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"Her Grace will be exploring her new estate," Julian informed Thayer. "Please provide her with whatever she needs—including privacy, should she prefer it."
"Of course, sir." Thayer bowed again.
"I'd like to see the sleeping quarters," Aurora suggested, trying hard to sound like an eager bride.
"Shall I accompany you, Madam?" Thayer inquired.
"No, thank you, Thayer. As my husband guessed, I'd truly prefer exploring on my own."
"Of course, Your Grace."
"I'll be on my way then." She met Julian's purposeful gaze. "If you gentlemen will excuse me?"
"You know where to find me," her husband replied, quietly.
"Indeed I do." Warmed by Julian's reassurance, Aurora gathered up her skirts and headed for the staircase.
She abandoned protocol the instant she was out of sight.
Darting around the second floor landing, she surveyed the vast deserted hallway, itching to begin her scrutiny. There must be dozens of bedchambers here, she mused. I certainly have my work cut out for me.
With that she began, marching into each chamber, going through it inch by inch before moving on to the next. As Julian had predicted, the rooms were all but naked, the desks empty, the wardrobes bare—almost as if no one had ever lived here, not even the late duke whose bedchamber had already been cleared of personal belongings. It was downright eerie, she thought with a shiver. Room after room was the same, filled only with pristine oriental rugs, stark mahogany furniture, and a cold barrenness that permeated every chamber like an icy wind.
Morland Manor was as much a mausoleum on the inside as it was on the outside.
Two hours later, Aurora rounded the hall to the next section of sleeping quarters, letting herself into what appeared to be yet another impersonal room.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she went to work, inspecting the empty wardrobe and nightstand, digging under the four-poster bed before settling herself behind the desk.
No wonder Julian loathed this place.
The thought popped into her mind as she tugged open the desk drawer, and she found herself trying to imagine what it must have been like for him to grow up here. His mother had died when he was still a boy, and his father had been an unfeeling tyrant who'd all but driven him away. How lonely he must have felt. True, she, too, had lost her parents when she was young. But not before they'd given her a foundation of love, a home in which she belonged, and a grown brother who, independent though he was, devoted much of his energies to her well-being.
Julian had once had a brother, too, she reminded herself. A brother he'd lost just as they'd both become men. Had that affected him deeply? Had he and Hugh been close in more ways than years?
Reflectively Aurora pondered the brief conversation she and Mr. Scollard had had regarding Julian's older brother.
"He was a good man, Rory. Honorable of purpose, generous of nature. Quite different from his father and grandfather. "
"And from Julian?"
"Not in principles, but in fact. Very different. "
"Were they close?"
"In heart, yes."
"In heart. Does that mean they cared about similar things or about each other?"
Mr. Scollard had never truly answered her question, other than to say she'd have to find her answers elsewhere, presumably from Julian.
An unlikely prospect, she thought ruefully. Julian was reluctant to disclose even the factual details of his life, much less the personal ones. She'd all but dragged information from him about his feud with the Macall brothers—and that he considered merely an unfortunate consequence of his occupation. The idea of his divulging emotional details of his past was inconceivable.
Still, she had no intention of abandoning her attempts to amend that fact.
Aurora was about to shut the drawer when a flat pad in the far right corner caught her eye. She extracted it, noting it was a sketchbook and wondering whose drawings it contained. Flipping it open, she was confronted with one of the loveliest pencil sketches of a waterfall, she'd ever seen. Enchanted, she turned the pages one by one, discovering a whole pad of exceptionally well-delineated sketches depicting scene after scene of natural beauty—a grove of trees overlooking a pond, the first snow blanketing a winter landscape, a sunset over the English Channel. Whoever had penciled these drawings was incredibly talented.
Too curious to wait, Aurora tucked the sketchpad beneath her arm and went downstairs, peeking into the first sitting room she encountered.
