Page 7 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
Chapter Four
Preston sighed with contentment late that morning as he read a copy of The Times sent from London. Sequestered in the drawing room with a fresh pot of tea at his elbow, he relished the quiet before workmen arrived to hammer away in the house. The curtains were drawn back on both large windows, allowing plenty of light into a room that often felt gloomy due to the age-darkened oak paneling on the walls.
The piquant aroma of the mixture of Pekoe and Imperial tea leaves assailed him. The blend, by Twinings, was his late mother’s favorite. The red roses in the room had also been her favorite, although he preferred the lighter fragrance of wildflowers.
His solitude would not last long. He was due to escort Sir Joseph on a tour through the second floor of the hall. He would admit he could not give complete control of the project to someone else. Not only was he concerned about again leaving an employee free to do as he wished in the house, but he was also interested in Sir Joseph’s work.
It took some research to find an architect who would repair the hall and not try to change it. He wanted someone who would preserve the past. Although Sir Davies had apprenticed under Sir Jeffry Wyatville, there were rumors the men parted ways when Sir Jeffry demolished Christopher Wren’s staircase at Longleat.
He envied the architect his freedom. Preston had known from a very young age what his responsibilities were. He would inherit the title, beget an heir, and ensure his estates remained solvent.
Growing up an only child, his mother had tried to control every aspect of his life. While his father had been alive, the duchess had merely annoyed Preston with her controlling ways.
“Let the boy alone,” the duke would say when his son wanted to run in the bluebell fields or explore the estate on his own.
Once the duke died, her interference in his life became unbearable.
He’d been allowed one year at Eton before his mother insisted he return home and continue his education with a private tutor. When he turned nineteen, the Wayward Dukes’ Alliance had intervened, and miraculously, he’d been allowed to attend Oxford. His mother had died three years later, and he’d returned to Barton Hall, unsure of what he wanted to do next.
“Your Grace?”
His butler stood just inside the door to the drawing room, Sir Joseph beside him.
“Oh yes, the tour.” Dropping the newspaper on a drum side table, he rose to his feet and strode to where Winston had moved aside, and Preston could see Miss Davies again accompanied her father.
The young woman wore an attractive walking dress of green sprigged muslin, her notebook clutched against her chest. A few stray curls of black hair escaped from her severe hairstyle and framed her heart-shaped face. Despite the desire to study the girl further, he quickly transferred his attention to Sir Jospeh.
“As you know, the majority of work to be undertaken is on the second floor.” Preston walked briskly past the others, into the corridor, and to the main staircase. Mounting the stairs at a rapid pace, he assumed Sir Joseph and his daughter would follow him.
They ascended two flights of stairs. After reaching the second-floor landing, he turned left to enter the long gallery. Once the architect stood near him, Preston said, “The gallery ceiling is my greatest concern on this floor.”
The plaster on the ceiling was discolored, with noticeable signs of water damage.
“Do you see this, Father?” Miss Davies pointed to a particularly dark spot on the ceiling. “Water from the roof may be pooling here.”
The spectacles perched on her nose drew his eyes to the rosy color of her cheeks and the soft curve of her chin.
“I think you’re right, my dear. This area will be our first priority. We need to get someone up on the roof.” The architect turned to look at him. “You may continue, Your Grace.”
Thank you for that, he thought. Miss Davies spared him not a glance. She had probably mingled with several members of the peerage while accompanying her father in his work, but he doubted she had come into contact with many dukes.
“There appears to be more water damage to the ceiling in the green bedroom.” He led the way from the gallery down a corridor to a bedchamber. “This is a state bedroom. The tester bed dates from 1650.”
“Did anyone of importance stay in the room?” Miss Davies asked with raised brows.
Her doubtful tone of voice suggested the young woman didn’t believe anyone had. Sighing inwardly, he replied blandly, “There are rumors that King Charles stayed in the house. With my ancestor’s affinity for parliament, I highly doubt it.”
“I think we should see this bed moved as soon as possible,” Sir Joseph replied, rubbing his chin with one hand. “I would not see it ruined. If the bed is too cumbersome to move, we must procure tarpaulins to cover it.”
He nodded in reply. “You must purchase any supplies necessary. Please follow me through the other rooms.”
They made a circuit of the floor through his own bedchamber, known as the Buff Bedroom. Once his father’s room, there was little to suggest it was Preston’s, so he did not take umbrage with their traipsing through his set of rooms.
Miss Davies scribbled in her notebook throughout the tour, inspecting the ceilings, walls, and windows, her father beside her. From her comments about the condition of window friezes and ceiling cornices, he realized the young woman was more than a secretary. She was quite knowledgeable about architecture and building methods.
The last room they toured was the nursery. Before descending the main staircase, he asked Sir Joseph, “Do you need my further assistance?”
“No, Your Grace. I have an understanding of the work that needs to be done. How often would you like updates on our progress?”
