Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

A s the carriage rattled down the drive of Hayward Manor and then turned onto the sandy roads, the tension grew more palpable.

Arabella sat across from Harry, fixing him with a look of both frustration and relief.

“Thank you for putting my father in his place, Harry,” she said, her tone as measured as it was courteous. “But I assure you, I was quite capable of handling him myself.”

Harry inclined his head, his expression as composed as ever, though frustration bubbled up in his chest. “I do not doubt your capability, Arabella,” he replied. “Indeed, I have no question that you can outwit your father at every turn. But when a man is deep in his cups, as your father most assuredly was, wit alone cannot always prevail.”

Arabella’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. “I am not some delicate flower, Harry. I can manage a situation, even when it is less than ideal.”

Harry gave a brief, mirthless smile. His new wife was indeed vexation incarnate. “You are no delicate flower, that much is certain. But this is not merely a question of managing a situation. It is a matter of safety. You may be smart and resourceful, but there are times when strength and physical capability come into play.”

Arabella opened her mouth, prepared to retort, but Harry continued before she could speak.

“Arabella, understand this—there are circumstances where physical power must be met with physical power, and that is not your burden to bear. It is mine. I will protect you, whether you believe you require it or not.”

He could see the tension in her posture, the way her hands balled into fists in her lap. Her irritation was evident, and while he admired her spirit, it also exasperated him.

“Harry,” she began, her voice edged with that stubborn determination he had come to recognize, “I do not need?—”

“You may not think you need protection,” Harry interrupted, his voice firmer now, “but it is my duty nonetheless. You need not like it, but you must accept it. I will not stand by while you are put in harm’s way, and that is the end of it.”

Arabella’s eyes flashed with defiance, but she remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. The carriage jostled slightly as they continued on their way, the air between them thick with unresolved tension.

After a moment, Harry let out a slow breath, his voice softening. “I respect your strength, Arabella. Truly, I do. But I also ask that you respect my duty to protect you as your husband. I vowed to help you get away from your father, but I will not have you question how I accomplish this.”

She looked at him for a long moment, though her expression remained guarded.

As the carriage trundled down the road, silence fell over them, now laced with a tentative truce.

As the carriage turned onto the long, tree-lined drive, Arabella felt her breath catch in her throat. It was bad enough to have to accept Harry’s decision because he was now her husband, but now she was being taken from her home to one that was not her own—and one that was decidedly different from what she was used to.

She hadn’t considered what the home of a duke might look like, but now that she saw it before her, she could scarcely believe it. Before her stood a grand Tudor-style manor, its black-and-white timbered fa?ade rising majestically against the late afternoon sky. The house was vast, with multiple gables and tall, latticed windows that reflected the dappled light filtering through the ancient oaks that lined the approach. Ivy clung to the stone walls, giving it an almost easy look.

She couldn’t deny that the house truly was magnificent.

Her eyes followed the sweeping lines of the house to the gardens that surrounded it. She loved her garden at home and often sat out to watch the stars, but these gardens were fit for the Prince Regent himself.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Arabella noticed the servants lined up in front of the entrance.

They’re waiting for the Duchess. For me…

Harry stepped out first, turning to offer her his hand. She took it, and as she alighted from the carriage, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her new life pressing down on her shoulders.

“Welcome to your new home,” Harry said softly, his voice laced with a hint of pride.

Arabella managed a small smile as she took in the scene before her. The servants stood in a neat line, each one a picture of propriety. Harry gestured to the first in line, a distinguished-looking man with graying hair and a stern yet not unfriendly expression.

“This is Brandon, my valet,” Harry introduced.

Brandon gave a polite bow, his eyes briefly meeting Arabella’s before returning to his neutral stance.

Next, Harry indicated a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, her blonde hair streaked with silver, her blue eyes sharp and observant. “This is Mrs. Blomquist, our housekeeper.”

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Mrs. Blomquist said with a slight nod, her Swedish accent lending a melodic lilt to her words.

Arabella noted the warmth in her gaze, tempered by a firmness that spoke of many years of experience managing a household of this size. The obligatory chatelain hung at her slender waist, the keys clanging as she curtsied.

“And this is Mr. Baxter, our butler,” Harry continued, moving down the line.

Mr. Baxter, a tall, lean man with impeccable posture, bowed deeply. “Your Grace,” he intoned, his voice deep and smooth, his manner polished and precise.

Finally, Harry introduced Mabel, the lady’s maid.

Arabella’s eyes softened as she took in the woman before her. Mabel was older, perhaps in her late fifties, with kind eyes and a gentle, maternal demeanor that immediately put her at ease. Arabella had been alarmed when she’d heard Viola would not accompany her here, but she was comforted by the kindness radiating from Mabel.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Mabel said, her voice warm and comforting, as though she had already taken Arabella under her wing.

Arabella smiled, genuinely this time. “Thank you, Mabel. I am sure we will get along splendidly.”

