Chapter 5 #2
“Yes,” Edmund granted. “It will engender trust and confidence, Your Grace. There is no way around the financial investment it requires.”
William had always assumed money abounded for titled men, but he was coming to realize that the lifestyle expected of such individuals could quickly drown one in debt.
“And who are we to invite to such a party when the entire point of it is to convince people I am someone worth accepting invitations from?”
“Your Grace,” Edmund said with a broad smile, “their curiosity and desire for entertainment will outweigh any reservations, I assure you. And at the end of it all, we will have a ball, where we can invite even more guests, who will naturally wish to hear from the others about their experience staying with the Duke of Rockwood.”
William rubbed his forehead. After a morning of going over accounts, he was feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.
Talk of marriage and hosting guests were no cure.
Parties and polite conversation were not his preferred way to spend time, but evidently, they would need to become such if he was to fill the shoes of his father’s cousin.
“Very well. Perhaps you can work on compiling a list of people to invite. In the meantime, I think I will take a walk.”
With no fewer than twenty servants employed in the gardens alone, someone should certainly be enjoying them.
However, a few minutes of walking amongst the short hedges and flowered beds of the formal gardens left William baking under the late morning sun.
Desperate for shade, he cut through one of the smaller paths and beneath the ivy archway that led to the woods where he would be protected from the summer heat.
The cover of shade the dense leaves above provided was a welcome respite, and William marveled silently at the way his view was filled as far as the eye could see with tall trunks and thick vegetation. It was difficult to believe this land all belonged to him.
Rushlake was vast, and William was both overwhelmed and gratified by that fact.
He was accustomed to managing an estate, as he had inherited his father’s upon his death, but there was simply no comparison.
Yorke Manor was fine and respectable, but both the grounds and house were less than a tenth of the size of Rushlake’s.
He neared a small area where the trees were less dense and a dirt- and moss-covered mound rose up amongst them. It was the ice house—a perfect example of the type of thing Yorke Manor lacked that set Rushlake apart as a truly fine estate.
A burlap sack sat just outside the ice house’s iron grate door, which was open. William frowned. This was only the second time he had even seen the ice house, but he was reasonably certain the door was kept locked.
He walked toward it, and the sound of movement within met his ears.
It was almost completely dark within, but he stepped inside, stopping well before the drop-off where the ice was accessed by ladder.
It was delightfully cool within. He squinted, trying to make out the movements of whoever was working at the bottom.
The person’s head turned up to look at William. “Thank heaven,” the female voice said. “I had begun to think no one would come. Bring me the sack, if you please. The pieces are much larger than I anticipated.”
It was Clara—he knew that from the way she spoke—but he heavily suspected she didn’t know to whom she was speaking. From her vantage point, he would be but a silhouette.
Edmund would undoubtedly tell him to rectify that situation and make himself known, but William hesitated.
Perhaps it was the fact that he had not been spoken to in the authoritative way Clara was speaking to him now for weeks and weeks.
It had all been deference and crushing politeness since he had become duke.
It could be that it was a welcome divergence from so many mornings spent writing correspondence or going over accounts at his desk.
It might be a reluctance to leave the blissful chill of the ice house.
Or perhaps William was simply losing his mind.
Whatever the reason, he retraced his steps and brought the burlap sack back to the top of the ladder. Crouching, he extended the sack toward the maid, but the hole where the ice was kept was deep, and her fingers reached for it in vain.
“You will have to come down,” she said with a hint of impatience and, William suspected, chattering teeth. “I will need your help holding the sack open.”
William hesitated another moment, but he was determined to see this through, so he turned around and took the ladder down into the cold, ice-filled abyss.
Clara moved to the side to make way for him, but the amount of space uncovered by chunks of ice and the straw that blanketed it was limited, and their bodies pressed against each other.
“Hold it open as widely as possible,” she said as she bent and picked up the nearest piece of ice.
Edmund would have been horrified to hear William being spoken to with such authority by a mere housemaid, but William’s mouth pulled into an amused smile as he obeyed the instruction.
Part of him wished to offer to exchange duties with her, but the moment he spoke, he would give himself away, so he remained silent.
He was impressed by her strength as she hefted a large block of ice and slid it into the bag.
“Do you think that is enough?” She looked around the dark hole, then at the bag.
William cleared his throat, and her head whipped around. Apparently, he could not even clear his throat without betraying that he was not a servant.
Her wide eyes searched his face in the dark, then her lips parted in surprise—unwelcome surprise. “Your Grace!”
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was so hot outside, I could not resist when you ordered me to help you.”
She shut her eyes in consternation and dropped her head. It was too dark to see, but he suspected her cheeks would be red too. The impulse to touch one to see whether it was as hot as he assumed it would be was immediately discarded.
He was losing his mind. It was Edmund’s talk of Clara’s beauty and his nonsense about her being his wife.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, eyes still averted. “I swear I had no notion to whom I was speaking. I have been awaiting a footman.”
“And I bear a striking similarity to one?”
Her head came up, her eyes wide again. “No! Of course not. Only, all I could see was a man’s silhouette and—”
“Clara,” William interrupted, smiling. “I am only teasing. You bear no fault. The blame lies entirely with me.”
She shook her head, her eyes still fixed on his. As though remembering herself, she dropped her chin, breaking their gazes. “Please, Your Grace.” She grasped the bag just under his hand and pulled it toward her firmly.
William resisted. “Let me help.”
“No. Your Grace,” she added quickly.
“That is an order, Clara.” Without waiting, he slung the sack over his shoulder and began climbing the ladder. It was an awkward affair, and by the time he reached the top, a few beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline despite the coolness within.
He set the sack on the ground, then extended a hand to Clara.
She glanced at it, then up at him. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the hand, and he pulled her onto firm ground.