Page 44 of His Runaway Duchess

She unhooked the key and pushed open the heavy door. A rush of cold air hit them, and Alex went skipping ahead.

The gallery was darker than Daphne had imagined, on account of most of the curtains being closed. She wondered if that was to stop the paintings from being damaged by the sun.

“Come look at this one!” Alex called from the bottom of the hall. “This one is my mother!”

Her throat tightened. The hallway suddenly seemed very long and empty, her footsteps echoing. Alex smiled at her, patient as she approached.

At last, Daphne was there, and there was nothing to do but turn and look up at Alex’s mother, and Edward’s first wife.

There was a brass plaque beneath the painting:Lady Jane Fitzgerald (nee Haversham), Duchess of Thornbridge.

The woman in the picture did not look much like Beatrice. There were some similarities—the coppery hair, the soft, pretty eyes—but not much else. The late Duchess had been petite, judging by the painting, with a long, dainty neck and delicate arms and hands. She wore a resplendent blue gown—velvet, by the looks of it—and diamonds glittered around her throat, on her fingers, and on her ears. She was remarkably pretty, and she was smiling in the portrait.

Daphne swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”

“She was,” Alex agreed with a sigh. “Everybody says so. And she was very kind and nice. Peter Tinn, the steward, knew her and said that everybody who met her loved her. She could get Papa to do anything. He’d go to balls and parties with her, and they even invited people here. They used to go to London together, although she didn’t much like London. She liked the countryside.”

“I see.”

Daphne’s neck was beginning to ache, looking up at the huge portrait. She could see traces of old black lace around the edges of the portrait. It had clearly been swathed in a veil at one point, no doubt as part of a mourning ceremony.

“Your Papa must have loved her very much.”

“I suppose so,” Alex conceded. “I wish I could have known her. Do you think she would have liked me?”

Daphne glanced sharply down at him. “Likedyou? Alex, she was your mother. She would have loved you more than anything in the world.”

Alex did not seem pleased by this. He scuffed the toe of his shoe along the floor.

“Liking and loving somebody are different things, I think,” he mumbled. “Papa loves me, or so he says, but I don’t think helikesme very much.”

Daphne’s chest clenched. She opened her mouth to say something—she wasn’t entirely sure what—but was interrupted by a bang at the other end of the hallway. They both spun around to see Edward marching towards them, his face set and angry. His footsteps echoed, and a bad mood rolled off him like mist.

“What are you doing in here?” he barked before he’d even gotten halfway down the hall.

Daphne put herself between Alex, who had shrunk back, and his father.

“Alex is giving me a tour of the house,” she shot back. “Why are you so angry about it?”

Edward stopped a few paces away from them. “This room is forbidden. Alex is not allowed in here, not ever. That’s why the door is kept locked. That is a rule. I’m surprised Mrs. Trench didn’t tell you. Where is she?”

“She’s ill,” Daphne responded. “And I didn’t know this room was off-limits.”

“I didn’t tell her, Papa,” Alex whispered, clutching at Daphne’s hand. “I just wanted to see inside. I wanted to show her Mama’s picture.”

Edward’s gaze flicked up to the portrait, who was smiling benignly down at them.

“Right. Well. You’ve seen it, so out you go. Go up to the schoolroom now, Alex. The tour is over.”

“But, Papa?—”

“Now, Alex!”

Alex’s face fell. He shuffled past Daphne and set off down the hallway, his head down. Daphne made to follow him, but Edward held out his hand, stopping her.

She glanced up at him, keeping her expression smooth. “What do you want?”

“I want you not to contradict the rules I’ve made for my son,” Edward responded coldly. “I want you to promise that you won’t.”

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