Page 34 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
The man smiled softly, then nodded again. “Of course, Your Grace. I will be but a moment.”
When he returned, she was already kneeling by a flowerbed, digging up roots and dropping them in a neat pile.
Her fingers knew what to do, even if her mind wandered. Yet it didn’t. It ought to; she had enough to ponder. Charlotte, her parents’ coldness, the Duke’s refusal to cooperate, the emptiness of her future, the fact that she was no longer gardening in St. Euphemia’s but in Everdawn.
Gardening had been her solace in the convent, a silent thing away from the prayer hall and the cold, unforgiving stones against her knees, and the cell she used to sleep in.
The nuns had barely watched her in the gardens. The old Jacobean manor had been surrounded by a crumbling but high wall, not easy to scale. Eleanor had tried once, only to fall into a thorny bush, scraped and bleeding. She had not tried to scale that wall again. She had paid for it dearly.
The gardens had been her safe haven in a place that was inherently unsafe, and although she was protected at Everdawn, she felt herself sliding back into the comfort that greenery provided her. The scent of damp soil and the fragrance of the flowers soothed her senses, and she did not realize she was humming until a shadow fell over her.
She craned her neck, and the first thing she noticed was how the Duke’s broad shoulders blocked out the early afternoon sun.
“You are… gardening,” he noted, blinking down at her.
Eleanor didn’t stand up, didn’t stop, didn’t do anything but continue plotting her new flowerbed.
“I am,” she answered. “You told me to enjoy my life, and this is what I enjoy, Your Grace.”
When he laughed—not a genuine, amused laugh, but a disbelieving one—she continued her work.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just… look at you. An ever so lowly duchess covered in mud,” he observed, his lips curved in a slight smile.
The comment was not an insult, but…
Heavens, was he teasing her?
Eleanor simply responded, “Better mud than blood.”
At his silence, she looked up again to find his face frozen in surprise. Then, he nodded slowly, his eyes twinkling. “I will leave you to it, then.”
But Eleanor had already returned to her work, once again humming.
Spencer did not wish to think of his wife’s humming as pretty or gentle, but those were the words that came to mind as he walked away from her.
“Better mud than blood.”
His lips curled into a wider smile, both impressed and taken aback. He had been rendered quite speechless by her quick response. Perhaps beneath the layers of vulnerability and scars, there was a witty young woman who had forgotten how to use her sharp tongue.
His remaining question was, what would it take to unearth it?
The warm tone of her skin made more and more sense. It was so out of place on the streets of London, but here it was not. She must have spent countless hours in the gardens of the convent.
Had that been her only reprieve in that hellish place?
She had looked more relaxed than he had ever seen her. Not even in sleep had she looked so peaceful.
Back in the manor, he headed to his study but was stopped by Mr. Fulton, his butler, halfway.
“Your Grace, a package has arrived for you,” he said. “I have left it in the drawing room for yourself and Her Grace.”
Spencer nodded and quickly went to the drawing room, frowning at the wrapped box on the table. A label rested atop it, along with a note written in an unfamiliar hand.
To the Duke and Duchess of Everdawn,
Congratulations on your most unexpected wedding. What a shame the ton could not witness the rise of Her Grace. It may be a dove that represents the Quinleys, but perhaps the Duchess is more of a phoenix.
