Page 5 of A Wicked Duke's Redemption
Violet smiled. “Rest well.”
She took the bowl and went into the parlor, where her father sat. He was a tall man with a hawkish face, thin like a sapling, and with perpetual dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Good evening, Father,” Violet said.
“Good evening, dear. How is your mother?”
“The same.”
Her father closed his eyes and inhaled quietly. He let out his breath slowly and took another bite of the stew. “The stew is good.”
“Thank you.”
Her father had always been a melancholy man, and Violet knew that he sometimes liked to be alone with his thoughts. She went to the pot and poured the remainder of the stew into her bowl. Then she settled by the window with her stew and an old copy of Chretien de Troyes’sLancelot. Only a few of her father’s books remained unsold, which made Violet treasure the ones that she had all the more.
She began to read, immersing herself in the world of knights and magic, where true love was as simple as a shared look.
Chapter 3
Autumn arrived with sharp winds and the scent of leaf-litter. The green of summer clung stubbornly to the grass and trees surrounding Groveswood. Lydia’s favorite season was autumn. She had once told Leo that she felt most alive when she walked beneath the trees and watched the gold and red leaves spin to the ground, like fairies caught upon a breeze.
Once, Leo and Lydia had even engaged in a romantic tryst in the countryside, and after they were finished, Lydia had laid back against the grass with leaves caught in her hair. He remembered how the color had risen to her face and how she tossed her head back and shouted his name.
Leo closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He knew it was only his imagination, but he could have sworn that the familiar scent of Lydia’s cologne—English lavender and water—lingered in the air. Leo had not taken any woman to his bed since Lydia died, but he still burned with desire for a woman’s warmth and companionship. Perhaps, he ought to solicit the services of one of the village women—if any of them would have him.
“Your Grace, apologies for my interruption,” said Mrs. Gunderson from behind him. “I wish to speak to you about a matter of the utmost importance.”
Her words were like a knife to his chest, shattering his fantasies of the beautiful bounties of nature that existed just beyond the window. He was in the drawing room, the air still and heavy. Leo would have given anything to have been in the woods instead, sheathing himself inside a beautiful woman.
Leo turned his head. That morning, he had buried himself in his work. By midday, he emerged. He was exhausted but had nothing to do, so he had flung himself over the settee, lost in his thoughts.
“Mm?” he asked, gesturing to the chair across from him. “What is it?”
Mrs. Gunderson seated herself primly across from him, and Leo felt a little chagrined for having thrown himself over the settee like a lazy drunkard. There was no reason to be embarrassed. Mrs. Gunderson had seen him like this before, especially during his rakish years in Oxford. He awkwardly straightened, wincing at the pain in his upper back.
“This is the first time I have seen you leave your study in the past week,” Mrs. Gunderson said.
“Is it?”
That could not possibly be true.
“It is.”
Perhaps, it was. Leo tried to spend as much time as possible either in his study or the library. On rare occasions, he took a walk around the pond or into the forest which ran alongside one part of his property. He seldom lingered in places where the servants frequented.
“You are always welcome to speak to me in my study,” Leo said. “You know that I would never deny you.”
“I am aware of that. I may speak to you whenever I wish, and the other servants may not.”
Leo narrowed his eyes. He sensed that Mrs. Gunderson was making an argument of some sort, and she sought to trap him into agreeing to something that he otherwise might not. “That privilege is given to you because you have known me for my entire life,” Leo said. “There are few others who may claim to know me thusly.”
“Lady Priscilla.”
Leo paused. The name sent his heart fluttering, but he could not say why precisely. Was the feeling regret? Embarrassment? Fondness? It seemed to be some strange mingling of sensations, so tangled up that he could not identify which one was the strongest.
“Yes, Lady Priscilla.”
“You have not spoken to her in some time.”
Leo frowned. He wanted to protest that it had not been so long since he exchanged correspondence with Lady Priscilla, but he found that he could not precisely remember. “That is unfair,” Leo said at last. “I spent five years on the continent, and she has spent the last two in London.”
