Elizabeth placed her gloved hand in his and let him guide her down. Her slippers met the earth. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of lavender and damp leaves. She inhaled slowly.
Alasdair leaned in. “Welcome to Redmoor, Duchess.”
He looked proud. And nervous, perhaps, but quietly so. And respectful. Always respectful.
The front steps stretched wide, and at the top, the household staff had gathered in a neat line. Housekeeper, butler, footmen, maids, they stood crisply at attention, dressed properly, not a hair or hem out of place.
They didn’t bow immediately. They waited.
Elizabeth straightened slightly, uncertain of her role. Of her right to stand here.
Then Alasdair’s voice rang out, strong and full of warmth:
“May I present to ye your new mistress, Her Grace, the Duchess of Redmoor.”
Her breath caught in her chest.
The moment stretched, just long enough for doubt to stir, and then the line of servants bowed in unison. One of the maids curtsied with a beaming smile. Murmurs of welcome echoed down the stone steps. A ripple of approval, not forced but genuine.
Elizabeth blinked, stunned.
They were smiling at her.
Ather.
She felt something shift within her. A click. A quiet lock falling into place.
This was no longer Grisham House. These were not strangers whose glances she feared. These people looked at her not as a burden or disappointment, but as if she belonged.
She lifted her chin and began to walk toward them, her steps careful but sure. Each footfall seemed to echo not just in the gravel but in her chest. Her spine straightened, her breath steadied.
With every step, she felt less like Lady Elizabeth Brighton, overlooked, criticized, spoken over, and more like something else. Someone else.
The Duchess of Redmoor.
Her fingers trembled slightly, and her vision blurred. But she refused to let tears fall. Not here. Not now. She told herself they were happy tears. She wanted to believe that.
Because for one brief, glimmering moment, she believed this life might actually fit her.
That this wasn’t just escape.
It was a beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Three
That evening, Elizabeth dined with her husband for the first time.
Not at a ball, not while sneaking glances or whispering in shadows, but as the newly minted Duchess of Redmoor.
A place had been prepared for them in a quiet corner of the otherwise imposing dining room. Alasdair had requested only a small table for two, near the hearth.
The fire crackled steadily, its glow casting golden shadows across the carved wood paneling.
A single slender candle in the center of their table threw a gentle light between them, softening the sharpness of Alasdair’s features and deepening the mystery in his eyes.
Servants moved with practiced ease around them, lighting the sconces, then fading discreetly from the room.
Elizabeth took it all in slowly. The flicker of firelight, the muted clink of silverware as the courses were laid out, the faint scent of roasted meat and warm bread. She hadn’t realized until now how tightly she’d been holding herself all day, her back straight, her shoulders high, her words chosen with care.