Page 32 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

What would his servants think of their new mistress?

That he’d married a wanton hussy? A woman with no notion of propriety or decorum?

Her passion dissipated with commendable alacrity.

Ophelia struggled to sit upright.

“You are very, very bad, Stanford. I must make a good first impression.”

“You will, love. I have no doubt.” Chuckling, he helped her into a sitting position.

She scampered to her seat, her cheeks hot with chagrin.

“Your earbob is lopsided.” He pointed to her right ear. “And the top button of your spencer has come undone.”

At once, she righted the jet earring and refastened the black satin button.

“You make me forget myself,” she grumbled beneath her breath.

Yes, forget herself in a way that was at once alarming and thrilling.

Grinning widely, he sat back and crossed his arms. “I do?”

She glanced up from smoothing her skirts. Eyes narrowed, she pressed her lips into a contemplative line. “I see I shall have to be diligent to not compliment you too often. It goes straight to your head.”

The door opened before Stanford could respond, and with a sassy I-had-the-last-word smile, she turned her attention to the ivory and emerald liveried footman—a handsome man in his mid-twenties with a scar lashing one side of his face.

He executed a perfect bow. “Welcome, Your Graces.”

Naturally, Stanford had sent word ahead that they were coming. She was the only one to be taken entirely off guard when he’d announced following the wedding this morning that they weren’t staying in London but would depart for Kenclere Hall after breakfast.

He’d sent a note round to the Pennington’s housekeeper asking that Ophelia’s possessions be packed and sent on ahead to Kenclere Hall to be unpacked before she arrived.

Stanford leaped down without using the box provided to step down. Eyes shining, he surveyed his twenty-plus servants, neatly lined up on either side of the stairs leading to a double entry door.

An elaborate door that led to—Ophelia’s eyes grew wide—a castle. Complete with turrets and battlements. Surely there were at least three hundred rooms.

What? No moat? Drawbridge?

The forest along the long drive had obstructed the view. She’d expected an impressive manor house.

A bloody castle.

She was to be mistress of a castle?

Panic flooded Ophelia. She’d been so worried about becoming Stanford’s wife that she’d not considered everything her new position entailed.

God help her. Was she up to this?

It was far, far too late now if she wasn’t.

Yes, yes, she could do this.

It might take some time to learn everything, but Ophelia was never one to avoid a challenge. She was duchess material. What was more, she was going to prove it to herself, the ton, and to Stanford. She would show the gossipmongers and that nasty Candace Metcalfe.

Stanford held his hand out, and, more self-conscious than she could ever recall feeling, Ophelia slipped her hand in his. Welcoming the strength of his grip, she permitted him to help her from the coach.

As she alit, she asked the footman. “Could you please bring my birds?”