Page 25 of His Unwanted Duchess

That was an unpleasant thought, and Beatrice was in the middle of shuddering in revulsion when the carriage abruptly lurched to a halt. The carriage bounced ever so slightly, and then the coachman wrenched open the door, smothering a yawn.

“We’re here, Miss,” he said, almost apologetically. “Like I said, I’ll be waiting.”

She hesitated, glancing past him to the large, forbidding front door.

For a moment, Beatrice considered telling him that she had changed her mind, that she wanted to go home, and that all of this was a mistake.

Then the door began to creak open, revealing the Duke’s tall, serious butler. It was far too late to go back now.

The butler—his name was Mouse, if Beatrice recalled correctly—led the way down a seemingly endless carpeted hallway. This area of the house was different from the one she had visited last time, and she was already hopelessly lost. The tall man kept glancing back at her as if to check that she was still following.

“His Grace is waiting on the terrace,” Mouse intoned, quite without a warning. “It is a cold night. Shall I fetch you a shawl, or perhaps a coat, Miss Haversham?”

She swallowed hard. “No, thank you. I’m not feeling cold.”

“Very well.”

After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence and too-fast walking—for Beatrice, at least—the hallway abruptly opened into a large conservatory.

Even at night, residual heat lingered in the room, but that was not what caught Beatrice’s attention at first.

It was, of course, the plants.

Every inch of the massive space seemed to be crammed with greenery, ranging from rows of tiny, spiky plants on bookshelf-like structures to huge, swaying shrubs at least twice as tall as her, with leaves she could have used as parasols.

There were long frames scattered here and there, with more plants suspended in midair from twine hammocks, long tendrils trailing down almost to the floor. There was little light in the place, giving a gloomy, otherworldly feel to the conservatory. Beatrice could almost imagine that jungle-like monsters and creatures lurked behind the broad leaves, watching them with curiosity and, perhaps, hunger.

There did not appear to be a straight path through the green maze, and Mouse took a zig-zag route, plants brushing against his shoulders and clutching at his sleeves as he went.

At one point, he paused, glancing over his shoulder, and gave a wry, narrow smile.

“His Grace is fond of plants,” he said, which, to Beatrice, was the understatement of the century.

“Does he grow fruits and vegetables?” she managed.

“Yes, but not here.”

“Not here? Then what is the purpose of… of all this?” She waved a hand vaguely at the greenery. “There aren’t even flowerbeds.”

“Oh, His Grace grows flowers elsewhere on the grounds. I would not say exactly that there is apurposeto these plants, other than the enjoyment His Grace gets from maintaining them. He does a great deal of work here, you know. I imagine that there are no other gentlemen in England who know as much about plants as His Grace does. He is quite the botanist. He wrote a book on the subject, I believe.”

Beatrice felt as though she were in a dream. One of those strange ones, where nothing was the way it should be.

“A book,” she said flatly. “He has written a book.”

“Yes, Miss Haversham. A rather good one. I shall procure you a copy if you like.”

Before Beatrice could say a word, they reached the end of the green maze. A pair of tall, wide French doors—glass, of course—appeared almost out of nowhere. Mouse threw them open and stepped out into the darkness.

The cold air was something of a shock after the balmy heat of the conservatory. Beatrice blinked, fighting not to shiver, and tried to regain her bearings.

The terrace was wide, lit by lanterns placed here and there. A tall brazier burned in the middle of the patio, casting irregular, flickering lights over the scene. A cold breeze started up, and Beatrice barely managed to suppress a shiver, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. She hoped that Mouse had not noticed—he might think that she was simply being stubborn, refusing his offer of a shawl.

A thought occurred to Beatrice.

“You offered to fetch me a shawl, or a coat,” she said abruptly.

The butler glanced down at her. “I did. Would you like it now, Miss Haversham?”

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