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Chapter Six
It was nearly midday when Duke Westwood called for his morning coffee, something uncharacteristic of him—but then she remembered he had gone off to a ball last night. Entering his breakfast room, Louisa greeted him and set his drink on the table.
“I assume last night had not been that horrible?” she dared to ask.
“No, it was not, to my disbelief,” he replied.“Lord Ashford tried to cajole me into staying, but I left. I’d fulfilled my promise to him and even stepped out of my decision to keep to myself.”
“That’s wonderful to hear, Your Grace,” Louisa felt pleased, as she readied herself to go.
“And I have you to thank,” the Duke added. “You said you faced your fears and came out stronger for it; last night, I did the same…because I think I need to start facing my own.”
Surprised by his statement, but happy, Louisa gave him a brilliant smile. “I do not think it’s too bold to say, but you will not regret it, Your Grace.”
She left the room with a curtsy and quickly dropped her tray off in the kitchen and went to her duties, cleaning rooms until the day dimmed and she slipped out to the Duke’s late mother’s garden. Now that she knew more about how it had come about, she felt more respectful about it while sitting there.
The sun warmed her skin, but what melted her heart was Duke Westwood’s words; he had said that he owed his bravery of the night before because of what she had said about her fears.
What he does not know is that my biggest fear was to come to this house to work. I am an orphan, and what Lords would like a penniless urchin in their home that is filled with valuables?
The wind whistled through the trees, and the heady perfume was starting to permeate the air while the sunset painted the vivid sky tones of reds and oranges. A few times, Louisa caught herself looking at the door, hoping that the Duke would join her, but when the time passed, and it grew to dusk, she left for the house.
She was partly disappointed and partly understanding that the Duke had not joined her— but why had she expected that he would come in the first place? He had come into the garden probably just by chance and not by design.
Going back inside, she slipped into the kitchen to help clean up, then had her supper in the servant’s hall and then went to her modest quarters. When she lit the lamp to disrobe, a package resting on her tiny table drew her attention, and she dropped the tie of her apron to reach for it. On the packet, she saw the Duke’s slanted signature, which sent her heart pounding.
He sent me a gift!
She opened it and pulled out matching hairpins and two sets of hair-combs; she placed them on the table and sank into the seat there. She was unsure why the Duke had thought to send her a gift, but she loved the thought.
Perhaps he thinks he owes me for my adviceyesterday?
Collecting them all, she stored them in the sole drawer she had in the desk and then went to disrobe and, using her washing closet, cleaned away the dirt from the day. She dressed in her nightgown and slipped into the cot, tired but satisfied that her day had gone well.
The Duke’s smile kept with her while she tried to drop off to sleep—but could not. After tossing and turning on her bed, Louisa sat up in a frustrated, tired huff. Slipping out her bed, Louisa reached for her thick wrapper—a parting gift from the patroness of the orphanage—and donned it.
She took her lamp and left for the kitchen to make a warm cup of milk. The manor house’s corridors seemed different, much larger, and rang with hollowness when no one was inside them. The feeling only grew when she got to the large kitchen and found the casks of milk.
After finding a copper pan, she poured out a cup and placed it on the stove. The flickering shadows around her kept Louisa a bit on edge, and even while she kept reminding herself that the home was secure, she still jerked around when anything shifted. The milk was warming, and she reached for it with relief.
“Miss Stone—”
Louisa leaped a foot in the air and spun around with her hand resting on her heart. The dim figure of Duke Westwood separated itself from the gloom around him as he camecloser.
“Y-Your Grace—” She sucked in a breath. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”
“I should be asking you the same, but—” he gestured to the stove, “—I see why. You should take that pan off; I believe the milk is starting to burn.”
“Oh right.” she reached for the pan, but Duke Westwood reached around her—holding a cloth, while she, unthinkingly, was reaching with her bare hand.
Mortification made her face flame, but what was worse, he felt his body brushing against hers; she felt the heat from his skin and smelled the cologne he wore. Rooted to the spot of the floor where she stood, Louisa did not dare move an inch in those few seconds that Duke Westwood moved the pot from the stove and rested it upon a thick wooden block, then—mercifully—moved away from her.
She turned to see that he was dressed in a banyan, and peeking out from the neck was the collar of a shirt. His hair looked tousled, and though his eyes were still piercing, they were tired.
While pouring out the milk with a careful hand, Louisa said, “Thank you for helping me, but may I ask, Your Grace, why are you awake?”
He went to a cupboard and, after taking out a key, opened and took out a bottle of wine. “Sleep alludes me, Miss Stone, just as it is doing to you, only warm milk lost its potency on me when I was a child.”
While taking a sip, Louisa heard him open the bottle, and she sighed.“It does not happen to me much, especially after the full day I have had. Are you sleepless often, Your Grace?”
