Page 13 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
Almost immediately, the door opened and a maid came through. There was a rattling of china as she placed her tray upon the table before them, and two of the cups rolled from their saucers.
The duke said nothing but the girl quaked nonetheless, her fingers clumsy in righting the crockery.
“Enough.” The duke’s tone was abrupt, his displeasure obvious.
The girl buried her hands in her apron, bobbing quickly before scurrying out.
The duke set the cups upright himself and took up the pot. It was strange to see him do so, but he poured with ease.
“Now you are here, you must stay at least a few days, to experience the abbey properly. My nephew tells me you are without fixed plans—so I shall hear nothing to the contrary."
“So kind.” Mrs. Burnell beamed, accepting her cup.
Rosamund looked into hers. The liquid was very dark, and the fragrance wasn’t that of coffee.
“Oh! Delicious!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnell. “And such a treat! You must know how fond the ladies are of chocolate, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Raising his own cup, he inhaled appreciatively before sampling the contents. "And so many health benefits. So very fortifying.” He gave another of his slow smiles.
“I must tell my husband. He’s a bourbon man, though he’ll take a cup of coffee now and then.” Rosamund’s mother had moved to full-on simpering. “He works so hard. P’raps you’ve heard of the Texas Burnells? Richest oil finds in the whole state, though one doesn’t like to boast of such things…”
Ignoring the vulgar mention of wealth, the duke turned to Rosamund. “And you are enjoying England, Miss Burnell? Greener than Texas, I should imagine.”
“Why, yes.” Rosamund set the chocolate drink upon her knee. “All the more for seeing your beautiful abbey. I’m looking forward to finding out its history.”
“And so you shall.” Sitting forward in his chair, the duke’s attention was all upon Rosamund. “We are built on the foundations of an old monastery, though only a small portion of the original remains. It was founded by a Franciscan monk who travelled to Mexico, would you believe: one Vasco de Benevente. But, during the Reformation, it was surrendered and passed to private hands, like many of the holy buildings in these parts. King Henry VIII created our dukedom at that time.”
“Fascinating.” Rosamund cast her eyes about the library. There were more volumes than she’d seen anywhere, though that wasn’t saying much. Her father hadn’t been big on reading.
It was then that she noticed the portraits.
Above each mantle hung a large canvas. The closest portrayed a woman elegantly dressed in a blue riding habit, with crop in hand. Her hair, of a similar shade of blonde to Rosamund’s, was swept beneath a hat beribboned in purple. The colour was most becoming, for her eyes were deeply sapphire and there was a playfulness in them that lent the portrait charm.
The other she couldn’t discern so clearly but she would say the same woman featured upon that canvas too—wearing lemon chiffon and her hair uncovered, so that her fairness was all the more apparent.
When Rosamund’s gaze returned to the duke, she was aware of him looking at her, of him having watched her perusing the paintings.
Previously, she had thought him rather menacing, in an attractively dangerous way. Now, he looked altogether different: wistful and sad.
“Do you believe, Miss Burnell, that those we love wait for us beyond the veil?”
She guessed then that this was the last duchess, as Mr. Studborne had mentioned that day on the beach. From the duke’s softened expression, it was clear he’d cherished her.
Rosamund’s compassion rose in the face of those tender feelings.
She’d never been in love herself; could only imagine the bond between husband and wife when affection grew over years together.
How sad it was, to be parted.
“One must have faith,” she said simply.
In recognition of her sympathy, he nodded.
The look in his eyes she could not fully fathom, but raw emotion—unspoken grief and loneliness—caught at her heart.
Her thoughts passed fleetingly to his nephew.
One beginning his journey, with all before him. The other shaped by love and loss, his pain etched in the fine lines upon his face.
