Elspeth realized that there were no family portraits. No stern-faced ancestors glaring down from their frames, no smiling duchesses with elaborate coiffures.
None, except for one.
In a quiet alcove in the foyer, near the main staircase, hung a single portrait. It was a warm, dignified painting of a woman, her features soft but intelligent, her blue eyes holding a gentle wisdom.
Elspeth felt an inexplicable pull toward it. She noted the light brown ringlets that framed her face and the familiar hue of her irises.
That, she surmised, must be Hugo’s mother. It was the only splash of intimacy in an otherwise impersonal collection of exquisitely curated art.
When the housekeeper passed by with a feather duster, Elspeth stopped her.
“Mrs. Whipple, if ye daenae mind me asking, this portrait…” She gestured to the painting. “It is quite lovely. Is this His Grace’s maither?”
Mrs. Whipple paused, stiffening almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, Lady Inverhall. I am sure you could tell from her eye color. That is the late Duchess. A truly kind soul, she was. May she forever rest in peace.”
“She looks warm,” Elspeth mused, tracing the outline of the frame with a delicate finger. “But I cannae help but notice that there are no other family portraits. Not of his faither or any other ancestors, for that matter.”
Mrs. Whipple did not speak for a moment, her gaze flitting toward the grand staircase as if expecting the Duke to appear.
“His Grace, he prefers his privacy, My Lady.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I will say that His Grace and his father, their relationship was, shall we say, strained. Perhaps complicated? I do not want to speak out of turn?—”
“Strained? How so?” Elspeth asked, her eyebrows rising.
The housekeeper gave a small shake of her head as she resumed dusting. “Some things, My Lady, are better left unsaid. Especially within these walls.” She lowered her voice further, her eyes meeting Elspeth’s once more. “His Grace carries much. More than he shows. You would do well to tread carefully around certain subjects.”
With that cryptic warning, Mrs. Whipple bobbed a quick curtsey and resumed dusting the hall, her movements once again brisk and efficient.
More than he shows…
Elspeth watched her go, a fresh realization dawning on her.
It made sense. The Duke’s cold, controlled exterior, his rigid insistence on order, his fear of losing control. It all suddenly clicked into place, hinting at a depth she had not glimpsed before nor considered.
Perhaps she had not wanted to consider it. But here, in his halls, she felt compelled to.
Aye, there is more to the Duke of Arrowfell than I had initially thought.
And the absence of family portraits spoke volumes about the secrets he kept locked away. Elspeth knew very well what that felt like.
She decided that she had had enough of the indoors and made her way quietly to the gardens that were nestled behind the impressive townhouse.
She savored the comforting scent of lavender, lemon balm, and chamomile, carried in the soft, early spring breeze, and especially within London proper.
She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she approached a small bench to sit on. Sitting back, she looked around at the flying birds and the fluffy clouds above her.
“Do you need anything, Lady Inverhall?” Abby, the maid who had been assigned to her, called from the house. “A warm cup of tea, perhaps?”
“Ye are too kind, Abby,” Elspeth said with a smile. “A cup of chamomile would be grand. Thank ye.”
“I will fetch it right away, My Lady.”
As Abby disappeared down the corridor, Elspeth sank deeper into the seat, letting her hands fall loosely in her lap. Yet her mind refused to settle.
It drifted—of course, it did—to the Duke.
She thought of him that day at the inn in Scotland, of his naked torso on that damned bed. Broad shoulders, taut with strength. The subtle taper of his waist. The way his hair had curled slightly after he’d bathed, softer than he let on.
She had wondered then what it would feel like to trace his spine with her fingertips, to press her hand against the warmth of him and feel something steady beneath it. Not that she’d admit such thoughts aloud. God forbid.
