Page 22 of The Icy Duke Claims a Bride

Too distracted by Catherine’s presence, and the impact of her unfair words, Hugh had no idea how matters could be resolved between them.

“What are these, Perkins?” Hugh asked, perusing the multiple sheaves of paper tucked inside the ledger on the desk in his private sitting room.

He had just taken a bath after a long early morning ride and wore only his dressing gown, slippers, and mask. Hearing Perkins in his sitting room, he had wandered in through the door rather than heading straight to his dressing room. Used to his master’s peculiar habits, the butler showed no unease at speaking to his employer in such casual attire.

“They are the estate’s accounts, Your Grace. You wanted to see them every week now that Lord Edwin is no longer involved in regular estate matters.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “There are a few more expenses than usual,” he commented, flipping through the papers. “We don’t generally see this many bills in a whole quarter.”

“I don’t believe there is anything unexpected in there, Your Grace. Only the usual expenses a household might incur whenthe master marries. A bachelor’s accounts are often simpler than those of a married man.”

“I see.”

Hugh sat down and examined the bills properly. Women’s walking boots and cloak—fair enough. Catherine had spent most of her adult life in cities and likely did not possess sufficiently robust outdoor clothes for the woodland and riverside walks here.

Reconditioning of two side-saddles? Restringing of a harp? Redecoration of the “artist’s mess” room beside the conservatory?

With some consternation, Hugh dropped the slips of paper back onto the desk and stared out across the gardens, pained by what he now realized was happening under his roof. He should have foreseen this and headed it off.

The saddles had belonged to Rose and had hung there in the stables untouched for twenty years, just as she had left them before the family departed on that final fatal trip to the hunting lodge. The harp, too, had been his sister’s instrument, sitting unsounded since her death, only its wooden frame dusted and polished by the servants. Even that little sun-lit art room had been Rose’s space.

Now, they were evidently Catherine’s, and this sudden, unexpected transition hurt Hugh’s heart.

“Where is the Duchess now?”

“In the music room, Your Grace. Do you wish me to give her a message?”

“No, no message is necessary. Leave these accounts with me, Perkins. I must dress now. If I have any more questions, I will let you or Mrs. Kaye know.”

Hugh hurried to his dressing room and cursed as he found that one of the too-efficient maids had already retrieved yesterday’s dusty suit and linen for cleaning and pressing. He rifled through the drawers of his dresser and hanging rails of his wardrobe to assemble an almost identical set of white linen underclothes and a black suit. He owned nothing more elaborate and kept no valet to dress him.

It was ten minutes later by the time he ran downstairs, but he could still hear the faint sound of the pianoforte from the music room in the west wing of the ground floor. He had not heard it since Rose’s death, and somehow, Catherine was playing one of her favorite pieces—one of Telemann’s keyboard fantasias in a minor key.

Gritting his teeth, Hugh made approached the room and pushed open the door. Instantly, the music stopped, and Catherine looked up at him in surprise.

God, why did she have to look so beautiful in that white dress? To Hugh’s dismay, the low-cut muslin revealed the pale swell of her bosom, seemingly pushed up by a thick green sash beneath.Her hair was tied up in a loose knot secured by a ribbon of similar color—bedroom hair once again…

“What are you doing in here? Why are you playing that?” he demanded immediately, almost choking on the words and the piercing effect of her green-eyed gaze.

Hugh could not look away from her face for fear of where his eyes might stray.

“You said I could do as I wished. Have I done something wrong?” she asked.

“Wrong?!” Hugh echoed incredulously, his voice rougher and louder than he had intended, the entire situation feeling out of control. “Just tell me why, damn it all!”

For a moment, Catherine did look afraid, and Hugh paused to consider how he must look and sound to her. Shouting at her with his hair unbrushed, his coat unbuttoned, and his masked visage as forbidding as he imagined it must always be. Perhaps he really was the ogre she believed him to be.

“This sheet music was at the top of the pile, and I like Telemann,” she answered simply, closing the instrument’s lid and standing up to face him, despite the trepidation she must have been feeling.

“It was Rose’s,” Hugh managed to explain, his voice calmer now.

“The music or the pianoforte?”

“Both. No one has played it since…” He stopped halfway through his sentence and inhaled deeply.

“Then I’m sorry,” Catherine said, the contrition on her face genuine. “Would you rather I never play the pianoforte again? I already had it tuned yesterday, but I won’t touch it again if you prefer.”

Hugh hesitated. A large part of him would indeed prefer to leave this entire room exactly as it had been the day Rose left it so that he could more easily remember family evenings spent here as Rose played, Henry sang, and he sat rapt on his father’s knee by the fireplace.

---