Page 42 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
“I am glad it is to your liking.”
“Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Baker run a tight ship, they do.” Biddy’s eyes displayed her amazement. “The castle is enormous, M’Lady—Your Grace! The talk is that His Grace is a very strict master, very strict indeed, but very generous and fair as well.”
Biddy moved closer to her and whispered, despite them being alone.
“The maids say how difficult it is to get a position here, but once you’re here, you must take care never to get dismissed for the wages are unmatched in the county, and you get no trouble from anyone. His Grace seems more than a decent master, if you ask me.”
“Biddy, you arrived just a few hours before us; how do you know so much already?”
“Us London folk know how to make people talk, Your Grace.” Biddy’s face lit up. “Ah! I finally got it right, M’Lady!”
Dahlia could not help the rolling laughter that came out of her.
Peter, candle in hand, and clad in his sleeping attire and banyan, opened the door to the sitting room. He knelt by the fireplace and proceeded to light a fire. When it was sufficiently warm, he poured himself a drink and sat by the fire.
Fatigue had not given him the sleep he desired. Instead, he had lain in bed, mind too active for his liking. Finally giving up, he got up and headed to the sitting room.
What am I to do with you, wife?
That was, of course, the source of his restlessness. No—not really. He knew what he needed to do, but it was more the question ofhowhe would do it. This little redheaded woman was far more trouble than he had anticipated. Since their arrival at the castle, she was constantly in his mind.
Perhaps because it is your wedding night! Would that it were morning so that this cliché of a night might be over with!
Peter ran his hand across his forehead. He looked around the room, wondering if it was time to update the décor. His eyes rested at the pianoforte near the window, and on impulse, he walked to it and lifted the fallboard. He gently ran his fingers across the keys.
“It has been a while, old friend,” he whispered to himself.
A soft, slow melody filled the room. Peter closed his eyes and let memory guide his hands. He had quite forgot how playing the piano soothed him. He started on another piece, one that was just as beautiful and unhurried as the last, but this one, he knew, was sadder.
Peter felt her presence in the room. He lifted his eyes to the door and found Dahlia standing there, seemingly transfixed by his playing.
“You play beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, please do go on.”
Peter continued the piece, his fingers somehow moving on their own without his mind guiding them. For there was now only one thing on his mind—Dahlia.
Did she wait for me?
When he finished playing, he found her closer to him.
“Come stay by the fire, Dahlia.”
“Thank you, I am rather cold.”
“Would you like some sherry?”
“Oh no, thank you. I was—was looking for the kitchen.”
“Did Mrs. Baker not serve you food tonight?” He frowned.
“Oh, she did! I just had not realized how famished I was. I ate very little…” she stopped.
“Was the food not to your liking?”
“It was very good, Your Grace. I just—well, I wasn’t hungry then.”
