Page 35 of The Phantom Duke
“Thank you,” she said to both, remembering that Damien did not drink.
The wine was rich and heady. For a moment, she held the wine on her tongue, letting herself experience every layer of the delicious drink.
“I procured a cask of that burgundy for you,” Damien said. “I hope you like it.”
“Delicious, but I can feel it going to my head already. I do not think I should finish the glass,” Maria replied.
That was not entirely true, but she had no desire for her husband to believe that she was too fond of spirits.
“Please, do. You are safe here. Where better to…lose your head?” Damien asked.
“That depends on where there might be a wolf hiding,” Maria said, sipping the wine again.
“No wolves in here, Your Grace!” Mrs. Whitby chuckled, missing the true meaning of the conversation. “His Grace doesn’t even keep dogs.”
“You are not a hunter then?” Maria asked Damien.
“I do not need hounds to hunt.”
“Then how do you track your prey?”
“I lure it to me and then close the trap.”
Maria felt heat rising in her cheeks and tried to disguise it by lifting the glass once more. But the wine did little to cool the sudden flush of desire coursing through her. A slow, deliberate warmth curled in her belly, tightening low in her core. She darednot look at him for too long, afraid he might see the thoughts stirring behind her gaze.
What would it feel like, she wondered, to be the prey he trapped? To be caught in his arms, claimed with the same quiet intensity that laced his words?
Several feet separated her from the imposing figure of her new husband, but she felt as though it were mere inches. The intervening space did not feel an adequate shield from his overpowering masculinity. She reminded herself that there was a third person present, tearing her eyes from Damien’s dark figure to look around the hall.
“Mrs. Whitby will give you a tour of the house and tell you where you may and may not go. You will find many locked doors in this house and will not, of course, wish to open any of them,” Damien said.
“You are not going to show me around yourself?” Maria asked.
“I am not. I have better uses for my time.”
With that, he swept from the room.
“Our master is a little rough around the edges, but you’ll soon get used to it, Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitby chortled, but only once Damien was out of earshot.
“As rough as broken glass, I should say,” Maria commented.
Mrs. Whitby led her through the house, pointing out drawing rooms, sitting rooms, dining and breakfast rooms. Everywhere Maria saw dark wooden paneling and faded tapestries. Dusty paintings and shadowed alcoves contained brooding busts.
“We do our best to keep the place nice, but His Grace is very particular about where servants should be. And he does not keep a large staff,” Mrs. Whitby said, tutting as she ran her finger along a dusty picture frame. “He has employed a new maid for you. She is a quiet slip of a girl, but efficient.”
“Oh,” Maria said, uncertain what to do with that piece of knowledge.
Was it evidence that her husband cared about her in some strange way?
“Her name is Sally. By coincidence, she has been sent on an errand in London, but I shall see that she introduces herself to you when he returns.”
“I see,” Maria said, glancing down the darkened corridor. “Speaking of new additions, I think one of the upstairs rooms on the same floor as the guest rooms would be the perfect place for a child’s bedroom. What do you think?”
Mrs. Whitby blushed and stammered. “I think it’s very kind of you to ask my opinion, Your Grace. Yes, that room would make a splendid bedroom, and that room will be right beside your own.”
Maria smiled, liking the arrangement. They had toured the ground floor and then the first floor, which housed the rooms that were to be hers. Now, they stood before a staircase that led upwards, a suit of armor facing them from the landing.
“That leads to His Grace’s rooms on the floor above. It is out of bounds, I am afraid,” Mrs. Whitby said apologetically.
