Page 52 of A Duke to Steal Her
The staff had assembled in the courtyard—a sea of black uniforms and curious faces. As Ambrose handed Emily down from the carriage, she caught sight of the older housekeeper, the one who’d caught her in the private library, directing the younger maids with sharp gestures.
“Good afternoon,” Ambrose announced, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard, “may I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Nightfell.”
A murmur of “Your Grace” rippled through the assembled servants, accompanied by curtseys and bows. But Emily noticed the way some of the younger maids exchanged glances, how onepressed her lips together as though suppressing something—laughter, perhaps, or commentary.
Recognition dawned with cold clarity. These were the same servants who’d watched her arrive weeks ago asSignorinaGiulietta Bianchi. The same women who’d served his supposed Italian mistress were now expected to bow to his duchess.
Heat flooded Emily’s cheeks, but she kept her chin high, her smile perfectly serene. “Thank you all for the warm welcome.”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, stepped forward. She greeted them with a deep curtsey and kept her expression composed. “Welcome to Nightfell Manor, Your Grace.”
Emily inclined her head graciously. “Thank you.”
Ambrose cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to get settled. I have some correspondence to attend to.” He bowed formally. “Duchess.”
The formality stung, but Emily kept her expression serene. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“If Your Grace would permit,” the housekeeper continued as Ambrose strode away, “I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a lady’s maid for you.” She gestured to a young woman with kind eyes and steady hands. “This is Martha. You might remember her.”
Martha dropped into a curtsey. “Your Grace, it’s an honor to serve you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Martha.” Emily managed a genuine smile.
“Shall I show Your Grace to your chambers?” the housekeeper asked. “I imagine you’d like to rest after such an eventful day.”
“That would be lovely.”
As they climbed the grand staircase, the housekeeper’s voice echoed in the marble hallway. “These are your private apartments, Your Grace. The sitting room connects to your bedchamber, and here—” She opened a heavy oak door “—is your dressing room.”
Emily stepped into the spacious chamber, noting the elegant furnishings, the fire crackling in the grate, and the fresh flowers on the writing desk. This apartment was much more lavish than the one she’d been granted during her previous stay.
“It’s beautiful.”
“His Grace’s chambers adjoin yours through that door,” the housekeeper indicated with perfect neutrality. “Should you require anything, Martha has been instructed to remain available at all hours.”
“Thank you. That will be all for now.”
The housekeeper curtseyed again. “Of course, Your Grace. Martha will see to your needs.”
Once they were alone, Martha moved efficiently toward the armoire. “Shall I help you out of your traveling dress, Your Grace?”
“Please.” Emily stood still as Martha began working the buttons. “The gown is quite lovely, but I confess I’m eager to be free of it.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Weddings can be overwhelming.” Martha’s fingers were gentle as she helped Emily step out of the ivory silk. “Shall I prepare a nightgown?”
“Yes, thank you.” Emily sank into the chair by the fire, suddenly feeling the weight of the entire day. “Martha?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“I’d prefer not to be disturbed for several hours. I find myself quite… fatigued.”
Martha’s expression softened with understanding. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall I have Cook prepare a tray for later?”
“That would be thoughtful.” Emily allowed Martha to slip the soft cotton nightgown over her head. “Thank you.”
“Ring if you need anything, Your Grace.” Martha curtseyed and slipped quietly from the room.
Emily stood alone in her new chambers, surrounded by luxury that felt foreign after weeks of uncertainty. The massive four-poster bed seemed to beckon, its coverlets turned down invitingly.
