Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“My son is mercurial. And unused to or unwilling to accept company. He likes to portray a hatred for humanity. Except for his daughter and me,” Cordelia explained as their carriage churned its way along muddy roads.
The journey to Greystone had been long and miserable.
The roads were still slick from the storm that had broken the fire at Briarwood, and the wheels of the carriage carved through the slop in sullen rhythm.
Adeline sat opposite Cordelia, who, though as elegantly dressed as ever, looked wearier than she cared to admit.
“He is harder than iron, most days. People seem to fear him,” she continued, blithely unaware of the tension her words were building within Adeline.
“Do they have reason?” Adeline asked.
“For what, dear?” Cordelia replied innocently.
Adeline took a breath. Cordelia’s flighty manner could be frustrating when one wanted to get to a point quickly.
“For being afraid of him,” she replied.
“No. Of course not,” Cordelia replied, instantly.
But then she gazed out of the window, brow furrowed. That did not inspire confidence.
“Is that why you have never taken me to Greystone before?” Adeline asked.
Cordelia’s eyes softened.
“Yes. I planned to introduce you to my son long ago, but I feared he would drive you away. You are too precious to me, my dear, and Winston…” She shook her head.
“He has a talent for breaking what he cannot understand. Even when he was a boy. Oh, how his father would scold him. All in the name of forging him into a strong man, of course. A Duke worthy of his title. I sometimes wish I had done more to temper my husband’s… fervor.”
Adeline said nothing, though unease pressed against her ribs. She had built her life carefully these past two years, hidden in laughter and whimsy, safe in Cordelia’s orbit. To step now into the seat of Greystone felt like venturing into a lion’s den.
And how much protection will Cordelia be able to offer me there? A house where she is not the mistress. A house where I know none of the staff and have no authority of my own.
When at last the carriage drew up before the great house, Adeline’s misgivings deepened. Greystone was vast, sprawling, as though each generation had tacked on a wing or tower without thought of harmony.
The result was a rambling pile of stone and timber, bristling with chimneys and turrets, its windows catching what little light remained of the day.
They faced in every direction imaginable, reflecting the rambling gardens and the dark woods, the sea of waving grass that was the park, and the sullen glitter of the mere at its heart.
Adeline stared glumly at the lake for a moment, watching the water ripple and churn, mimicking her inner turmoil.
Inside, the house was no less bewildering.
Passage opened into passage, stairs wove into other staircases, alcoves and arches led in crooked sequence.
Cordelia was quickly engaged by a servant, leaving Adeline to wander.
She did so with trepidation but also a small measure of eagerness.
The place breathed history. Its cold stone stairs were worn hollow by centuries of steps, and tapestries faded and frayed.
The meandering staircases were fenced by richly carved balustrades that had been smoothed by generations of hands.
She found herself drawn onward until at last she entered a music room.
It was small, tucked into a corner of the house, the air faintly scented with cedar.
An old pianoforte stood against the wall, its keys yellowed with age.
Adeline sat upon the bench almost without thinking, and when her fingers touched the keys, a melody rose unbidden.
A tune from her childhood. It was soft and wistful; the kind her mother had hummed before all had gone so terribly wrong.
She was so lost in memory that she did not hear the door until it closed behind her with a decisive click.
“Who are you?”
The voice was deep and hard, carrying an authority that cut through the air like a blade.
She turned. The man who stood in the doorway was broad of shoulder with dark hair unkempt from the touch of the wind.
His eyes had the piercing sharpness of a hawk.
They were dark blue, the color of an oncoming storm.
He watched her intently as if he were hoping to predict her next move.
Adeline straightened. “I might ask the same.”
His brows snapped together. “This is my house.”
Adeline forced a smile, clasping her hands together in front of her.
This was the Duke. Winston Burgess. A man who intimidated so fiercely that even his mother trod on eggshells.
The man who frightened all who came before him and sent them running.
And yet excitement warred with apprehension.
He was handsome, and his body had the proportions of Hercules.
The room seemed smaller with him in it. She felt the magnetism of his presence. It pulled at her. It made her think unworthy thoughts. Thoughts of how those arms would feel wrapped around her.
“I am a guest and an employee of your mother,” Adeline replied evenly.
Something flickered across his expression. It might have been surprise, annoyance, or intrigue. The look could have even contained all three. His voice sharpened.
“My mother’s Lady-in-Waiting. I was not told of your appointment. My mother did not send word when you were acquired.”
“You know my position, which suggests that you were told,” Adeline countered, “and I was not acquired. I am not property.”
“Surely that is exactly what a servant is,” Winston countered.
“With all respect due, Your Grace, that is a somewhat medieval notion,” Adeline said.
The Duke’s mouth tightened.
“People who preface their words with respect generally intend none.”
“I always speak respectfully.”
“Except when someone disagrees with you.”
