Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

" A re you just going to leave your wife out there, Your Grace?" the housekeeper, Mrs. Whitlock, asked in a pointed tone.

Max could not tear his eyes away from the lonely figure on the driveway, his unexpected bride so much smaller and less ferocious than she had been before. And though he could not be sure, he thought he saw her shoulders shaking as she watched the gates, like she hoped Evan might come back.

I do not want her to be upset, but how can I make her see that I have done her a great favor when she is being so… stubborn?

It did not sit well with him to see any woman cry, least of all because of something he had done. It was why he had been hopeless when had been tasked with scolding Anna in their youth—one tear and he had immediately crumbled.

"Would you have me throw her over my shoulder and carry her in against her will?" Max asked drily.

The housekeeper mustered a smirk. "She looks to be in need of comfort is what I meant."

"Ah, well, I am the last person she would want to offer that," he replied, gesturing. "You should go out and greet her. As she is the new duchess, she will need to meet the household anyway. What better time than now?"

Mrs. Whitlock offered a sympathetic smile. "Just me, perhaps. We wouldn't want to overwhelm her, now, would we?"

"No, you are probably right," Max replied. "See that she is well taken care of, and if there is anything she wishes to change about her bedchamber or her private study, send the particulars to me. I will see that it is tended to, within reason."

The housekeeper sighed. "It might not seem easy now, Your Grace, but you'll find a way to exist together. I have seen it time and again."

"You have seen dukes leave for a wedding—not their own—and return with a bride?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

The old woman gave a raspy chuckle. "You have me there, Your Grace. I confess I haven't seen that before, but it can't be much different from the arranged matches I've seen. In a year, you'll look back and not be able to remember what life was like before her. We adjust and adapt—it's what people do. You adjusted to inheriting a dukedom and being said duke in a residence that wasn't home to you. You'll adjust to this, too."

She boldly nudged him in the arm. "And the staff will be thrilled. The cook might actually get to make something interesting. One of the maids will be promoted to a lady's maid. There'll be the hope of balls and parties, now that there's a duchess in residence. It's a fine day for this household, Your Grace, as far as we are concerned."

"Excuse me," he said gruffly, talk of so much change lodging like a fishbone in his brain. "I have business to attend to, and a cold bucket of water to dunk my head into."

The housekeeper bowed her head, smiling. "Of course, Your Grace. But before you go, what time would you like to have dinner? We could make it special, even if there are to be no guests."

"I will not be here for dinner," Max replied, already turning to leave the conversation and head up to his bedchamber to change his attire. "Serve whatever suits my wife's tastes at whatever time she prefers. I suspect the cook will not know what to do with herself."

Mrs. Whitlock's rheumy blue eyes widened in alarm as she hurried to keep pace with him. "Why won't you be here, Your Grace?"

"Because I have a brother to find and disown," he said, continuing up the rickety staircase that still looked grand but would soon become dangerous. Another thing to add to his lengthening list of responsibilities.

At the landing, he looked back for a moment. Caroline was still visible through the crosshatched windows of the entrance hall, and she had not moved a muscle. A living statue, weathering the rain. Every fiber of his nature cried out for him to march back to her, to at least put his greatcoat around her shoulders, but he sensed that she would just shrug it off and let the rain soak her right through.

I am not your enemy, Caroline. Do not make this house a battlefield.

With a weary sigh, he pressed on to his bedchamber, already contemplating all the ways he would punish Dickie when he finally found the wretched devil.

"Are you finished, Your Grace?" Mrs. Whitlock asked, appearing at Caroline's side.

"Pardon?" Dazed, Caroline peered up at the kindly woman who had been her saving grace since her arrival at Harewood Court.

The housekeeper had brought her in from the rain and the cold, insisted on her taking a soothing, hot bath, and had then shown her around the manor, pointing out the rooms she thought Caroline would like: the library, the music room, the sun room, the private study that was to be Caroline's, as well as the orangery, the kitchens, and the odd glass structure to the rear of the house that had a reflecting pool in it and nothing else.

After that, Mrs. Whitlock had sat with Caroline as she ate a late luncheon, had written her a list of the household staff, had shown her a map of the grounds for when the weather eased, and had chattered amiably about everything and nothing when Caroline lacked the ability to reciprocate.

