Page 51 of His Haunted Duchess
This was how it would be then. She settled into her chair and raised her chin. She could and would support herself. And, after all, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t return to visit Aunt Olivia and Winifred. Not this evening, of course—that would be seen as odd, perhaps—but definitely on another.
Evening, with its doubts and shadows, crept over Highcastle. Caroline returned through the empty halls to her room. A maidservant entered her room and banked the fire for the night, curtsied, and left. Oscar, curled on Caroline’s blankets, flicked his tail absently. Caroline caught it between her fingers, brushing it onto a luxurious crimson pillow. Oscar growled without raising his head.
“You would be comfortable anywhere, you great tuft of fur.”
She tousled his ears and sat up.
Her bed was much larger here. The whole room was much larger, but then—so were the shadows cast by the evening fire. She ought to have felt more grateful and a part of her certainly was. A larger, more vulnerable part ached for biscuits and tea with her aunt, Winifred, and Ajax panting at her knee.
She looked through the dark windowpane. What were they likely doing right now at this very moment? A dull, achy feeling spread over her. She longed for just one of her aunt’s jokes or Winifred’s witticisms.
Oscar yawned and stretched himself further out on the blankets.
“You’re right,” she said to him. “It is a comfortable bed, a decadent one even, but I’m not ready for it quite yet.”
She opened her door, poked her head out, and stepped into the hall. Dim candles lit the long space at either end, leaving a sea of blackness in the middle. Her heart beat faster like the clatter of wheels over cobblestone. She forced herself to take measured, deliberate steps until she stepped into the candle’s light.
Caroline turned in the dark, straining at a noise. Most of the great house, tired by the exertions of the day, stood silent.
The dull hum of voices drew her to the library. She stood in the hall shadows, just outside the bright square cast by the open door. Philip was there, apparently returned from the outing with his mother. He and Frederic were playing Whist. Frederic wore a long, dark brown smoking jacket.
“The Duke of York didn’t come today—he said his gout was bothering him.”
Philip laid down two of his cards.
“Would he have come even if it wasn’t?”
Frederic laughed heartily. Caroline smiled. Every lineament of his features had brightened, heightened in this quiet moment with his brother. Caroline allowed her eyes to wander over his face then sighed, preparing to return to her room.
Philip looked up, catching her eye.
“Caroline,” he said, standing. “I thought?—”
He looked at Frederic, who also stood. The smile and brightening were both gone, perhaps to a mutual hiding place. He bowed courteously.
“We thought you had retired for the night, Your Grace.”
The depth of his voice seemed to increase in the intimacy of candlelight.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, turning her face away. “Please excuse me.”
Philip waved her forward.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself. We have plenty here for three.”
The card table was clear to her now, still littered with the hand they had been playing. Another table was drawn close, strewnwith the remnants of pie crusts and the petit fours from earlier that afternoon. Everything about the room, from the thick, plush rug to a worn copy of Tacitus on the sideboard, spoke of comfort and comeliness.
“Come, feast!” Philip gestured to the refreshments. “Partake of the ruins of your wedding luncheon.”
Caroline’s stomach grumbled.
“I couldn’t possibly?—”
“Please?” Philip asked. “We’ll be very good—won’t we, Frederic?”
Caroline stepped hesitantly into the room. Frederic offered her his chair then pulled a stool near the table.
“And what shall your pleasure be, Your Grace?” he asked, picking up a bit of pie crust and gesturing towards a row of pot-bellied jars. “Black currant, blueberry, raspberry?”
