Page 69 of His Haunted Duchess
That sounded normal enough. Headaches were common in certain seasons, he had heard—especially when certain flowers or shrubs bloomed, according to the gardener. But why did Carlyle look so—awkward? Regretful, even.
“Anything else?”
Carlyle lowered his eyes.
“No, sir.”
Frederic dismissed him and sighed. His concerns had only been slightly assuaged, but that had been the case since—well, since the unnerving ball.
He rang the bell. He could use a sandwich tray or sweet roll. Where was Caroline? Perhaps she would like to share the tray with him. His heart fluttered. He could find her, perhaps, and ask her to join him. The thought filled him with unexpected buoyancy.
It had been that way—that distracted quick beat his heart seemed to tap whenever he smelled lavender, the scent she had worn that night. At first, he had dismissed the turbulence in his feelings as a result of the ratafia or the evening’s disappointment. With time, however, the full depth of his emerging regard had startled and even astounded him.
How had it happened? How had he changed from duty-bound husband to ardent admirer? He did not quite know himself.
The library was—unsurprisingly—empty. Caroline frequently carried her books off like a cat with small prey to some small, soft spot where she could devour them at her leisure. She did many things, actually, which he had begun to notice with increasing tenderness and appreciation.
He left the library and stepped into the hall. Perhaps she was in the sitting room, the one where she had first agreed to go to the ball as his wife and partner. Frederic turned his steps there.
After that ball, something had been—different. His thoughts floated to whatever part of the house she haunted at the moment, and his ears itched to hear the sound of her feet. He felt more arduously the responsibility of his daily calls and business arrangements, and he longed for the opportunity to smile across the table at her once he arrived home again.
It felt so easy, so natural, that he thought she must comment at least, but she said nothing. Not a word. Not a syllable out of place or even slightly above what he would call platonic interest and consideration.
The dining room, too, was empty. Frederic frowned, a little irked. His hopes wavered but weren’t quite dashed. He could ask, of course, if she was about the house. She could be out on her own visits, to be sure, and might not be available at all until her return. He sat down in the sitting room chair and rang the bell.
One of the housemaids entered and curtsied.
“You rang, Your Grace?”
“Where is the lady of the house?”
“The duchess went out of doors but a half hour ago, Your Grace. She said something about taking some flowers.”
Ah! Of course.Frederic sprang from the chair and headed toward the side door. It opened onto the side lawn, and he would have easy access to the grounds from there.
She, it must be admitted, did not seem to be affected by the same feelings that had seemed to grow in him. They had agreed, after all, to subsist only as committed but otherwise amiably indifferent acquaintances. Perhaps—it was altogether possible she did not think as highly of him as he was coming to think of her.
Each day, however, stretched longer on his mind. He ached for something—a closeness, a rightness that he did not quite have the words to explain but longed for exquisitely in his thoughts.
He opened the outside door and stepped through. The early beams of a dreamy midsummer evening caressed him. The sun had begun to cast a deep, golden pall over the lawn and beds, lighting the zinnia into fiery red torches. One of the gardeners was working in a bed close to him.
“Have you seen the duchess?”
The man rose, brushing earth from his knees, and bowed.
“I have, Your Grace. She was about the gardens for the last half hour or so, wandering amongst the flowers. She looked like afairy queen, if I might be so bold, in her white dress with the sun on her shoulders like a mantel. She may yet be there. She said she had been too much in the library, Your Grace, and she told me she wished to walk the grounds and take some cut flowers.”
A wistful regret caught and held him. He would have also liked to have seen her, to walk with her, out in the sunshine of this golden afternoon.
“Did you see which way she went?”
“No, sir. She arrived outside just as you were coming home. I remember because I heard the wheels grinding over the pavement before I made out the step of her quick steps, not five minutes later.”
“Just after I arrived, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Frederic frowned. He had just missed her then. It had happened too frequently of late to be coincidence. She was avoiding him, but he couldn’t guess at her reason. He nodded curtly to the gardener and walked away, back towards the front door. If she was outside, he’d be able to see her at least.
