Page 49 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
“I advised they wait for your permission.”
“Good.” He dipped his quill in the inkpot, still not writing. “And the staff?”
“A little… distracted,” the butler admitted. “But no harm’s been done.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion, Harold?”
Harold hesitated, then said carefully, “They like her, Your Grace. She speaks to them as if they’re people.”
That earned him a sharp glance. “Theyarepeople.”
Harold inclined his head. “Then perhaps she simply reminds them.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Anything else?” Dominic asked at last.
“No, Your Grace.” The butler bowed. “I’ll leave you to your figures.”
Once alone, Dominic stared at the quill again. It still didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Dominic had come to expect more chaos from his wife. He had also given up on seducing the woman.
In the days that followed, she continued to dismantle the foundations of Oakmere Hall.
He almost expected her to shout demands, pointing at what needed to be done.
But no. The changes were not dramatic. She did not make impossible demands. Instead, she herself worked on the changes she wanted made, and she did so quietly. She didn’t act like a duchess but more like a glorified servant in Oakmere Hall. He didn’t know what to do with that.
What he did know was that the place was starting to bloom with color. He had not noticed it before, but Oakmere Hall had become too austere as of late. It wasn’t Mrs. Alderwick’s fault. She was merely following his instructions.
With Marianne at the helm, fresh flowers were placed in well-polished vases. Somehow, each flower reminded him of her: wild roses, violets, lavender, and random sprigs of rosemary.
Some hearths, in places she was allowed to explore, were lit. Fire provided more warmth—and color, as well. Even the curtains were drawn back to let more sunlight in.
“We’re not vampires!” he had heard her comment while instructing maids to tie ribbons around the curtains.
He wondered if she had been taking Gothic books from the library.
And, indeed, that comment seemed to have woken the dead. The servants were not loud now, but they were no longer tiptoeing and walking around in hushed tones. They were not afraid anymore.
Were they afraid of him before?
Even with his jests about being a predator, that thought did not sit well with him. He liked the idea of his servants obeying him because they wanted to, not because they were afraid.
With Marianne, though, there was no doubt that everyone felt more at ease. The rooms had become warmer, brighter.
In the drawing room, his chair was placed closer to the fireplace. A small table sat close to it, with a book left open on—heavenforbid—a dog-eared page. Yet it seemed so true to her nature that he couldn’t possibly expect anything less. Even a bright woolen blanket was draped over the armrest.
Dried oranges. Lavender. Cloves.
What damned thing possessed his wife to make this room smell more like an apothecary?
Yet a small part of him liked it.
From now on, even if she fled Oakmere Hall, her presence would remain.
