Page 46 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
Her mind lingered on the bolted door, and what secrets might lie behind it.
Dominic stepped through the heavy doors of the mill he owned with his friend Simon, and into the thrum of motion and heat.
Gears turned with rhythmic force, belts snapped overhead, and the scent of flour hung thick in the air. The noise would have unsettled a lesser man, but he moved through it without flinching.
Men straightened when they saw him, and those who didn’t were swiftly nudged by their neighbors. Dominic said nothing, only nodded once—expecting, not asking, for their attention.
He stopped beside a grain chute, running his hand along the wood, checking for polish. Dust still clung to the corners. “Tell Ewan to have this cleaned by the end of the day,” he said to a passing steward, who immediately veered off with a curt nod.
He crouched beside a stack of sacks and slit one open with his penknife, rubbing a pinch of flour between his fingers. Fine enough—but he tapped it back into the bag without a word.
At the grinding stones, he stood long enough to watch two rotations. “Adjust the belt tension,” he said to the engineer, without turning his head. “It’s pulling too tight.”
The man blanched. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Dominic moved from station to station, not following a fixed route, but with purpose. No part of the mill was beneath his scrutiny. He spoke to three different workers by name, asked one about his daughter’s recovery from fever and another if the new grain supplier had delivered on time. They answered with respect, not flattery.
He paused near the scales, studying the logbook while one of the younger lads fidgeted behind him. “You checked this twice?” he asked.
The boy nodded, but too quickly.
“Check again.”
Dominic handed the logbook back without another word. The boy scrambled off.
He made no speeches, no fuss. But every correction, every glance, shaped the men’s movements. The mill tightened around him like clockwork, running smoother just because he was there.
And then, of course, Simon arrived. Late, as usual.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his grin already forming. Only Simon could get away with that tone.
“To work, as usual. To see that things are running well,” Dominic replied, his voice low.
Simon sidestepped a sack of flour as if it were a dance step. “So much for a honeymoon. Not enjoying your new wife, then? I thought a wedding night might buy us a few days of your absence.”
Dominic gave him a cold look, but it lacked venom. Still, his tone turned clipped. “I’m here to ensure everything stays on course.”
Simon smirked. “Ah, yes. Nothing soothes the soul like flour and freight. You always were a romantic.”
Dominic didn’t respond. His silence was its own warning.
“The hunt not going well?” Simon added, his voice lower now, more thoughtful than mocking.
That word again. Thehunt. Dominic’s mind went immediately to Marianne.
His jaw tightened as he struggled to stifle the sparks igniting deep in his body, his mind wandering to his wife’s lips, her skin, her scent…
Focus, man, he chided himself, schooling his face into neutrality.
“Fine,” Simon said, holding up both hands. “We’ll save the soul-searching for later. Let’s look at the shipment schedules.”
Work resumed, but Dominic’s focus began to slip. He moved like clockwork, but his mind had already drifted elsewhere.
His wife haunted him still.
Away from the noise and chaos of the mill, Dominic expected some peace when he returned to Oakmere Hall. Yet, when he arrived, he found the opposite.
The estate had erupted into its own chaos, with Beowulf barking loudly, bounding after a goat across the lawn. Achilles howled like a wolf, or more like a banshee announcing a death.