“Except when someone dismisses me as property. As though I were a slave on a plantation in the Americas.”
Adeline found herself becoming breathless. They had drawn closer, as though their words, their bantering argument, were acting as magnets. Her heart thundered in her chest as her proximity to him sent her pulse racing.
It is simple anger that I feel. Anger at being confronted by an entitled, arrogant man who believes he is permitted to be rude simply because of his rank.
His mouth curved, not in mirth but in something darker.
“You have spirit. That is not always a desirable quality in a servant.”
“But then, I am not your servant.”
“Such outspokenness in any servant is unaccountable.”
His face made anvils look woolly and soft. His words were clipped and glowed with the white-heat of a forge fire. He loomed over Adeline, resembling a far-Eastern potentate more than a respectable English gentleman.
“Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, does not agree, it seems. She permits, no…she encourages me to speak my mind.”
“My mother has foolish notions. I have no interest in knowing what is on your mind.”
The words hung between them, hotter than the fire that smoldered in the grate.
She expected him to roar, to unleash the famed temper which Cordelia had warned her of.
Instead, he stepped closer, his presence filling the space, his gaze fixed on hers as though testing how far she would flinch. She did not move.
“Do you think,” he said quietly, “that you can stand against me?”
“I think,” she returned, pulse quickening though her voice held steady, “that you mistake me for someone you may influence and dominate.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though she amused and infuriated him in equal measure. His hand lifted suddenly, and a single finger pressed against her lips.
“Enough.”
The audacity of it struck her like a slap. Without hesitation, she bit him.
He hissed in surprise, jerking back. For a moment the mask of command slipped, revealing a flash of something raw. Eyes went wide, lips parted. She glimpsed the anger of a barbarian prince from the Russian steppes.
What have I done? It goes beyond propriety. A moment of absolute madness. I bit him!
“I am sorry but…” she began.
Then, with a swiftness that stole her breath, he leaned close, so close she felt the heat of him, and his teeth grazed her ear in a fleeting nip.
Adeline froze. Shock rippled through her, silencing even her indignation.
He seemed as startled by his own daring as she, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Another glimpse beyond the dark, impenetrable wall.
Brief. Tantalizing. A stolen vision of a man far more complex than his outward appearance.
The moment stretched, taut and unbearable, until the door opened once more.
“Ah, there you are!” Cordelia’s voice, warm and oblivious, broke the spell. She swept in, smiling. Her presence was as natural as sunlight.
“Winston, my dear boy. I see you have made Miss Wilkinson’s acquaintance.”
“So, Mother, you have burned your house down?” Winston said with bite.
“The upper stories of the house have been badly damaged. Nothing of my doing. I do not think.”
Cordelia took a seat.
“Has Adeline been demonstrating her skills?”
Adeline blushed, and Winston seemed speechless for a moment. Cordelia waved a hand indolently at the room with its pianoforte, shelves of sheet music, violins, flutes, and even a harp.
“She plays the pianoforte,” Cordelia said proudly.
“Yes, I do,” Adeline said, just to have words to speak.
“She could teach Louisa,” Cordelia said as though the thought had just occurred to her.
“Louisa has a governess for that,” Winston replied.
“Does she? I am told that you dismissed her today,” Cordelia said.
Winston was left flat-footed. Adeline watched him for his reply, hoping it seemed the simple attention given to one about to speak.
His profile was handsome, chiselled rather than grown.
He was as cold and proud as a marble bust. As strong as one too.
Adeline felt her pulse rising, her breath quickening at his proximity.
She wanted to distract herself and tried to focus on Cordelia’s conversation. But she was too aware of Winston’s masculine presence. He loomed in the periphery of her vision, bringing a flush to her neck and quickness to her breath.
“Yes, I did, and she will do without for the time being,” Winston said.
Adeline glanced at him, enough to show she was listening politely.
His eyes met hers, in that moment. Adeline felt heat rise in her ears, of all places, and feared they must be bright red.
She smiled politely but found her eyes reluctant to leave his.
They were magnetic, his presence alluring.
He might be on the other side of the room, and Adeline would still feel like he stood beside her.
Cordelia suddenly cleared her throat. Adeline almost jumped.
She controlled herself with superhuman effort to look back at Cordelia calmly.
“Adeline, would you be able to occupy yourself for a few minutes? Perhaps explore the gardens?” Cordelia nodded amiably toward the windows, indicating the acres of park beyond the walls. “I wish to discuss my granddaughter’s future with my son.”
She spoke in her typical, sweet, and almost absent manner. But her eyes were sharp upon Winston, as though preparing to do battle. Adeline was grateful for the chance to leave.
Did she notice me staring at her son? Was I staring? Was he?
Adeline left with a thundering heart and a heaving chest, feeling Winston’s eyes upon her like a physical touch, one that could strip her naked at a glance. She dared not look back to see if he was still staring at her.