Not only was Christiana coming to a new home for the first time, but its occupants weren’t expecting her.
“Here we are,” the duke said, partly to himself as the door opened and a smartly dressed footman stood behind it. Christiana gripped her skirts until she felt her fingers crack, wondering if it was too late to change her mind and turn back around.
Then, all too soon, the duke was standing facing her, patience in his warm, brown eyes, and his hand outstretched.
What else could she do but accept the hand and step out of the carriage, sweeping her plain skirts out of the way? Now, with the house towering over her, she felt how improperly attired she was. In the gaze of such beauty, how could she—plain, bespectacled Christiana—compare?
The duke tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “My sister has been eager for me to marry for some time now,” he explained as the door opened and a butler, dressed in crispuniform, stood waiting. “She’ll be pleased to know I’ve finally taken a wife.”
She would be pleased to know.
Pleased to know.
“I somehow doubt she will appreciate the secrecy of your mission,” Christiana murmured faintly.
“Penwick,” the duke said as they approached the butler. “This is my wife, Her Grace the Duchess of Somerset. I trust you will treat her with all the deference her rank demands.”
Penwick must have been alerted by someone—perhaps the duke’s valet—because his eyes only flickered very slightly. “Of course, sir. Welcome to Somerset Hall, Your Grace.”
Christiana did her best to smile, but it felt as though her face had frozen. She had been prepared to do all the things a great lady ought when meeting the servants: behave graciously and kindly, at once bowing to their superior knowledge of the house and its necessities while establishing herself as its mistress.
All those things had hinged on the assumption that they had known she would be arriving.
“Thank you, Penwick,” she said. “I look forward to working together in the future.”
He didn’t smile. “As do I, Your Grace.”
“Penwick has been one of the family for almost forty years,” the duke said as he led her through an extravagant hallway that opened to a vast receiving room, twin stairs curving around to meet a landing mezzanine. An enormous portrait hung there of a seated lady with brown hair and a man standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder. The man reminded her vaguely of the duke.
“My parents,” he said quietly, confirming her assumption. “This was painted only a few months before they died.”
Christiana tried to imagine the house gutted, burned down, but she couldn’t. The tiled floor of the receiving room wastoo perfect, the walls too smoothly plastered. Beautiful Grecian vases stood at intervals on pedestals.
“It’s very lovely,” she managed.
“It resembles how it was,” the duke said, glancing around with a frown, as though the sight of such overbearing wealth irked him. “As I’ve said, my grandfather was somewhat consumed with appearances.”
“Are there any portraits of you?” she asked.
His expression hardened. “Not since the accident. If you have a desire for a portrait to be painted of us, I’m afraid you will find yourself disappointed. I will not permit my likeness to be taken.”
Surprised at the iron tone of his voice, she merely nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. I have no need for any portraits.”
“Good.”
A squeal came from the top of the stairs, where a lady stood staring at them, her blonde curls in disarray and her peach gown rising and falling with every breath. Unlike Christiana, whose skin was too sallow for peach, this girl—Amelia, she suspected—looked positively radiant in the frothy concoction.
“A wife, Hugh?” she demanded, a quivering finger pointed at the duke. “You go to London forbusinessand return with a wife?”
He sighed. “Must you be so dramatic, Amelia?”
“Yes,” she practically screeched. “I must when you neglect to inform me you intend to marry.” Amelia stormed down the stairs, coming to stop directly before her brother. This close, Christiana could identify certain similarities between them. They both, for instance, had a stubborn chin, accented in Amelia’s case by the set of her jaw. Both possessed aquiline noses and eyes the steady, warm brown of hot cocoa.
That was, however, where the differences ended.
The duke was a tall man, with broad shoulders and impeccable posture. Amelia was positively petite, her dressclinging attractively to her curves. And where the duke was reserved, Amelia reminded Christiana of a firework, full of color and sound, an explosion on the senses—and spectacularly stunning.
“Amelia,” the duke said calmly, though a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Don’t be rude.”