Page 45 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
She paused so she could swallow her food. She chewed properly, suddenly missing her little hooligan of a sister, Victoria, whom she always had to remind to slow down. The girl was always in a rush so she could have more time to play outside, soil her clothes, and get into a lot of trouble.
“Did you?—”
“You don’t need to make small talk with me, Duchess,” the Duke interrupted, arching an eyebrow at her.
“What am I supposed to do, then? Isn’t this what wives do at the breakfast table?” she asked, her butter knife hovering over another slice of toast.
“I believe you are clever enough to think of more interesting subjects to discuss.”
“My word,” she sputtered. “You are particularly brazen for someone who has forced a lady to marry you.”
He looked at her. Again, it was as if he was assessing her very carefully. He opened his mouth but quickly closed it, giving her a smirk.
Marianne straightened up and sighed. It didn’t seem like she had a way to get through to him. None at all.
“When will my belongings arrive?”
Until now, she had worn only the clothes he had provided, each one a perfect fit, to her surprise. Everything she needed for her toilette was already in place. But she still longed for her own things. They would give her something essential: a sense of balance. A way to feel—if not at home, then at least like herself.
“Today. Mrs. Alderwick will inform you of their arrival.”
Without another word, he rose from the table. His dogs immediately followed him, like canine soldiers.
“Enjoy your toast,” he said and left her on her own.
Though Mrs. Alderwick carried an air of stern efficiency, she was proving to be Marianne’s guide—both to Oakmere Hall and to her new life. She was a consummate professional, polite but distant, never straying from the bounds of propriety.
The tour revealed much about the Carlyles: old money, refinement, tradition. Marianne’s heart sank. She knew what it was like to grow up under the thumb of a cold parent. This place bore the same chill—only, it was cloaked in polish and grandeur.
The corridors were wide and quiet, lined with rich paneling stained dark as molasses. Brass sconces held candles that had long been replaced with oil lamps, their flickering light casting gentle glows across portraits of stern ancestors and muted landscapes.
The drawing room, with its high ceiling and tall windows, was dressed in pale sage and cream, the upholstery perfectly matched to the drapes. Delicate gold filigree adorned the cornices, and the scent of beeswax polish hung in the air.
Nothing was out of place. Nothing felt warm.
“As you can see, Your Grace, many of the rooms are at your disposal—the library, the drawing room, the music room, among others. The maids maintain them regularly. Guest chambers, of course, are readied in advance of any grand event the Duke might host.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Alderwick. I’ll do my best to remember?—”
“You may consult me at any time, Your Grace.”
“Of course. But—what is that?” Marianne asked, pausing before a heavy door in the west wing.
It was bolted shut.
Mrs. Alderwick hesitated. “The Duke prefers it locked and undisturbed,” she said carefully. For the first time, her composure wavered.
Before Marianne could press her further, the housekeeper turned briskly and descended the stairs, her pace quickening.
Outside, sunlight softened the formality between them.
“Would you care to see the gardens next, Your Grace?” Mrs. Alderwick called, her poise seemingly restored. “You may redesign them as you please.”
“Oh, certainly. Is there a head gardener overseeing them?”
“Yes. Mr. Robin has served His Grace’s family for over twenty years.”
They walked on, discussing flowerbeds and seasonal plantings. But Marianne’s thoughts had already strayed.
