Chapter Seven

The journey of something over two and a half hours passed in virtual silence, with both Cassandra and the Duke apparently tongue-tied. They exchanged a few thin smiles whenever their eyes happened to meet and agreed the weather was fair for the time of year. Still clutching her bouquet as if for comfort, Cassandra felt her cheeks blazing whenever their glances clashed and they both looked sharply away, out of their respective windows. The tension was almost suffocating.

Yet Cassandra could not help but steal furtive glances at the Duke's undeniably handsome but stern profile as he stared out of the window, wondering what sort of beast truly lurked beneath his hard, chiseled fa?ade. How many lonely years housed under his governance must I endure before discovering the truth?

Suppressing a shudder at the thought, she turned her focus to the trees and meadows that had replaced her beloved London's streets as the coach carried her irrevocably into an uncertain future.

Several hours later, they drove through a pretty village and then turned through some spectacular wrought iron gates and up a long winding drive.

"We are here," the Duke suddenly said. "This is Lindenhall Manor." Cassandra looked out of the window at the rolling, green countryside of her new abode.

"The park is very lovely," she said, her eyes suddenly widening as a huge, mansion of grey stone several storeys high, with many glittering windows and a forest of chimneys, rose up before them. Its austere facade filled Cassandra with a sense of foreboding, and she shivered involuntarily.

The carriage finally came to a halt on the circular gravel drive outside the magnificent portico, and Cassandra alighted hesitantly from the carriage, handed down by Malcom. His piercing blue eyes seemed to linger on hers a moment too long, and she felt a strange fluttering in her chest that she could not account for at his touch.

Their gaze was broken when the sound of the huge front doors opening startled her. She looked up as they swung open, revealing a line of servants awaiting them. Filled with nerves, she took Malcom's proffered arm, and he led her up the steps. Cassandra entered the spacious hall of her new home. She felt deeply uncomfortable with all the eyes of the servants upon her, however bright their smiles of greeting.

The butler, a tall, balding, pleasant-faced man, smiled at her warmly, as did the matronly lady by his side. The enormous bunch of keys hanging from her belt told Cassandra she was the housekeeper.

"This is Carlton, my butler and secretary," the duke told her, gesturing with his eyes at the butler. Carlton redoubled his smile as he bowed low.

"Your Grace, welcome to Lindenhall," he said.

"Thank you, that is kind," Cassandra replied, unused to such deference.

"And this is Mrs. Brown, my-our housekeeper," the Duke went on, indicating the woman with the keys.

"Your Grace," Mrs. Brown said with a deep curtsey to Cassandra. "My name is Hannah. We are all so very pleased to have you here," she said, her smile apparently genuine. "I do hope you will soon settle into your new home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown, I mean, Hannah." Cassandra said, warmed by the woman's welcoming expression. Then followed a short, nerve-racking interlude when she was introduced to all the other servants, while the Duke loitered, radiating silent impatience. She was glad when the introductions were over, and the servants dispersed.

"Mrs. Brown, will you show Her Grace up to her chambers, please? We shall dine at eight," the Duke said.

"Of course, Your Grace." With that, to Cassandra's relief, he stalked off down a hallway and vanished. While footmen continued to bring in the luggage from the carriage, Mrs. Brown escorted Cassandra up the elegant sweeping staircase and showed her to her chambers, comprising a luxurious suite of bedchamber, dressing room, and private anteroom, the new duchess's inner sanctum.

"Goodness, it is very large," Cassandra burst out when Mrs. Brown ushered her into the main room. She looked around at the imposing furniture and four-poster bed. The room had high, molded ceilings depicting flights of cherubim and large windows that let in plenty of late afternoon light. The air was filled by the scent coming from a large display of pink roses.

"As befits your station, Your Grace," the smiling housekeeper told her. "I do hope you will find everything to your satisfaction, but you need only ask if there is anything further you wish for your comfort."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown, but I am sure I shall be perfectly comfortable. I appreciate your kind efforts. The roses are especially lovely, and it is a very pretty room." She did not like to admit she was unused to having such space at her disposal and felt very small standing on the large rug in the middle of it all.

