Her breath hitched. She was staring at his mouth now, too. Surely he would not kiss her in front of half of York?
A smirk tilted one corner of his mouth, as if he had heard the thought aloud. His fingers caught her chin, and he bent and brushed his lips over hers, so brief and light it scarcely deserved the name of a kiss. A heartbeat. The pass of a feather.
And yet, it made her heart pound in her chest, her head floating somewhere above the congregation when he rose to his full height and tucked her hand into his arm.
We’re married, she thought dazedly. This is it now. I’m married. I’m a duchess. More than that, I belong somewhere. To someone…
It took everything in her not to squeal and make a ninny of herself in front of the first person to look at her as though she was more than merely a tedious responsibility.
They emerged in the sun together—the same May sun that had failed to bless her previous attempt at marriage. Nicholas helped her into the waiting carriage, white ribbons bouncing merrily in the breeze, and they rode back to his estate.
This time, as they approached, far quicker than she had the first time, she had the strangest sensation of being entirely outside her own body. That magnificent façade, that glittering lake, those lime trees, the countless windows—everything now belonged to her, too. Of all this, she was mistress.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
She could not tear her eyes from the house. “I can’t quite believe this is happening to me.”
He gave a low chuckle. “You’ll believe it soon enough. The servants have been polishing the silver since dawn in anticipation of your arrival.”
Oh, heavens. The servants. There must be a number beyond comprehension to keep a place like this running. And indeed there were, all lined up on the gravel before the front door in a line straight enough to please Napoleon. None of the guests had yet arrived, meaning she was granted a small mercy to greet the servants and become accustomed, very faintly, to her new home before the wedding breakfast began.
The butler bowed ponderously to her. “Welcome to Winchester Manor, Your Grace.”
“…Gregson.” She could at least recall his name. How frightfully embarrassing that he had seen her first arrive in the late duchess’s wedding gown. “It’s an honor to be here.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The way his nostrils flared suggested he was less than pleased to welcome her as mistress, but he was far too disciplined to allow any of his resentment to show; instead going down the line and introducing all the servants. Their names slid through her mind like water through a sieve, but that was to be expected, surely. Beside her, Nicholas walked with his hands tucked neatly behind his back.
A lady ordinarily arrived with her own lady’s maid in tow. Isadora had none, so the head housemaid had simply become hers until another could be engaged. The arrangement had been made before she’d even crossed the threshold. It was faintly alarming how smoothly Winchester Manor absorbed a person, and Gregson appeared to stand at the center of it all.
After the growingly awkward round of introductions, Isadora let herself be ushered into the dining room, where enough food waited to feed a royal progress.
“My goodness,” Isadora said impulsively. “What a spread! You must employ an excellent cook, Your Grace.”
“Duboisis a French chef from London,” Gregson said with a slight sniff. “We employ only the best for His Grace. But I shall convey your compliments.”
“Please do,” Isadora said, and smiled at him. A little of the starch went out of the man.
“That’s enough, Gregson,” Nicholas said, and the butler bowed himself out of the room.
Fortunately for Isadora’s frayed nerves, she had only a few seconds alone with the duke before the first of their guests arrived. Notably, a small girl with long blonde hair braided flawlessly behind her, and a lilac dress that flowed around her legs as she ran up to Isadora.
“You look so pretty! Your hair is like Mrs. Hobbes’s marmalade. That’s a compliment, by the by—it’s very good marmalade.”
Oh, she was lovely. Fair-haired in a house full of dark portraits, chin up, not a trace of shyness anywhere on her.
“Thank you.” Isadora sank down to her level, skirts pooling on the parquet. “I love yours, too.”
She nodded gravely. “Papa says I have it from Mother becausehedoesn’t have such fair hair. But I don’t remember her at all,” she said, shrugging. “I hope you like our home. It is quite lovely to have another lady about the house. Oh! How do you like Papa’s cravat?”
Isadora glanced across the room. Nicholas had gone suspiciously still over his champagne. His ivory cravat was… Well, it was ever so slightly crooked, and tied in a relatively simple style, Isadora would not have thought necessarily the best choice for a wedding. And yet, that simple mark in his otherwise pristine appearance lent him a boyishness that made him feel less out of reach.
“I like it, I think,” she said slowly. “It’s rather… charming.”
“Yes, I agree. I did it myself, you know.” Without waiting for praise—if indeed that had ever been her intention with the divulsion—she took Isadora’s hand. “I’m Sophia.”
“And I’m Isadora.”
“What shall I call you?”
