Page 41 of Taken By the Icy Duke

“I am content, Papa.” Diana smiled. She hesitated, then reached for his hand. “And you? How is your health?”

“A minor complaint of the leg. Nothing dire,” he shrugged, eyeing the cane at his side. “More to the point, how do you find occasion to embark on a journey here, when so many demands are placed upon your time?”

“We had a respite in our schedule, my lord,” Gilbert stepped in, his voice tactfully mild. “And we were curious about the outcome of certain…improvements funded last quarter.” He let the sentence hang, discreetly referencing the money he had given. “If there is further work to be done, I can speak with my steward.”

A dull flush crept over Lord Crayford’s cheeks. He inhaled as if to protest, but the words died on his tongue. Diana suspected he was loath to appear ungrateful.

“That is generous,” he said at last, almost stiffly. “One of our barns might need additional repairs, and there is some damp in the servant quarters…”

Before anyone could respond, a bright voice echoed from the corridor.

“Diana!”

A moment later, Alison burst in, her cheeks flushed from rushing to greet them. “I saw the carriage and…” She stopped short, noticing Gilbert. “Your Grace,” she added quickly, dropping a curtsy.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. Diana stood, embracing her sister, who wore a faded day dress that had been lovingly mended but still looked worn.

“Alison,” she murmured. “I am so glad to see you.”

“We had so little warning,” Alison whispered, as though conspiratorially. “I have been trying to tidy the place, but…” She cast a wary glance at Lord Crayford, as if to avoid criticizing him openly.

Diana gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “No need. We are here to visit, not to judge housekeeping.”

Gilbert rose as well, bowing politely to Alison, who curtsied again before taking a seat next to Diana. Lord Crayford, clearing his throat once more, attempted a lighter tone even as he hiccupped.

Following tea, Diana quietly suggested they walk the estate grounds and Gilbert agreed. Lord Crayford, anxious to prove the place was still functional, led them outside, his cane tapping the gravel with each step.

They passed wilted flowerbeds and an orchard that had partly fallen into disuse. The manor itself was small compared to Rivenhall House, but Diana recalled it brimming with life in her girlhood. Now the stillness weighed on her, stirring a melancholy that only eased when Gilbert’s hand brushed hers lightly in support.

“Here,” Lord Crayford said, indicating a barn whose roof sagged precariously. “This is where we store grain. The beams have rotted. I tried repairs last summer, but funds…”

Gilbert nodded, stepping closer to assess the damage. “We can reinforce it,” he said practically. “I will write to a carpenter I trust. The cost will not be too great if it is completed without delay.”

Diana’s father visibly swallowed his pride. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, passing a hand over his weathered face. “I know what people say… that you… that you saved us. But I want you to understand, I do not take that lightly, nor do I mean to burden you further.”

Gilbert’s gaze flicked to Diana, then back to Lord Crayford.

“I never minded assisting.” After a pause, his voice gentled. “Diana is your daughter, and now she is my wife. We are kin. I assure you, my lord, I see no burden in helping you maintain what is rightfully Crayford’s.”

Lord Crayford stood quietly for a moment, the wind rustling the orchard’s leafless branches. Then he extended a hand, and the two men shook, a silent acknowledgment of a once uneasy alliance now softened by mutual respect. The sight of it filled Diana’s eyes with gratitude.

That evening, after a simple but companionable supper with Lord Crayford and Alison, Diana felt relief settle over the small household. Despite her father’s lingering embarrassment over Crayford Manor’s strained condition, the meal had passed without incident. Diana excused herself once the dishes had been cleared, citing the late hour.

Upstairs, a single guest chamber, cozier than anything at Rivenhall but far from grand, had been hastily aired for them.

In a larger residence they might have expected separate bedchambers. However, Crayford Manor’s limited quarters left little choice but to share a room. The housemaid, her cheeks pink with nerves, stood by the door, uncertain whether she should remain to assist. Gilbert’s valet, traveling with minimal luggage, had already retired to a small room at the end of the corridor.

Ruth helped Diana loosen the ribbons of her day gown, unfastening each button until Diana could step out of the fabric. The modest nightclothes awaiting her on a nearby chair were nothing like the silks she wore at Rivenhall; still, they carried a certain comfort.

Meanwhile, Gilbert excused himself to discard his coat and cravat in an adjoining space, forgoing any notion of needing his valet in such an informal setting.

A few minutes later, Ruth bobbed a curtsy and slipped out, leaving Diana smoothing her night wrapper. Only the soft glow of a single bedside candle illuminated the humble chamber, highlighting the faded wallpaper, a tall but simple wardrobe, and curtains whose colors had long since dimmed.

Gilbert reentered, likewise dressed down for the evening. If he found the modest surroundings lacking, he gave no sign. Instead, he crossed the small room with quiet purpose, his gaze moving between the well-worn furnishings and the waiting bed.

“I know that it is not quite what you are accustomed to,” Diana murmured, folding her hands before her. “If it troubles you, I can call Mrs. Warwick back…”

“There is no need,” Gilbert shook his head gently. “I find it comfortable enough.” His voice was low and intended to be reassuring. “And… I do not mind sharing the space with my wife.”

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