Page 7 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars
Theresa tilted her head back up to take in the massive behemoth of a structure before her. Cold and imposing, it loomed over them as if judging who was worthy of entering its esteemed halls.
The Marchioness looked at it with such pride and joy that she might as well have birthed that gigantic spectacle of brick and mortar.
“Well now, don’t stand there gaping at it, my dear, or you’ll catch a cold in this dreadful weather,” she fussed as she ushered her inside. “Come, I shall show you to your rooms.”
Theresa allowed herself to be dragged inside, a tendril of warmth winding its way around her heart.
With the exception of Sister Edith and Margaret, she had never been made to feel welcome at the nunnery. Certainly, she had never been urged to come inside with such enthusiasm that she could not help but smile.
“I know that it may all come as a shock to you, but I do hope that you will come to think of Wyndham Park as your home while you are here.” The Marchioness’s voice hitched suspiciously.
“It is… different.”
Different was a great understatement. Where the nuns venerated austerity, Wyndham Park seemed to revel in decadence. The plush carpeting underfoot would have sent Sister Mary into an apoplexy. Mother Superior would have frowned heavily upon the rows of portraits of the Ellison ancestors lining an entire corridor instead of portraits of blessed saints and depictions of pious sacrifice.
Sister Edith, on the other hand, might have marveled at the cleanliness of the place, and Margaret—oh, her dearest friend—would have appreciated the sheer extravagance of keeping the entire manor perpetually warm.
However, Theresa found that there was hardly any difference between some ancient forebear regarding her from his lofty, framed perch and a stern saint judging her soul to be beyond saving.
“These will be your rooms, my darling.”
The Marchioness pushed open a door that led to a spacious room with a couch in deep rose velvet right across the fireplace. A long, low bed was positioned against the window, piled generously with inviting pillows. There was even an escritoire tucked against the wall with a whole accoutrement of writing materials.
Theresa gaped at the room in sheer awe. This… this was much bigger than any room in the nunnery! Even Mother Superior’s quarters were not as grand, and she had the best accommodations in the whole nunnery.
She walked over to the bed and let out a sigh. It was so soft that she could fall asleep on it right at that moment.
“This is more than I could ever hope for, Mother,” she said softly. “I had thought to maybe ask for a blanket, but the room is already so warm that I do not think I shall require one.”
The Marchioness blinked at her. “Whatever do you mean, child? This is just your sitting room.”
Theresa gawked at her. “But it has abed.”
Surely, that incredible piece of furniture was not simply meant for sitting. The room already had a couch that could easily fit three people. Just how much sitting was she expected to do in such a room?
“My dear, that is adivan.”
“Oh.” She did not exactly know what a divan was, but from the look on her mother’s face, it was certainly not a bed.
Or at least not where one was expected to spend the night.
“Your bedchamber is over there.” The Marchioness waved a hand to a double door on the other side of the room. “And over there is your dressing room.”
Dear heavens, I have not thought to require a room for every single thing!
“We… that is to say, your father and I, barely had time to prepare your suite.” Her mother choked back what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I came to the nunnery as soon as I learned about your existence.”
Theresa felt her heart twist in her chest. Despite all her doubts, the Marchioness had indeed come to the nunnery to fetch her with haste. Surely that meant she had a great affection for her.
“Oh, Mother… this is more than anything I could have ever hoped for.” Theresa smiled at her. “The room… well, the sitting room, dressing room, and all—everything is quite beautiful.”
However, that seemed to only elicit a fresh wave of tears from the Marchioness.
Theresa was decidedly at a loss as to how to politely comfort the weeping woman, so she patted her soothingly on the back the way Sister Edith would.
“This is less than what you deserve, dearest,” the Marchioness told her tearfully. “Your father and I owe you a great many things…”
Theresa frowned at that. Were relationships amongst the aristocracy so transactional?