The rest of the introductions passed quickly, though Arabella could not recall the various maids’ and footmen’s names. There were so many, along with the gardeners, laundresses, stable hands, and groundskeepers.

Thankfully, Harry gestured toward the grand entrance. “Shall we go inside?” he asked.

Arabella took a deep breath, bracing herself for the life that awaited her within these grand, storied walls. As she stepped into the grand entrance hall, her breath hitched at the sight before her. The high, timbered ceilings loomed above, supported by dark wooden beams that bore the weight of centuries. The floors were polished oak, and the walls were adorned with tapestries. A large stone fireplace dominated one end of the hall, its mantle decorated with ancient family crests.

Arabella felt a surge of emotion as she took in the grandeur around her. This was her new home, a place where she could accomplish so much, where she could make a difference. The thought was exhilarating. Yet, as quickly as it came, it was replaced by a wave of anxiety. She was the Duchess of Sheffield now, a title that carried with it immense responsibility and expectation. The very thought of it made her heart race. And then, there was the matter of the wedding night…

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly as she glanced at Harry. He seemed so composed, so sure of himself, and yet she felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, not quite sure how to take the next step.

Sensing her unease, Harry leaned in slightly. “I shall show you around the estate tomorrow,” he said. “There is no need to rush. You will have plenty of time to acquaint yourself with everything.”

Arabella nodded, her gratitude for his understanding reflected in her eyes. “Thank you, Harry,” she murmured.

All her bravado from earlier had vanished over these past few minutes, so intimidating was all of this.

As if on cue, Mr. Baxter stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Shall I have the footmen take Her Grace’s trunks to her chambers?”

Arabella opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it. “No need, Baxter,” he said, with a firm yet gentle voice. “I shall see to it myself.”

Arabella blinked, surprised by his insistence, but she found herself touched by the gesture. It was such a small thing, but it meant more to her than she could express. Perhaps her words had inspired him to be at least companionable?

As she stood in the grand entrance hall, her initial awe of the manor’s grandeur gave way to a growing sense of dread. The reality of what it meant to be a duchess—to be Harry’s wife—began to press down on her, making her feel as though she were suffocating.

When Harry gently took her arm and led her toward the staircase, she felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. She knew the implications of the night ahead, the duties that she’d have to perform now that she was a wife. Her heart pounded as they ascended the stairs, her mind racing with questions she was too afraid to ask.

As they reached her chambers, Harry opened the door and guided her inside. The room was beautiful, more luxurious than anything Arabella had ever imagined. But the opulence did little to calm her nerves. Instead, it only heightened her awareness of the situation.

“This is your room,” Harry murmured softly, his voice kind but laced with uncertainty. “I hope it is to your liking.”

Arabella glanced around, taking in the canopied bed, the warm glow of the fire, and the tasteful decorations that made the room feel both elegant and intimate. Yet, the sight of the bed, large and imposing, only made her more anxious. She swallowed, trying to find her voice as she turned back to him.

“It’s lovely,” she managed to say, though her mind raced.

Was she to sleep here alone? Or would he join her? After all, even if their marriage was one of convenience, he’d want an heir one day, would he not?

Harry nodded, seeming to sense her unease. “I will leave you to settle in,” he offered gently, his hand lingering on the doorframe. “If you need anything, Mabel will be nearby.”

He began to turn away, but Arabella’s voice stopped him. “Harry,” she called out, a tremor of confusion and fear in her voice. “Aren’t we… That is, aren’t we supposed to sleep together now that we’re married?”

Her words hung in the air, the weight of them palpable. Harry turned back to her, his expression softening as he saw the worry on her face. He stepped closer, taking her hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Arabella,” he began, his voice gentle but firm. “There is no need to rush into anything. Tonight, or any night. This is all very new, and I want you to feel comfortable. We will share our lives, but that does not mean we must do everything all at once.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mix of relief and uncertainty. “But… we’re husband and wife,” she whispered, as if she needed to remind herself of the fact.

“And we have the rest of our lives to explore what that means,” Harry replied, his thumb lightly stroking her knuckles. “Tonight, I want you to rest, to get accustomed to your new surroundings.”

“Very well,” she agreed, before letting out a yawn that made him chuckle.

“I can see that you need your rest. As do I. Perhaps we should take our dinners in our respective chambers tonight and then start afresh tomorrow.”

He didn’t want to eat with her?

“But I thought…”

“Tomorrow, I will show you around the estate, and you will get accustomed to everything,” he declared with finality.

He smiled gently, releasing her hands but lingering a moment longer, his eyes searching hers. “Goodnight, Arabella,” he said softly, his voice carrying a promise of patience and understanding.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she replied, her voice steadier now, though her heart was still fluttering.

He gave her one last reassuring smile before turning and leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Arabella stood there for a moment, the silence of the room enveloping her. She was still anxious, still uncertain about what lay ahead, but a new sense of calm settled over her.

As she moved toward the bed, she realized that perhaps this new life might not be as overwhelming as she had feared.