Page 58 of A Duke to Steal Her
The butler nodded approvingly. “Very wise, Your Grace. His Grace is still occupied with estate business and likely won’t return until this afternoon.”
Perfect.Emily had no desire to face Ambrose’s knowing smirks after her mortifying retreat from the dining room.
“Fuge magna, fuge parva,”she murmured under her breath—flee from great things, flee from small ones.
Though in this case, she was fleeing from one insufferably arrogant duke.
Out loud, she said, “Martha, you’ll accompany me, of course.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve prepared a basket of preserves from the kitchen. Cook thought the villagers might appreciate them.”
As the carriage rolled through the gates of Nightfell, and through the lovely countryside, Emily felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Green fields stretched toward distant hills, and she found herself genuinely curious about the people who lived on her husband’s lands.
The village of Nightfell was charming. It had a collection of thatched cottages arranged around a small square, with a church, an inn, and several shops. Word of her arrival had obviously spread, as a small crowd had gathered near the village green.
“Your Grace,” the vicar stepped forward with a deep bow, “welcome to Nightfell village. I am Reverend Atherton.”
“Thank you, Reverend. I’m delighted to meet you all.” Emily smiled warmly at the assembled villagers. She could see farmers, shopkeepers, and mothers with their children peeking shyly from behind their skirts.
For the next hour, she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, listening to concerns about the recent storms damaging roof tiles, compliments on the new drainage systems His Grace had installed, and gentle requests for her patronage of the local school.
“The children would be ever so grateful if Your Grace might consider visiting,” said Mrs. Pembridge, the schoolmistress. “They’ve been practicing their letters specially.”
“I would be honored,” Emily replied, meaning it. “Perhaps next week?”
An elderly woman stepped forward, wringing her hands nervously. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but might I say how lovely it is to have a proper duchess at the manor again? Poor Lady Lavinia?—”
“Hush, Mrs. Wilcott!” another woman hissed, grabbing the older woman’s arm. “That’s not your place to speak of such things.”
Mrs. Wilcott’s face flushed crimson. “I only meant that… “
“We know what you meant,” the younger woman said firmly, shooting an apologetic glance at Emily. “Forgive us, Your Grace. Mrs. Wilcott sometimes forgets herself.”
Emily felt a chill run down her spine at the mention of Lavinia’s name. But she kept her expression serene. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m sure Mrs. Wilcott meant only kindness.”
The crowd began to disperse after that, though several villagers invited her to visit their shops. Emily found herself drawn to a small bookshop tucked between the bakery and the blacksmith’s forge.
“Your Grace!” The proprietor, a middle-aged man with ink-stained fingers, practically glowed with pleasure. “This is indeed an honor.”
Emily stepped into the cozy shop, breathing in the familiar scent of leather bindings and old paper. “What a charming establishment. Do you have much call for books in the village?”
“More than you’d think, Your Grace. The gentry from the surrounding estates often stop by, and I do a fair trade in newspapers and periodicals.” His eyes lit up as he gestured toward a display case. “Might I show you something special? I recently acquired a first edition ofSense and Sensibility. It was only published a few years ago but is already quite sought after.”
Emily examined the pristine volume through the glass. “It’s beautiful. Miss Austen’s work is extraordinary.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. The way she writes about the complexities of society is quite revolutionary, really. Would Your Grace be interested in a copy?”
“Your Grace!” A breathless voice interrupted them. A sweet elderly woman appeared in the doorway with flour-dusted hands and a determined expression. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’ve just pulled my special honey cakes from the oven, the onesmy grandmother made for the old duke, God rest his soul. You simply must try them while they’re warm.”
Emily glanced longingly at the book, then smiled graciously. “How thoughtful of you. Forgive me.” She glanced back at the bookstore keeper, “But I fear I’m being quite thoroughly kidnapped by your village’s hospitality.”
“Of course, Your Grace. The book will be here whenever you wish to return.”
As Emily followed the woman toward the bakery, she cast one longing glance back at the bookshop window, where the Austen novel sat tantalizingly out of reach.
But refusing the village baker’s hospitality would be unconscionably rude, and she threw herself into the role of the gracious duchess with the same dedication she’d once applied to her studies at Wicklow.
It was easier, somehow, to be what these people needed than to navigate the complex emotions her husband stirred within her.
