She shifted, intending to slip past him, but he stepped forward instead, blocking her retreat. The wall was once again at her back, the breadth of his frame stealing every breath of air between them.
“Then what is it you mean? Because I do not quite think you are completely clear on our arrangement, Dorothy.” His voice dropped lower.
Dorothy swallowed, her pulse rushing in her ears. She wanted to turn her head, to look anywhere but into that unrelenting gaze of his, yet she found herself pinned, not by his arm, not by the wall, but by the steady, piercing look that seemed to see entirely too much. He did not speak. He simply waited, as though her fumbling explanations were of no consequence, as though the truth must present itself if he gave her no escape.
Her lips parted before her thoughts could stop them. “You have… the most peculiar set of blue eyes I have ever seen. I mean, my eyes are blue as well, but not this kind of blue. What is it?”
Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths while her thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale. Yet even through her fluster, she found herself absurdly, perilously intent upon the shade of his eyes. It was not sky-blue, no. She would lay claim to that hue for her own, softer gaze, touched with grey. Nor was it the shifting blue of the sea which yielded to every mood of sun and storm. His eyes were steadier, fiercer, less forgiving.
Perhaps sapphires then, yes. Sapphires glinting beneath a hard brilliance of light, but even that fell short, for there was warmth in them too, a warmth that ought not to belong to stone. She searched desperately for a name, a likeness, something to contain what refused to be contained. Her breath caught as she looked up, still measuring shades against the man before her, until at last, with a sudden motion, he stepped back, as though he must free them both from the peril of her scrutiny.
“You are an odd woman,” he murmured, almost to himself, as though uncertain whether it were a rebuke or wonder. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel, confusion etched upon his handsome features. “I shall leave you to your rest,” he added. “Seems as though you desperately need it.”
Dorothy stood rooted a moment longer, heat prickling her skin where his gaze had lingered. Only when his footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor did she release the breath she had beenholding. Weariness swept over her at last. She slipped into her bedchamber, closing the door with quiet hands, her heart still unsettled by the glint of those impossible eyes.
“Your Grace, the morning has come.”
Dorothy jolted upright, her heart pounding as if she had been chased from some perilous dream. Her eyes darted about the chamber, wide and uncomprehending, searching for the shadows of fancy she was certain still lingered. The heavy draperies, the carved bedposts, the faint glow of a fire banked low in the grate all felt too real. Slowly, with a curious, sinking weight in her chest, she turned to find Sylvana, her maid who had been introduced to her the night before, hovering beside the bed, curtsying with a respectful tilt of her head.
It was no dream. That impossible title was meant for her.
“Good morning, Sylvana.”
Sylvana approached with a knowing smile. “If you please, Your Grace, I have laid out your gown. Breakfast is to be served in the south dining room.”
Dorothy swallowed. “With His Grace?”
Sylvana shook her head. “His Grace does not eat breakfast.”
“What kind of man does not eat breakfast?” Dorothy blurted.
The maid’s lips twitched, as if she dared not reveal amusement. “The Duke prefers to begin his day with correspondence and strong coffee. He rarely lingers over a meal in the morning.”
Dorothy pressed her palms together as she rose from the bed, struggling between disbelief and curiosity. “Strong coffee? At such an hour? That hardly seems sufficient for a man of consequence. How does he manage to keep upright?”
“You will learn, Your Grace, that the Duke is… unlike others,” Sylvana replied in a careful tone. “His Grace has his ways.”
“That’s not surprising,” she mumbled.
Still dazed, Dorothy stretched and let out a yawn. Sylvana helped her to the basin where cool water kissed her face and chased the fog from her thoughts. Rosewater followed, dabbed lightly at her temples, its scent both calming and invigorating.
“Open, if you please,” Sylvana said, producing a small jar of tooth powder and a neat brush. Dorothy obeyed, the mint-and-chalk grit biting against her teeth until her mouth felt scoured clean. Then came her hair. Sylvana’s fingers tugged through tangles, smoothing waves of dark silk and coaxing them into soft curls that framed her face.
At last, the gown was lifted from its stand. It was a pale morning-blue muslin, light as a sigh. Dorothy stepped into it, and Sylvanafastened the back. A string of pearls was clasped at her throat, cool against her warm skin. She stared at her reflection, still unsure if she looked like a duchess or merely a girl who had stumbled into a stranger’s life.
Once Dorothy was dressed for the day, she descended the wide staircase, her hand gliding over the polished banister. The house was hushed, and the scent of baked bread and something sweet—perhaps cinnamon—drifted from the breakfast room, pulling her onward. It was all so different from what her home used to be, where mornings rang with the shrill laughter of her sisters and younger brother tumbling over one another and the clatter of spoons on tin plates as her sisters bickered over who would eat the last slice of bread. At Walford, the silence was reverent, carefully preserved, as though noise itself might shatter the grandeur. Even her own footsteps seemed too loud upon the marble floor.
She stepped into the breakfast room expecting a long, solitary table, perhaps a footman hovering in silence to pour her tea. Instead, her gaze snagged on a small figure already seated halfway down the table. It was the little girl from the night before... Eugenia.
The girl’s fair hair had been neatly braided, her lavender frock smoothed without a wrinkle, and she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. At Dorothy’s entrance, she rose from her chair quietly and made a small curtsy, graceful but without expression, as though trained to acknowledge rather than to welcome. She did not speak or smile, merely resumed her seat with the same stillness that seemed to rest over her whole person.
Before Dorothy could gather her thoughts, a tall woman in a sober grey gown stepped forward. “Your Grace,” she said with a dip of her head. “I am Mrs. Miriam Tresswell, Miss Eugenia’s governess.” Her voice carried the firmness of a woman accustomed to discipline, but her eyes softened when they flicked to her young charge. “The Duke asked that she join you this morning.”
Hovering just behind her stood another girl, scarcely older than Eugenia but taller and lankier. She bobbed a curtsy.
“This is Jenny Tresswell, my niece and Miss Eugenia’s maid,” Mrs. Tresswell explained. “She is in her fourteenth year. She stays by Miss Eugenia’s side because they are closer in age.”
Dorothy nodded and sank into her chair at the table, her pulse still quick with surprise. “Good morning, Eugenia.”
