Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

“Good morning, Your Grace. Shall I serve the coffee?” Crawford’s voice held a note of approval at finding both his master and mistress at the breakfast table.

Isolde managed a small nod, carefully avoiding Arthur’s gaze across the Meissen china.

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows felt too bright, too revealing after the intimacy they’d shared in last night’s darkness.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the clink of silver against porcelain and Crawford’s precise movements as he served their breakfast.

Isolde found herself studying Arthur’s hands as he buttered his toast—the same hands that had coaxed such devastating pleasure from her body mere hours ago.

A flush crept up her neck at the memory.

At least he’d kept his word about dining together, though this strained silence was hardly the companionship she’d hoped for.

She pushed her eggs around her plate, remembering how she, her father, and Octavia had shared breakfast each morning, their easy conversation and gentle teasing filling the room with warmth.

Would she and Arthur ever know such comfort with each other? Or would last night’s passion remain an isolated incident, as cold and formal as this morning’s meal?

She opened her mouth to say… something, anything to break this oppressive silence, but Crawford chose that moment to reappear with the morning post.

“An invitation, Your Grace,” he announced, presenting a gilt card to Arthur. “From Lord and Lady Ashworth.”

“Ah yes, their summer ball.” Arthur barely glanced at the card. “Next week, I believe?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Crawford’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Shall I have your response prepared?”

“We will attend.” Arthur’s eyes finally met Isolde’s from across the table. “Unless you object?”

“No, I… That is, it would be pleasant to…” she trailed off, unsure how to navigate this new formality between them.

“Very good.” Arthur rose, his chair scraping across the floor. “I’m afraid I must leave for a business meeting in the village, but I shall return for dinner.”

“Of course. Business must come first.”

Something flickered in his eyes—regret? Frustration? But his voice remained cool and even. “Until this evening, then.”

Isolde watched him stride out of the room, his shoulders straight and proud under his perfectly tailored coat.

How could a man who’d made her feel so cherished last night treat her with such detached courtesy the morning after?

Crawford began clearing away the dishes with practiced efficiency, but Isolde barely noticed. Her coffee had gone cold, much like the warmth she’d felt in the music room.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering Arthur’s passionate kisses…

But in the harsh light of morning, it all seemed like a dream. Her husband had put on his ducal mask once again, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined the tenderness in his touch, the way his hands had trembled when he’d stopped her from…

“More coffee, Your Grace?”

“No, thank you, Crawford.” She rose, needing to escape the emptiness of the breakfast room. “I believe I will take a turn about the gardens before it grows too warm.”

The formal gardens gradually gave way to wilder paths, each turn revealing some new delight that momentarily distracted Isolde from her troubled thoughts.

A bower of climbing roses here, a charming stone bench there, everything still pearled with morning dew.

“Your Grace,” Martha suggested after their third tour of the grounds, “perhaps a trip to the village might prove diverting? I hear Mr. Lyndall’s bookshop has just received a shipment from London.”

The suggestion brightened Isolde’s mood considerably. “Yes, I believe that’s exactly what I need. Have Crawford send for the carriage.”

The village in Meadowell proved to be a charming collection of stone buildings clustered around a medieval church, its spire reaching toward the summer sky. Local women in practical printed cotton dresses went about their business, while farmers in earth-stained clothes led laden carts toward the market square.

The bookshop’s bell tinkled merrily as they entered, the familiar scent of leather and paper instantly soothing Isolde’s spirits.

Mr. Lyndall was a thin, scholarly man with ink-stained fingers and spectacles that constantly slid down his nose.

“Your Grace!” He nearly knocked over a stack of primers in his haste to bow. “What an honor! I’ve just received the latest Mrs. Radcliffe⁠—”

“How wonderful!” Isolde was already moving deeper into the shop, trailing her fingers along the spines. “And do you have any new volumes of poetry?”

“Indeed, indeed! And perhaps Your Grace would enjoy this treatise on garden design? Or this collection of Italian folktales? Oh, and here⁠—”

Before long, Isolde found herself attempting to balance an increasingly precarious tower of books. Martha clucked disapprovingly as another volume was added to the stack.

“Your Grace might also enjoy this volume of Greek mythology,” Mr. Lyndall suggested, his age-spotted hands reverently lifting another leather-bound tome. “Recently arrived from a most distinguished printer in Edinburgh.”

“Oh, but look at these illustrations!” Isolde carefully shifted the stack in her arms to free one hand. “Martha, isn’t this Persephone simply exquisite?”

“Very nice, Your Grace,” Martha agreed diplomatically, eyeing the teetering tower with growing concern. “Though perhaps we might set aside some books for another visit?”

But Mr. Lyndall was already shuffling toward another shelf, his worn leather shoes making soft scuffing sounds on the wooden floor. “And here, Your Grace—a most fascinating treatise on the language of flowers. The late Mr. Waddleton’s library, you know. His widow brought in quite a collection last week.”

A young boy—presumably Mr. Lyndall’s assistant, given his ink-stained fingers—appeared from behind a towering shelf.