But then dinnertime had arrived, and she had been informed that Max would not be joining her. Indeed, Caroline did not even know if her husband was still in the manor somewhere, for she had not seen hide nor hair of him all day.

Mrs. Whitlock smiled. "Are you finished with your dessert, Your Grace?"

"Oh… yes, thank you. Please, tell the cook it was one of the most delicious meals that I have ever had the pleasure of eating," Caroline replied, fidgeting with her napkin. "But… if I may, is there not supposed to be a footman to do this sort of thing? I am not so well versed in the running of a household, but I am certain a housekeeper is not supposed to serve dinner and take the plates away."

Mrs. Whitlock picked up the dessert plate anyway, where only smears of raspberry sauce and cream, and a few pastry flakes remained. "I thought you might prefer to see the same face for a while until everything is more familiar to you. And it has been so long since the footmen have served at this table, they'd be likely to drop something on you in all their nervousness."

"Then, I must thank you twice as much," Caroline said, her heart swelling with gratitude for this woman who did not know her but had gone above and beyond to make her comfortable. "Your presence today has been a real blessing."

Mrs. Whitlock put out her hand, hesitated, then decisively lowered it to Caroline's shoulder, patting gently. "I think you are a blessing to this household. We have long hoped for a duchess, and I couldn't have dreamed of a lovelier individual to take that place." She offered another of her kind smiles. "You are very welcome here, Your Grace. Don't forget that."

"I shall try not to," Caroline replied, though she had never felt more out of place in her life, despite the housekeeper's best efforts. In truth, she felt as if she was walking through a peculiar dream, the environment around her real and yet not.

"Will you be wanting to retire now?" the housekeeper prompted.

Caroline set her napkin down. "I am rather tired." She stared down into her lap, cheeks blazing. "Is it ordinary to feel so exhausted when one has done nothing? Are… weddings usually so draining?"

"You are in some manner of shock, I expect," Mrs. Whitlock said sagely. "That's enough to make anyone feel weary to their bones."

Caroline nodded. "Do you think the other members of staff will find it odd that I am the duchess here and not the duke's sister-in-law? Will they think me a fraud?"

She had already considered what society would think of her when the news emerged that she had not married the right brother. She imagined sour-faced young ladies and their haughty mothers calling her all sorts of names—a deceiver, a schemer, a wily vixen who had always planned to steal the duke instead of the earl. More frustratingly, she would not be able to defend herself with the truth, as the truth was worse.

"They have all been informed of the situation, Your Grace, so don't worry yourself about it," Mrs. Whitlock replied. "Not one has batted an eye. As I said, they are all thrilled to have a duchess and that is all that needs to be said about that."

Caroline slowly got to her feet. "Should I say goodnight to His Grace? Is that the proper thing to do?" Her strength wavered. "I am afraid I am quite at sea here, Mrs. Whitlock. It is an unfamiliar feeling for me."

Why did I not listen to Mama's instructions with every bit of my attention? She could have kicked herself for her misplaced confidence that her plan would succeed.

"Ordinarily, it would be proper to bid him a goodnight," the housekeeper said, putting the dessert plate back down. "But he isn't here. He left not long after you both arrived. I didn't want to mention it, but as he still hasn't returned, I think it is right that I do. I should hate for you to stay awake, waiting for no reason."

A curiously twisting stream of relief and disappointment slithered through Caroline's chest—the cold sting of being so brusquely abandoned, and the warmth of knowing that she would be alone on her wedding night, able to sleep soundly. That part she had listened to, not merely from her mother, but from the Spinsters' Club discussing it over the years.

"Do you know where he has gone?" Caroline was not sure if it was her business or not, but curiosity led her tongue.

Mrs. Whitlock flashed her mistress a knowing look. "I think you can guess, Your Grace."

"Oh…" Understanding dawned on Caroline, as she sent up a silent prayer.

Let Dickie be far, far away. And when he returns, let him be welcomed back.

With nothing more to say, she made her way out of the dining room, allowing Mrs. Whitlock to guide her to her bedchamber. She knew the way, more or less, but it was nice to have agreeable company.

It was nicer still, knowing that no one would disturb her that night. With any luck, it would stay that way for the rest of her marriage.