once more.
But the wine did little to cool the sudden flush of desire coursing through her.
A slow, deliberate warmth curled in her belly, tightening low in her core.
She dared not look at him for too long, afraid he might see the thoughts stirring behind her gaze.
What would it feel like, she wondered, to be the prey he trapped? To be caught in his arms, claimed with the same quiet intensity that laced his words?
Several feet separated her from the imposing figure of her new husband, but she felt as though it were mere inches.
The intervening space did not feel an adequate shield from his overpowering masculinity.
She reminded herself that there was a third person present, tearing her eyes from Damien’s dark figure to look around the hall.
“Mrs. Whitby will give you a tour of the house and tell you where you may and may not go. You will find many locked doors in this house and will not, of course, wish to open any of them,” Damien said.
“You are not going to show me around yourself?” Maria asked.
“I am not. I have better uses for my time.”
With that, he swept from the room.
“Our master is a little rough around the edges, but you’ll soon get used to it, Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitby chortled, but only once Damien was out of earshot.
“As rough as broken glass, I should say,” Maria commented.
Mrs. Whitby led her through the house, pointing out drawing rooms, sitting rooms, dining and breakfast rooms. Everywhere Maria saw dark wooden paneling and faded tapestries. Dusty paintings and shadowed alcoves contained brooding busts.
“We do our best to keep the place nice, but His Grace is very particular about where servants should be. And he does not keep a large staff,” Mrs. Whitby said, tutting as she ran her finger along a dusty picture frame.
“He has employed a new maid for you. She is a quiet slip of a girl, but efficient.”
“Oh,” Maria said, uncertain what to do with that piece of knowledge.
Was it evidence that her husband cared about her in some strange way?
“Her name is Sally. By coincidence, she has been sent on an errand in London, but I shall see that she introduces herself to you when he returns.”
“I see,” Maria said, glancing down the darkened corridor. “Speaking of new additions, I think one of the upstairs rooms on the same floor as the guest rooms would be the perfect place for a child’s bedroom. What do you think?”
Mrs. Whitby blushed and stammered. “I think it’s very kind of you to ask my opinion, Your Grace. Yes, that room would make a splendid bedroom, and that room will be right beside your own.”
Maria smiled, liking the arrangement. They had toured the ground floor and then the first floor, which housed the rooms that were to be hers. Now, they stood before a staircase that led upwards, a suit of armor facing them from the landing.
“That leads to His Grace’s rooms on the floor above. It is out of bounds, I am afraid,” Mrs. Whitby said apologetically.
So, I will not be summoned to his bedchamber then.
Maria could not decide if she was relieved by the realization. Maybe it meant only that he would come to her bedchamber, and the result would be the same—the fulfillment of their marital duties. Her throat was dry.
“As are the back stairs which are behind this door,” Mrs. Whitby said, rattling a tarnished brass doorknob to show that the door was locked.
“Why is that?” Maria asked.
“It leads to the south wing, which is forbidden,” Mrs. Whitby said, all merriment leaving her face. “His Grace is most insistent, and…he has fired staff who even inadvertently transgressed that rule.”
Maria’s eyebrows rose. She had supposed that most of the rules regarding locked doors applied only to her, the newcomer. But it seemed every staff member was distrusted as well.
What manner of secrets does he protect?
“He is a very private man,” Maria mused as they went downstairs. “Has he always been so secretive?”
“Oh, yes. Ever since he was a boy. That’s what being cooped up away from the world will do to you,” Mrs. Whitby said. “May I just say, Your Grace, how glad I am that His Grace has finally taken a wife. A woman’s touch in this house is sorely needed. And…may I speak plainly for a moment?”
“Of course, you may always speak your mind to me, Mrs. Whitby,” Maria said.
She had assumed that Mrs. Whitby was speaking frankly already, but Maria was disinclined to make note of that, for she was desperate for any information that might reveal more of her husband’s character.
“Oh, now that was how the old duchess was!” Mrs. Whitby clapped her hands together in delight.
“Well, I think it will be good for the master as well, though he won’t show it.
You’ll have to divine his happiness or not by other means than his face.
But, speaking as one who knew him and his parents, it will be good for him. We are all glad that you are here!”
Maria eventually retired to her rooms. A bottle of wine rested on the sideboard in her bedroom with a fresh glass. She poured herself a measure to quell the butterflies that gamboled in her stomach.
Will he come tonight to claim his marital rights? Will I refuse him as I told him I would? I need his good favor for Gilbert’s sake? Oh Lord, what a conundrum! To protect my honor or protect my adopted child.