28. Claire
Claire
The next morning, a gentle knock at the door woke me, so quiet I thought I’d imagined it.
I blinked awake slowly, my body sinking into the most luxurious bed I had ever known.
The blankets were softer than anything I’d ever felt, and above me, a canopy of sheer pink fabric drifted like a cloud.
For a long moment, I simply lay there, trying to make sense of it all.
My heart thudded in my chest as I pushed myself upright, the room coming into focus in pieces.
This wasn’t home. This… couldn’t be real.
But then the memories came rushing back. The journey. The carriage. The towering estate. And Persibal—the butler—guiding me through wide halls polished to a shine as he showed me to this room.
My room.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet brushing against a rug so plush I nearly recoiled from it. Even the floor here felt indulgent.
The room itself was enormous, half the size of our entire home in Thistlebrook at least. Maybe more.
Every corner held beauty. A white painted vanity sat near the foot of the bed, its surface gleaming, untouched.
To my left, an arched window stretched, tall and elegant, draped in soft curtains.
I found myself drawn to it, my fingers hesitating before pulling the fabric aside.
Beyond it lay a garden, neatly trimmed hedges weaving intricate patterns, dew catching the early morning light. It looked like a page out of a story.
Like everything else here.
Another knock came, a touch firmer this time.
“Pardon, my lady,” Persibal’s voice carried through the door, muffled by the wood. “But I wished to see if I might bring you morning tea and scones. The duke would like to meet you in the foyer for breakfast.”
Tea and scones.
The duke.
Butterflies erupted low in my stomach at the mention of my betrothed, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air thinner.
I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my pulse to steady as I turned toward the dresser nearby.
My hands weren’t entirely steady as I opened it.
Inside were rows of dresses—more than I’d ever owned in my life—they were neatly arranged, fabrics spilling over one another in soft hues.
My fingers brushed over them before settling on a pale pink lace dress, the material delicate beneath my touch.
What would he look like? What would his voice sound like when he spoke my name? Would it be warm? Cold? Would he smile? What color were his eyes?
I gathered the dress and slipped into the adjoining washroom.
The basin was already filled with fresh water.
I leaned over it, catching my reflection—travel worn, my curls unruly from the journey, jutting out in every direction as if they, too, refused to settle into this place.
I dipped my fingers into the cool water and brought them to my hair, gently pressing moisture into my curls.
I focused on the ends first, where they had dried and tangled the most, coaxing them back into shape with slow, practiced movements.
It was a rhythm my hands knew well, one I didn’t have to think about.
Section by section, I worked through the thickness of my hair, separating each curl carefully, easing out the knots without pulling too harshly.
It took time. It always did. But the ritual grounded me with its steady repetition.
I made a quiet note to ask for oil later—olive, if they had it.
Argan, if I was lucky. Something to keep my curls from drying out again in this unfamiliar place.
By the time I finished, my arms ached, but I leaned back to study the result. My curls had settled into themselves once more, their shape returning after the chaos of travel. They no longer stuck out in defiance at every angle but fell with a kind of buoyancy I recognized.
I gave my curls one last touch, smoothing a stray coil into place before stepping out of the washroom. My fingers lingered on the fabric of the dress as I adjusted it, taking a steady breath.
“I’m ready,” I called.
The door opened just enough for Persibal to slip inside, his posture as composed as ever. His gaze flicked over me, and he gave a small, approving nod.
“Very well, my lady. If you would follow me.”
I trailed behind him into the corridor, my footsteps soft against the polished floors.
The estate in daylight was even more overwhelming.
Sunlight poured through towering windows, catching on gilded frames and marble surfaces.
Everything gleamed. I kept my hands clasped in front of me, resisting the urge to touch anything, to confirm it was all real.
“This way,” Persibal murmured, guiding me down a sweeping staircase that opened into a grand foyer below.
And there, Garrick stood near the center of the room, dressed impeccably, as though he had been painted into the space itself.
He was tall and composed. His presence seemed to command the very air around him.
As he turned to me, I took in his thick brown locks of curls framing his bright blue eyes, and when his lips turned into a smile, he had dimples.
He was very handsome, indeed.
Persibal stepped aside. “My lady.”
Garrick’s expression shifted into a very handsome smile. “Ah, there she is.”
He crossed the distance between us with ease. Before I could think too much about it, he reached for my hand. His fingers were warm as they wrapped around my hand, lifting it gently. And then he pressed his lips to my knuckle.
“Claire, it is a pleasure, at last.”
I swallowed, forcing a tentative smile. “Your Grace.”
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary before he gestured toward a nearby table, already laid with breakfast.