"Shall I have some tea and refreshments sent up for you, Your Grace? I am sure you have had a tiring journey and would like to rest before dinner."

"Oh, yes, please, that would be lovely," Cassandra replied, running her fingertips up the silk bed curtains with admiration. "It has been rather a . . . long day." The bed looked very comfortable, and she longed to lay down on it and not go down to dine with her frightening husband.

"Very good, Your Grace. I shall send up a maid to attend to the unpacking too and help you to dress. Will you wish to bathe before dinner?"

"I suppose so," Cassandra replied, suddenly alert to the fact that it was her wedding night. Panic gripped her as she wondered if the Duke would insist on claiming his conjugal rights. Perspiration broke out on her brow. "Um, Mrs. Brown, where are the Duke's apartments?"

"Oh, just down the hallway a little," the housekeeper told her. So, they were to have separate chambers. Good. She resolved on the spot that she had no intention of sharing a bed with a complete stranger, husband or not, and that she would retire to her chambers as soon as she could after dinner and make sure to lock the door against any unwelcome visits, claiming illness if necessary.

"If that is all, Your Grace, I shall go and have the tea prepared and fetch the maid." Mrs. Brown smiled from the threshold.

"Yes, of course. I shall be fine by myself for a while," Cassandra told her. As soon as the housekeeper had left and shut the door behind her, she dropped onto the bed.

I must remember from now on that I am no longer plain old Cassandra Grantham. I am now Her Grace, Lady Cassandra Locksley, the Duchess of Lindenhall. Or rather, wife to the Beast of Lindenhall. Oh, Lord!

***

I suppose I should be thankful she doesn't chatter away like a lot of young women, Malcom was telling himself, hiding away in his study. He felt safe there for the moment, but he knew the respite was only temporary. In truth, he felt far off kilter, knowing he now had a wife invading his previously safe, solitary bachelor existence. The radical change left him feeling as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and he had to be careful not to topple over the edge and be lost.

He poured himself a generous brandy, feeling he deserved it after navigating the horrific social ordeal of the wedding and wedding breakfast. Though he had to grudgingly admit his new wife had looked very pretty indeed. She had a neat figure, long fair curls, and unusual hazel-green eyes, and she looked even prettier when she blushed, which, he had noticed, was often.

It doesn't matter how pretty she is, you fool, the important thing is you are now stuck with her, through no fault of your own!

What bothered him most at that moment was how on earth he was going to get through a whole dinner with her that evening, and every evening after that, for the rest of his life. He hoped she was not expecting him to do his husbandly duty that night because he had no intention of doing anything of the sort with a complete stranger. He resolved to repel any advances she might make towards him on that score, wishing to make it perfectly clear.

He gave not a single thought as to how she might feel about any of it, merely resenting the fact that her presence meant he could no longer dine informally by the fire in his study, wearing his favorite old coat, as he liked to do. No, the dining room, which had not seen a guest since his parents' funeral wake, had been polished and aired and was at that very moment being laid for a formal dinner.

At seven, with an air of imminent doom, he went up to his chambers to dress for dinner. In his guise as valet, Carlton duly arrived, along with footmen and cans of hot water for Malcom's bath.

"I trust the ceremony went well today, Your Grace," Carlton said eventually as he helped Malcom into his clean clothing. "All of us below stairs wish you and Her Grace our heartiest congratulations for a happy future."

"Thank you, Carlton. It all went tolerably well, considering the circumstances."

"It has been rather whirlwind, has it not, Your Grace?" Carlton ventured, tying his master's cravat with flair.

"More like a hurricane, I would say," Malcom replied, frowning into the looking glass at his own grim-faced reflection.

"Perhaps so, Your Grace. I expect we shall all soon become accustomed to having Her Grace's feminine influence about the place, what with you being a bachelor so long and rather set in your ways."

"Am I so set in my ways?" Malcom asked, not liking to believe it.

"In my experience, when one only has oneself to please, one becomes a little stuck in the grooves of familiarity, Your Grace. I heard a learned gentleman say once that a great change in one's living situation may be invigorating to the spirit and, therefore, good for the health."

