Page 23 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
Thanks to Bessie, he’d already been out for a run, and to fulfil his morning ablutions.
“Now, you be good.” She ruffled the fur either side of Pom Pom’s ears and gave his nose a boop. “No chewing the coverlet.”
In response, he rolled onto his back, exposing his soft belly for stroking.
It wasn’t ideal, leaving him alone with her mother, but she could hardly keep imposing on abbey servants. They had enough to do without watching over a puppy.
“I’ll be fine, dear.” Mrs. Burnell brought Pom Pom under her arm and let him lick her buttery finger. She smiled weakly. “A tour of the abbey will be just the thing for letting the duke get a better look at you.”
Chapter 9
The duke insistedthey begin at the top, viewing the surrounding land and gardens from the very roof of the abbey.
“You are unafraid of heights,” His Grace remarked as Rosamund stood at the edge of the crenelated wall, looking down onto the terrace below.
“Oh yes. I used to climb trees back home. I was quite good at it.”
The duke raised one eyebrow.
“Of course, I was very young,” Rosamund added. “I wouldn’t dream of doing so now. I mean, I haven’t climbed anything for a long time.”
“Quite!” Fortunately, the duke appeared more amused than shocked.
He was without any of the pomposity or hauteur Rosamund had expected. Enquiring as to her mother’s comfort, he’d advised wholeheartedly that she take all the rest needed, without thought of leaving her chamber, let alone the abbey itself, until she was restored in strength.
Rosamund was moved by his generosity and understanding.
Having suffered grief, he was clearly attuned to the moods of others. Rosamund felt quite chastened. She was too impatient with her mother; too prone to forget the strain of these recent months, heaped upon that of many years.
Now, at last, the light of hope was before them.
The duke gave every appearance of being considerate and courteous. As he led her within, and they began their descent through the upper floors and labyrinth of passageways, he took care to ensure that Rosamund did not miss her step. Always, his arm was there to support her.
The rambling abbey was not what she had envisioned for a home but there was a romanticism to its turrets and towers, and the spiralling stairs which appeared in the strangest places, taking one a short way before revealing another passage, or an awkwardly placed door. The level of the floor changed often as one moved through the ancient dwelling, bearing witness to the various additions the abbey had seen over the centuries.
At last they came to a long gallery: a place to promenade on wet days and to show off portraits of illustrious ancestors.
“An addition to the original monastery,” His Grace explained. “This wing was commissioned around 1720, by the seventh Duke of Studborne.”
Rosamund murmured her admiration. The gallery, spanning the length of this part of the abbey, took advantage of a great many south-facing windows, allowing the sun to stream in and warm the large, open space. Meanwhile, the high ceiling was ornately decorated in stucco plaster, with chandeliers placed at intervals along its length.
The atmosphere here was entirely different than in the stone passageways of the older building, so narrow and dark. Portraits filled the inner wall almost from floor to ceiling, most in the late Baroque style, displaying a rich sensuousness, drama and grandeur.
Only one differed, being far more whimsical, and depicting the fair beauty Rosamund knew to be the late duchess. In a gown entirely of white, her golden hair hung in waves to her waist. She wore a crown of flowers, while mushrooms and forest fruits embellished the lower corners of the canvas.
“It is the most charming of all images of my late wife, capturing her in a way the others do not.” The duke looked up at the portrait. “The theme was of her own choosing: Titania, from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.”
“It is masterfully done,” said Rosamund. The play was one of her own favourites—the fairy queen wandering lost, her eyes failing to see what was before her, but recovering her true love at last.
The duke was staring at her again, intently, without reserve or self-consciousness. “You are much alike.”
He reached for a curl beside her ear. “I should like to behold your hair down, in the same way.”
“Your Grace.” Rosamund knew she must be blushing, for such a thing was only likely if the duke were to see her in her night attire, when her hair had been unpinned, before being braided for the night. “You honour me, I’m sure.”
From somewhere at the far end of the gallery, a clock began to chime the midday hour. Rosamund took the tiniest step away. “Should we not proceed?”
“As you wish.” The duke gave a languid smile. “I have waited long for one such as you, Miss Burnell, and I can be patient. Fate brings to us what is meant to be, do you not think?”