“You must be famished after your journey.”
I was, more than I cared to admit. I followed him to the table, my gaze immediately drawn to the spread. Tea steamed in delicate cups, golden scones arranged neatly on a platter, small dishes of jam and cream.
“Please,” Garrick said, taking his seat. “Help yourself.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I sat down and grabbed a blueberry scone, the warmth of it surprising against my fingers. It broke apart easily, soft and buttery, and the first bite—
Gods.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I truly was until that moment. I closed my eyes briefly, savoring it, before quickly remembering where I was and lowering my gaze.
Garrick watched me with mild amusement.
“Yes, I imagine it’s quite the change from what you’re used to.”
Heat crept up my neck, but I said nothing, taking another bite.
Garrick reached for his tea, taking a slow sip before setting it down again.
“I did receive your father’s letter, regarding the debt.”
My hand stilled slightly around the scone.
“He seemed quite hesitant to see it resolved. Though I must admit, deciphering it was something of a challenge. His handwriting was atrocious. I wonder if he was ever properly taught his letters at all.”
He let out a quiet laugh, as if this were a harmless observation.
“As it happens, your mother was scarcely literate when I knew her. But then, one can hardly expect such refinement from your region.”
My blood went cold. I kept my eyes on my plate, swallowing carefully, though the food suddenly felt heavier in my mouth.
“My mother—” I started, but the words faltered. I wasn’t sure what I meant to say. “How did you meet her?”
“We met in a thoroughly unremarkable tavern with sticky floors, sour ale, and the sort of company that mistakes noise for wit. She had already had… what was it? Three? Four glasses of whiskey by the time she decided I was a suitable confidant. She told me everything. Her debts, her losses, how the cards never seemed to favor her.” He tilted his head in consideration.
“A gambling problem, she called it. Quite tragically delivered, if I recall. I might have been moved, had she not been so spectacularly careless.”
His fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair.
“So, I made her an offer. I would quietly dissolve her troubles and bring her unfortunate little spiral to a graceful end. In exchange, of course, for a favor to be claimed at a later date—no questions asked. She laughed, assuring me she doubted she’d ever bear children at all.
But if she did...” He gave a small, mocking shrug.
“Well, I could have the youngest daughter. She spoke as though it were all a splendid jest.”
His gaze hardened just a fraction.
“I, of course, was not jesting. A bargain is a bargain, no matter how foolishly it was made.”
“My mother,” I said slowly, the words catching as they left her throat, “never gambled. She never even liked cards. She always said they’re a waste of time. She—she scolded people who did it. She always had before…”
Images flashed, my mother at the kitchen table, counting coins with careful precision, stretching what little we had. I could not imagine her as a woman spilling her secrets to a stranger over whiskey, laughing off promises like they meant nothing.
“That’s not—” My voice faltered, my certainty cracking under the weight of his gaze. “That cannot be.”
But even as I said it, uncertainty twisted low in my stomach.
The duke only watched patiently, and his gaze softened. He felt sorry for me.
“One’s character changes once there are children to consider,” he murmured.
“I suppose.”
Garrick waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. The debt is settled. That is what matters, is it not?”
“Yes, of course.”
Silence stretched between us for a moment. I reached for another scone—more out of habit than hunger now—and took a small bite, hoping to steady myself.
Garrick’s gaze flicked down briefly as I ate, and then he cleared his throat. The sound was sharp enough to make me pause.
“I should advise moderation. The court can be particular about appearances.”
His lips curved faintly, though there was something assessing in his eyes now.
“You are… quite full-figured as it is,” he added. “One would not wish for that to become a topic of discussion.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“Oh,” I said softly, the word barely more than a breath.
Suddenly, I was aware of everything—how I sat, how I held myself, the way the fabric of my dress rested against my body. I set the scone down.
“I didn’t realize,” I murmured.
“Of course not. That is why I mention it. As your future husband, our reputation will be important, of course. As your husband, it is my duty to ensure that it stays pristine.”
My stomach twisted. I folded my hands in my lap, forcing myself to sit straighter. Garrick studied me for a moment longer before his expression shifted again.
“Now, then. Tell me, Claire, what would you like to do today?”
The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, my mind scrambling for an appropriate answer. A safe answer. My gaze flicked to the windows, to the world beyond this room, before returning to him.
“I…” I started, then steadied myself. “I would love to go dress shopping.”
The words felt small, but they were honest. Garrick’s brows lifted, amused.
“Dress shopping,” he repeated.
I nodded, my hands still clasped tightly together.
“It would please me greatly, Your Grace.”
A dimpled smile spread across his face.
“Yes, well, I think that can be arranged.”