"Well, whoever he was, he was likely a fool. I do not feel in the least invigorated." Malcom shrugged into his plum-colored velvet coat and shot his cuffs, while Carlton used a clothes brush to smooth out any wrinkles and remove imaginary lint.

"There, Your Grace, you are ready, I think."

Malcom glanced once more at his reflection, hardly recognizing the man in the mirror. The fellow looked well enough, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes. He started as the clock in the hall bonged a quarter before eight, the sound echoing through the halls.

"I suppose I should go down. It would be rude not to be there to greet . . . Her Grace, would it not, Carlton?"

"I believe His Grace is unerringly correct," Carlton agreed, standing back and admiring his master's appearance with an approving look .

"Well. I am going then." Reluctantly, he left the room and made his way as slowly as possible down to the dining room. When he arrived, a small army of servants were still bustling about the table. When he entered, they respectfully acknowledged him with bows and curtseys. He nodded in return. Then, having completed their duties, some hurried away, while others lined up along the walls in silence, to await the summons to serve.

She entered just as the eighth and final stroke of the hall clock was fading away, gliding in like the proverbial swan. The sight of her in a beautiful lilac silk gown, her blonde hair swept up in a sophisticated style, with sapphires glittering at her slender throat, quite knocked the breath from Malcom's lungs. His own throat closed up, leaving him temporarily speechless as he watched her gracefully curtsey to him, looking every inch the duchess.

She smiled at him, a tentative smile, but a smile, nonetheless. For a moment, he was quite blinded by it, for it lit up her pretty features. The sight gave him a funny feeling in his chest, and he had to give himself a mental shake in order to acknowledge it with a nod. He could not bring himself to actually smile back, afraid of encouraging her.

"Good evening, Your Grace," she said.

"Er, good evening. I think, seeing that we are married now, that you could call me by my given name, Malcom," he replied, remembering his manners and going to pull out her chair. She slipped into it, enveloping him a with a delicate flowery scent as he pushed her in.

"Very well. Thank you, Your Gr-I mean, Malcom." She blushed and looked down, her cheeks turning a soft red color as she arranged her skirts neatly and unfolded her napkin. He went to his seat at the head of the table, to her right, and set about carving the joint of roast beef. He hoped he could remember how to do it properly. It was so long since he had played the host.

"In that case, you had better call me by my name, Cassandra," she said, suddenly looking directly at him. He paused in his carving for a moment, surprised to see nervousness in her hazel-green eyes, perhaps even a hint of fear. Am I frightening to her?

"Cassandra," he repeated. The name seemed to roll off his tongue like a musical phrase. Once more, he found it necessary to rouse himself, drawing his mind back to the present moment and reiterating that she was intruding upon his cherished independence. He finished carving the meat, which he would usually have slapped between a couple of slices of bread with some mustard and consumed by the fire in his study with a book on his knee. His resentment flared briefly to think dinner time was always going to be such a formal affair from then on.

"Will you have some beef?" he asked, holding a forkful hovering in midair.

"Oh, yes, a little, please," she said, holding out her plate for him to lay the meat upon it. "Thank you."

"That is but a morsel. Surely, you would like a little more than that?" he said, eyeing the two small slices on her plate as she set it down in front of her.

"I shall have some potatoes and some greens too," she answered. "It will be quite enough. Shall I serve you some potatoes?

"Um, yes, thank you," he said, laying some meat on his own plate and setting the half carved joint aside before sitting down once more. He watched, expecting her to serve him a stingy portion. He tried not to be pleased when she dished him up a generous pile of the golden potatoes before serving herself a much smaller portion.

"And some cabbage? And carrots?" she asked, looking under the silver lids of the serving dishes that lay before them.

"Yes, please. Wine?" he asked, needing something to do to distract himself for the awkward tension between them.

"Oh, yes, please," she replied, dishing up the vegetables while he filled their glasses with the rich red wine he had chosen, his favorite, to accompany the beef.

"Is the wine to your liking?" he asked, suddenly realizing he had given no thought to her preferences.

She sipped at it and nodded. "It is very nice. Perfect with the beef."

"Good."