Page 64 of Duke of Diamonds
Just... something unshaped and unwelcome.
Why should I feel disappointed?She sat up, brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, the other clutching the blanket to her chest.What precisely had I expected? That he would come in with poetry and promises?She almost scoffed at herself, then rose from bed and moved toward the washstand with more energy than she felt.
Breakfast was served in one of the smaller drawing rooms, where she ate alone, the only company the ticking of the longcase clock and the clink of her spoon against porcelain. Not even a note had been left in Isaac’s absence.
After breakfast, Mrs Burton appeared at the door with hands clasped and a slight incline of the head. “If your grace is ready, I would be pleased to show you the house.”
Fiona followed, her hands folded before her, eyes taking in the worn beauty of the hallways—the gilt faded on the wall sconces, the carpets soft with age and footsteps long past. The manor had once been glorious, and it still retained the bones of grandeur, but there were corners where time had clearly been left unchecked.
They climbed a wide staircase and entered the portrait gallery. The housekeeper gestured toward the oil paintings that lined the wall, her eyes gleaming with pride.
“His grace was much younger when this portrait was commissioned,” she said as they came to a depiction of Isaac, stiff in pose, dark eyes unflinching even in paint. He could not have been more than sixteen.
Fiona’s gaze drifted over the rest—an imposing older gentleman with sharp cheekbones, presumably the late Duke; beside him, a gentle-eyed woman in muted silks; and a smiling young lady with clever eyes, surely Elaine.
But between these was a space—an obvious one—marked by a hook and the faint square where dust had not touched the wall.
Her brow furrowed. “Was there another portrait here?”
Mrs. Burton seemed uncertain. Her lips parted, closed, and then she turned briskly toward the opposite wall. “And here, we have the second Duke of Craton and the earlier descendants. That fellow in the periwig was known for his fondness of imported lemons.”
Fiona’s eyes remained on the empty space, though she turned to follow the housekeeper.That was deliberate.
She said nothing further, though her mind filed the detail away. They passed into another hallway, the second floor now quieter, the light fainter.
They moved past a door on the left, its frame as grand as the rest, but curiously locked.
Fiona paused. “What is in that room?”
Mrs Burton’s step faltered, but only for a moment. “Oh, that is just one of the many storage rooms, your grace,” she said, quick with the answer.
Fiona’s gaze lingered on the door. “I see.”
Another note, another entry on the list of peculiarities.
The rest of the tour passed without interruption, though Fiona could not help but notice how the rooms grew finer yet no less worn. The drawing room had excellent bones, its moulding exquisite, but the upholstery was dulled with use and the rugthreadbare in patches. One room held a settee with one leg propped by a sliver of wood.
She paused near a window, looking out at the hedges that ringed the garden below. Her fingers brushed the faded silk of the curtain.
“How long has it been since Craton was redecorated?”
Mrs Burton offered a small motion of her shoulders. “Not in some time, your grace.”
Fiona nodded, the wheels in her mind already turning.I wonder what he would say if I suggested improvements. Or whether he would listen at all.
She folded her hands once more and continued on, her eyes still catching on every crack and faded edge.
It was a magnificent home. It simply needed someone to care for it again.
Her day unfolded without the faintest glimpse of her husband. Not a passing glance, nor the creak of a floorboard to suggest he had even occupied the same wing of the house. It was not simply absence—it was evasion, she was certain of it now.
By midday, restlessness had settled over her like a poorly fitted shawl. She had read three chapters of a novel without retaining a word, abandoned her embroidery after tangling the threadtwice, and stared at the same corner of the drawing room for an embarrassingly long stretch of time. Eventually, she summoned paper and pen and wrote to her friends.
A tea invitation, hastily composed and promptly dispatched.
The following afternoon, the sitting room was bright with pale light, the fire well tended, and the tea tray laid with care. Fiona perched at the edge of the settee, trying not to smooth her dress more than twice in any given minute. Her fingers tapped lightly on her teacup, her posture a study in attentiveness.
“I must confess, we were not expecting such an early invitation from you, Fiona dear,” Hester said, brushing crumbs from her glove as she reached for another nut butter biscuit.
