Page 52 of When Hearts Surrender

Agnes shoots her a glare before turning toward me. “It is our honor to serve the Anderson family.”

A foreboding tickle of dread wraps itself inside my chest.

Morris clarifies, “We have a small staff here on the estate, much smaller than it used to be in the bygone era, but our families pride ourselves on working for the Andersons for generations, even if it may seem outdated and stuck in the olden days, very much like myself.”

He gives me a wink and I relax, the strange tension from earlier dissipating.

A waft of amber and sandalwood cologne alerts me tohimand I feel a gentle press of his hand on the small of my back.

“I see you’ve met the staff. They’re practically family. Mora, the chef, works here as well. She’s Melody’s mother. I’m sure she’s puttering around the kitchen, crafting a welcome meal for the new mistress of the estate,” Maxwell says.

He fishes out a black metal card and hands it to me. “I forgot to give this to you, but this has no spending limit and is for your use.” His voice thickens as he adds, “What’s mine is now yours.”

My fingers grip the black Amex card—of course he has a black Amex card—but it’s his words that have me losing my voice.

I really am married to the man.

We step into the grand foyer, and it’s almost like stepping back in time as I marvel at the dark oak finishes and pristine black and white marble floors. After the door is shut, the space is bathed in darkness, lit up only by a few wrought iron sconces. I’m hit with a sense of comfort and home, even though I’ve never been here before.

“Morris, I’ll be in the study if you need me. Please set Belle up in the Gardenia suite as we discussed.” Maxwell disappears down the corridor.

“I’ll get things ready,” Agnes murmurs, leaving with Melody in tow, but not before shooting me a sharp glance.

The earlier unease makes a resurgence and I rub the goosebumps on my arms as I await Morris’s instructions.

The butler smiles at me, his eyes crinkling. He strides down the main hallway and I hasten my steps to follow him. For an elderly man in his seventies or eighties, he walks quickly, and I have a feeling he’d be even faster if it weren’t for the limp in his right leg.

“I’m sure Sir Maxwell will give you a tour later, but I can give you highlights.” We make a right into a grand entrance hall that’s at least two stories high, featuring a vaulted ceiling, ornate paneling, all in the dark wood of the foyer.

“Wow.” I gasp. This place is a museum frozen in time.

A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, illuminating a grand staircase with intricately carved railings and a spectacular Persian runner that’s probably an art piece in and of itself.

The hall glows from the light let in by the stained-glass windows, adding a touch of eerie beauty to the space.

“The estate was built in 1850 but remodeled in the 1860s. It has withstood The Civil War, two world wars, hurricanes, and other natural disasters. The family has outfitted the building with modern amenities—electricity, plumbing, but mostly, they’ve kept the original decor. We’re quite lucky—much of the furnishings here are well preserved and intact.”

I follow Morris up to the third floor and turn left, my lungs huffing out rapid breaths. I clearly need to exercise more because Morris looks like he hasn’t broken a sweat. Curiously, his limp also seems to have disappeared.

“There are fifty-two rooms, four stories, and two wings. The first floor is public space, with a living room, grand ballroom, two sitting rooms, dining room, indoor theater, and galleries. The second floor houses the gym, an indoor swimming pool, guest quarters, and a library.”

“That’s a city in and of itself.”

He nods. “This floor, the third floor, is the master and mistress’s rooms and a few more guest rooms, including the Gardenia suite Sir Maxwell mentioned.”

“Sir Maxwell?”

“He has asked us not to call him by his honorifics, which would be ‘my lord’ for him with his marquessate and ‘His Grace’ for Sir Linus because of his dukedom.” Morris clears his throat and continues, “The fourth floor houses a study, music room, studios, and an indoor conservatory. There’s an abandoned garden on the roof, but it’s in disrepair, so no one really goes there. This side is the east wing, which is the master’s side of the suites and the other side,” he motions to the darkened corridors on the right of the staircase, “is the west wing. It’s currently not in used but historically features the mistress’s set of rooms.”

I blow out a breath, my eyes trying not to bug out from this lavish overview of my new home. Growing up, my parents only liked new, new, new—everything new, from turnkey apartments to brand-new appliances and gadgets.

The Anderson Estate is the complete opposite of it. I feel like the air I’m breathing in is steeped in history, so much history I don’t even know how to understand it all.

And now I’m going to be the mistress of this house?

It’s unfathomable.

Morris leads me down the corridor to the second door on the right. He opens it and gestures inside. “This is your suite. Please settle in. Sir Maxwell had it redone two weeks ago. I hope you like it. Agnes and Melody will come find you before dinner.”

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