He knew that if the servants did it, Iris would no doubt accompany them, and he was not sure that that was a good idea. At least, not yet.
“Fine. But I want two.” Iris grinned at him, and he swept her into a hug.
“Only if you say please.”
“Pleeeeaaaaase!” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Archer swung her around.
“Of course. Now, off to bed with you.” He gave her a gentle nudge and made his way up the stairs to the Duchess’ room, a plate of food in hand.
He opened the door to the Duchess’ room, and every part of him tensed. The room was exactly as he remembered it as a child. Gaudy, mismatched furniture littered it.
He was grateful for the darkness that hid the horrendous pink walls that his mother had so adored. He swallowed, practically feeling her cold gaze on him.
He could almost see her wizened figure in the chair by the fire. A small noise brought him to the present, and he saw Lydia was asleep on the bed, curled into a tiny ball, making small whimpering noises. Without thinking, he moved towards her, placing the tray on the table beside her bed.
“Mother. No… Please…” she murmured.
Archer tucked the blanket around her, wondering if he should wake her. She looked so innocent, so sweet as she dreamed. He found himself stroking her forehead gently, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
Her eyes flickered open, her lips parting. His heart sped up, and he stood.What am I doing?He gestured to the food, his voice hoarse. “I brought something to eat.”
“I can see that.” Lydia shifted, moving into a sitting position which revealed the thin night dress she was wearing beneath the covers and the soft skin of her collar bone.
Archer leapt to his feet and looked away, blood thundering in his ears. “I will get you a dressing gown.”
He grabbed one from the walk-in closet and handed it to Lydia, staring anywhere but at her. His eyes fell on the dwindling fire, and he moved towards it, stoking it back to life. The fire gave a merry roar, bringing light into the room.
As he turned, his eyes caught on an expensive chair in the corner. It was the tenth of its kind. The first nine had been destroyed by his mother in her fits, and his father had been forced to buy replacements over and over. His mother had died before she could destroy this one.
A memory of his twelve-year-old self bubbled to the surface. He could see his mother tearing at the sofa, remember the way she had blamed its destruction on him and then hit him for it. She had stopped when he had grown strong enough to catch her hand in his, her attention turning to his sisters instead.
His fist clenched as he remembered how he had begged his father to see the truth about her, and he had tried to make him see reason. But his pleading had been drowned out by his mother’s sweet words. He could picture her viper’s smile as she goaded her father into disciplining his children. Into doing exactly as she wished.
“I am sorry I missed our wedding dinner. I am sure this would have been even better with company.” Lydia’s voice pulled him back to the present, and he turned to face her. “Or at the very least, it would have been lovely warm.
She was dabbing gently at her mouth with the napkin he had brought her, her plate of food nearly empty.
“You need not apologize.” Archer gestured towards her, relieved that the robe hid her beneath it. “I take it your head is feeling better?”
Lydia nodded. “I am sure I will be right as rain tomorrow.”
Archer made a noncommittal noise. He knew he should leave; he could feel a part of him itching to be gone from the room. He could practically hear his mother’s cruel laugh.Even her perfume lingers in the damn air.
“Your mother certainly had interesting taste.” Archer was glad she did not see him flinch.
“That is one way of putting it.” His fingers clenched into fists.
“I do not think I have ever seen so much pink and purple in one room. My headache cut my tour rather short—is the rest of the house a similar color scheme?” She gave him an embarrassed smile.
“No. Thankfully.” Archer had undone much of his mother’s redecorating after his father had died, confining her efforts to her room to keep her away from him and his sisters.
Lydia got out of bed and put herself in the chair by the fire, wincing as she sat in the expensive armchair. “This is not… terribly comfortable.”
“The late Duchess valued aesthetic more than function.” Archer gestured around them. “Now that you are the mistress of the house, décor and such will fall to you. You may as well start here.”
He tried to keep his voice cool, disinterested even, as he felt his neck hairs stand on end. “Feel free to do with it as you will; it is yours now. You should make it feel like it.”The sooner the better.
“Are you sure?” Lydia canted her head at him, her eyes narrowed. “I recognize some of this furniture—it is nearpriceless, even if it is not to my taste. And there are so many things here, heirlooms and such—I would hate to accidentally get rid of anything you might want to hold on to.” Lydia gestured around them.
