Sleep eventually came.
And with it, dreams he would never admit out loud.
Chapter Four
“Good mornin’,” Elspeth whispered as she stepped into the breakfast room, dressed simply for the day.
The following morning had dawned through Elspeth’s windows with a crisp London chill that blew in cadence with the billowing white curtains that framed them. It had been a stark contrast to the damp, earthy air of Inverhall, of her Scotland.
Much as she hated to admit it, though, she was incredibly well rested after her first night at Arrowfell House. She’d pulled the lush duvet up to her chin as she savored her last few moments in bed before going downstairs to break her fast.
She was in no mood to spar before her first cup of tea.
“Hmm,” the Duke murmured behind the day’s newspaper, finishing the last bite of toast.
Elspeth took her seat and smoothed her napkin onto her lap. “And what is expected of me today?”
The Duke did not lower the paper. “I expect nothing of you.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then sat back slightly, caught off guard by his answer.
At last, he folded the newspaper and stood up, brushing a crumb from his waistcoat.
“Except to remain out of trouble,” he added. “I will be occupied with my duties and shall not be available until dinner.”
He pushed in his chair and made for the door. Just before he exited, he paused and spoke without turning, “There are matters that require my attention. I have been away for far too long, and the demands upon my time are considerable.”
Elspeth couldn’t help but notice how impeccably dressed and composed he looked, especially for such an early hour. He was impossibly tall, and as he passed through the doorway, she caught the precise cut of his coat. His tailor had clearly taken great pains to ensure the fit was nothing short of exact. His light brown hair was slicked back, the ends falling in controlled ringlets at the nape of his neck, and his beard was neatly trimmed, framing his sharply defined features with maddening precision.
Much as he makes me blood boil, I cannae deny he is a sight for sore eyes.
“Very well,” she responded. “Good day, Yer Grace.”
“Lady Inverhall.” He nodded once.
And then he was gone.
The breakfast itself was nothing short of impressive: silver trays of eggs, soft rolls, sausages, grilled kidneys, roasted tomatoes, and smoked fish.
It was everything a London table ought to offer.
And yet, as she nibbled on a roll and sipped her tea, Elspeth found herself longing for the earthy satisfaction of her morning meals at Inverhall: thick oat porridge with cream and honey, fresh mushrooms fried in butter, tangy cheese from the neighboring glen, and even the bracing sharpness of pickled onions.
She leaned back in her chair, full but unsatisfied, her mind already drifting.
Would she ever go back home?
Elspeth had been left to her own devices, a prospect that usually thrilled her. But in this strange, silent house, elegant and unfamiliar, it did not feel like freedom. It felt like being placed in a beautiful glass cage.
The rest of the morning, she spent wandering the townhouse. It was a gilded labyrinth compared to Inverhall’s solid, timeworn stone. Everywhere she looked, there were polished surfaces, pale silk draperies, and gleaming chandeliers. Even the doorknobs sparkled.
It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the man who occupied it—distant, contained, and difficult to read.
As she meandered the halls, her gaze drifted over the intricate tapestries with vibrant patterns and pictures, the gleaming mahogany floors, and the sheer, undeniable wealth that permeated every corner.
But it was the walls that truly captivated her. They were adorned with countless paintings that drew her in like a moth to a flame. She studied the grand landscapes, heroic battle scenes, and exquisite still life.
Aye, but somethin’ is missin’…
