Page 49 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
“Yes,” Helena said. “He means well. And he will improve. He simply needs time.”
“As I am sure we all do,” Mrs. Strom said. She paused on the landing, glancing back toward the staircase as though satisfying herself that they were not overheard, and then turned to Helena with something that was almost a conspirator’s expression. “If I may ask, Your Grace — your father was a Captain in the militia, I believe? It is how he came to know his Grace?”
Helena went briefly still. “It is,” she said.
“My son served briefly in his regiment,” Mrs. Strom said, entirely untroubled. “He thought very highly of your father. A good man and a fair one, he always said. Your son had the honour of being aboard on a particular — what shall we call it — sea voyage, that your father commanded.”
Helena relaxed by degrees. “He has mentioned it to me once or twice,” she said.
“My son’s account of it,” Mrs. Strom said, “was that they were very nearly lost. A tremendous storm, he said. A truly perilous crossing.”
“Did he,” Helena said. “I must tell you that when my father described the same voyage to me, the most dramatic thing he mentioned was the number of soldiers who could not keep their breakfast.”
Mrs. Strom stopped walking. Then she let out a laugh — a genuine, full, rolling laugh that echoed off the tall ceilings of the upper corridor and showed no signs of stopping for some time. “Goodness, Your Grace,” she said, when she had recovered herself. “You are a woman after my own heart.” She resumed walking, shaking her head with the lingering satisfaction of someone who has been thoroughly amused. “I dare say we shall get along splendidly.”
Helena smiled, and found that she meant it. As they made their way along the upper corridor toward her chambers, with the lateafternoon light falling long and golden across the floorboards and the sounds of the estate settling quietly around them, she had to admit to herself — cautiously, and without making too much of it — that she had just made an ally.
And that Blackthorne, for all its grandness and its stone drive and its Greek gods in the garden, was beginning to feel, in the smallest possible way, like somewhere she might one day be glad to call home.
CHAPTER 21
GIDEON
He sat downstairs at the breakfast table the following morning and waited. His stomach rumbled, and even the porridge — which he did not usually care for — looked appealing in front of him. It was their first proper morning together at the estate, and he had wanted to wait for Helena and Lavinia.
When nine o’clock came and went without any sign of them, he stepped into the hall. Mary was just passing on her way down from upstairs.
“Mary,” he called.
“Your Grace,” she said, with a bright smile. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Rather well, though somewhat hungry. Do you know where — Helena — my wife is?” He still had to think before he said it. It did not roll off the tongue quite as easily as he had anticipated.
“Of course. She took Lavinia for a walk in the garden after breakfast.”
“After breakfast,” he said.
“Yes. We had breakfast in her chambers, and after that they set out to the garden.” It was then that she saw the fully laid breakfast table behind him, and some of the color left her face. “Oh. You had expected to take breakfast together.”
“Well,” he said, suddenly mortified, because it was becoming rapidly clear that he was the only one who had been under that impression. “I had assumed?—”
“You understand, Your Grace — it has been her habit to feed Lavinia breakfast in her chamber ever since she was born. It is something of a ritual.”
“I understand. I would not wish her to change her habits on my account.” He said it quickly. “Please do not mention it to her.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Though if you would like to take breakfast with her in future, all you need do is say so. I am sure she would not be opposed. This is all very new for her, and she does not always know what is expected.”
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you, Mary.”
He returned to the table and pulled the bowl of porridge in front of him. It had grown cold and tasted of old paste. He swallowed aspoonful regardless and ate the whole of it — adequate penance, he felt, for having been a fool.
Did I truly think that simply because we are wed everything would instantly change?Foolish of him.
He got up, alerted a footman that he was finished, and walked the halls. The house still did not feel like his own. There were paintings that needed replacing, curtains that ought to be torn down and consigned to the fire for the crime of being hideous, and any number of other things. Somehow, on the journey here, he had imagined doing all of this with Helena. Perhaps they still could.
After all, even if this was only an arrangement, this would be their home. He had dreamed of making a home once before, with Cassandra — though not this house, as he had not been a Duke then. Her plans had been rather elaborate. She had wanted to purchase a whole separate estate because the one attached to his previous title had been too modest. How ridiculous it had all seemed now. How blind he had been.
He took a slow breath and stepped outside. The sunshine caught him square in the eyes and he blinked, shielding them with one hand.