“Father, Lady Carmichael’s order has arrived from—oh!” He stopped short at the sight of Isolde, nearly dropping his own stack of books.

“Timmy!” Mr. Lyndall scolded. “Mind your manners before Her Grace!”

The boy attempted an awkward bow without releasing his burden, sending several volumes sliding. Isolde instinctively reached to help, forgetting her own precariously balanced stack.

The resulting cascade of books seemed to happen in slow motion.

“The first editions!” Mr. Lyndall’s horrified gasp was nearly drowned out by the commotion.

Martha lunged for the falling books, catching two but sending three flying. Timmy dropped his entire stack in his attempt to help, adding to the chaos. Isolde found herself kneeling on the floor, gathering volumes while trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Mr. Lyndall fluttered around them, adjusting his spectacles repeatedly. “Your Grace, you should not be… That is, please allow me…”

“Nonsense,” Isolde said, pulling a volume of poetry from beneath a shelf. “Though I fear that copy of Paradise Lost may have found itself lost.”

Timmy’s startled giggle earned him a stern look from his father, but Isolde smiled at the boy.

“Perhaps you could help us sort these into proper stacks? I suspect we’ve thoroughly disrupted your careful organization.”

The task of reorganizing the fallen books proved oddly enjoyable, with Timmy revealing a surprising knowledge of literature as they worked.

“This one’s about Ancient Rome,” he said, carefully checking a leather binding for damage. “And here’s your Greek myths, Your Grace. Father’s been teaching me the classics,” he added proudly.

“And a fine scholar he’ll make too.” Mr. Lyndall beamed, his earlier distress forgotten. “Though perhaps we should wrap Your Grace’s selections before any further mishaps occur?”

“Yes, please, Mr. Lyndall.” Isolde smiled.

“I shall have them wrapped and delivered to Meadowell House directly, then,” Mr. Lyndall assured her, carefully stacking her selections on the counter. “Though I must say, it does my heart good to see a true lover of books in the village again. The late Duchess, God rest her soul, never set foot in my shop.”

“Never?” Isolde couldn’t help asking, though she knew it wasn’t quite proper to gossip about her predecessor.

Mr. Lyndall’s usual cheer dimmed slightly. “No, Your Grace. The former Duke…” He hesitated, seeming to remember his place. “That is, such pursuits were not encouraged at Meadowell in those days. Though the young master—His Grace, I mean—would sometimes order books in secret. Poetry, mostly, and sheet music.”

Something in his tone made Isolde’s chest tighten, but she knew she shouldn’t press further.

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Lyndall,” she told him and turned to her maid. “Shall we have some tea, Martha? I believe I saw a shop just down the street.”

Mrs. Timmons’ Tea Shop proved to be a cozy establishment, its windows bright with geraniums. The owner herself, a plump woman in a spotless apron with gray curls escaping her cap, fussed over them.

“Such an honor, Your Grace! We’ve not had a proper duchess in the village for years. Not since…” she trailed off. “But here, you must try my lavender scones. Made fresh this morning!”

As Martha investigated the cake selection, another woman joined their table—Mrs. Harrison, she introduced herself, the wife of the farmer.

“We’re so pleased to see His Grace settled at last,” Mrs. Harrison confided, smoothing her sensible brown dress. “Though I must say, some of us wondered if he’d ever marry, what with his—” She coughed delicately. “His reputation.”

“Indeed?” Isolde kept her voice steady, though her hands tightened around her teacup.

“Oh yes. Quite the favorite with the ladies, he was.” Mrs. Harrison leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Young Sally at the Rose & Crown still sighs whenever his carriage passes by. And Mary Merritt’s daughter—well, the less said about her, the better. But marriage changes a man, they say.”

Isolde forced herself to smile, to make polite conversation about village matters, to praise Mrs. Timmons’ excellent scones. But inside, her heart grew heavier with each revelation about Arthur’s past conquests.

What a fool she’d been, letting herself hope that last night meant something more than physical release. This was precisely why he’d stopped her advances—because to him, she was just another woman to bed and discard. The fact that she wore his ring made no difference to a man who viewed love as a weakness.

“Shall we return to the house, Your Grace?” Martha’s voice cut through her dark thoughts. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”

“Yes.” Isolde rose, leaving several coins on the table that made Mrs. Timmons’ eyes widen. “I believe I’ve had quite enough tea for one morning.”

The carriage ride home passed in silence, but unwelcome images flashed through Isolde’s mind—Arthur with Sally, with Mary Merritt’s daughter, with countless other women who’d fallen for his practiced charm. Their passionate encounter in the music room last night now seemed tawdry rather than romantic—just another conquest for the notorious Duke of Meadowell.

She pressed her forehead against the carriage window, watching raindrops begin to fall.

He’d promised to return for dinner, but suddenly the thought of facing him, pretending last night hadn’t happened, made her feel slightly ill.

“Martha,” she said as they approached Meadowell House, “please inform Mrs. Phillips that I shall be dining in my chambers this evening.”