Page 43 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
She looked at Frances and grinned, before hurrying over.
Inside, the bakery smelled heavenly. Eleanor recalled the feel of dough beneath her fingers. How, on her worst days at St. Euphemia’s, the scent of freshly baked bread had calmed her nerves even when she could not stomach food.
Gardening and baking had indeed kept her sane. Her stomach grumbled at the sight of meat pies, already cut into slices and presented on a wooden stand.
Behind the counter, a red-faced baker looked at her, his eyes widening.
“My, my, I heard rumors that the Duchess of Everdawn was beautiful, but seeing you in person… Your Grace, it is a pleasure to have you in my bakery. I am Bernie Murdoch, the owner and baker of all products. My wife often assists, but she is on an errand for more flour. Today has been an exceptionally busy day.”
Eleanor wondered how the man already knew who she was, but she found it rather nice not to have to introduce herself. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Murdoch. The village looks busy, indeed. Is that unusual?”
“It certainly has become a common occurrence since His Grace took over the dukedom,” Mr. Murdoch replied. “Businesses are flourishing beneath his leadership.”
Eleanor felt a pang of guilt for doubting her husband. She had not believed that he cared so deeply for the welfare of the village, as he seemed to think that gardening was beneath her.
“Then it will be a joy to purchase your best today. What do you recommend?” she asked.
“Well, between you and I, Your Grace, when His Grace visits, he always buys a slice of that meat pie over there.” The baker smiled at her, nodding toward a pie that oozed a rich-looking sauce.
“Then I shall have the same. And perhaps something sweet on the side. I am partial to honey.”
“Then I have just the thing,” he told her cheerfully.
Moments later, Eleanor’s fingers slipped under the cloth of the small basket she carried and pulled out a honey-drizzled bun, its warm scent mingling with a bright hint of lemon peel. She circled the fountain slowly, taking small bites that melted sweetly on her tongue, the taste carrying her back to sunlit afternoons and lazy summer days.
She was still nibbling on the honeyed bun when she neared the florist’s stall. A riot of colors greeted her—roses, daisies, and wildflowers arranged with careful artistry. Her eyes caught the centerpiece: a delicate design of crimson petals shaped into a red leaf partially shielding a golden sun—Everdawn Village’s proud crest, brought to life in blossoms.
“Oh, how clever,” she complimented.
The florist, a gray-haired woman with gnarled fingers, looked at her with soft eyes.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, bobbing a curtsey. “I heard that the new Duchess of Everdawn was in our midst. I was hoping to meet you.”
“Word does indeed travel fast.” Eleanor laughed, feeling utterly at home.
She realized how much more comfortable conversations with the villagers were. After keeping her silence at the convent for so long—unless barked at—it was like a breath of fresh air.
“Your flowers are beautiful,” she remarked.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the florist said. “I was actually just putting out a new batch of jasmines. May I offer you one as a sample?”
“Jasmines?” Her interest was ensnared. “I do love jasmines. They embody purity, no?”
“And beauty,” the florist added. “A most fitting flower.”
Tears welled up in Eleanor’s eyes at the compliment. After years of humiliation, such simple words struck her hard.
She fell silent as she tried to compose herself, only for a voice to interject, “I do hope you bought one of those for me.”
The Duke came to stand beside her, surprising her as he looked down at the honey bun in her hands.
She snapped herself out of her thoughts only to frown at him. He seemed… rather tired, but he looked back at her with a grave expression.
“I did not,” she answered, both annoyed and relieved to see him.
He made a small hum, unimpressed, and turned to the florist. “Mrs. Pavely,” he greeted, bowing his head.
The florist dropped into another curtsey, her eyes lowered.
