Page 50 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

That night, Dominic sought the presence of his housekeeper. He needed to ask Mrs. Alderwick if Marianne ordered anything new. He wasn’t concerned about the cost. He merely needed to know what fresh hell she would be bringing into Oakmere Hall.

At least, that was what he told himself.

“No, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied. “She simply rearranged what was already here on the estate. She requested brighter drapes, but they had always been there. They were washed, dried, and put up. Our young maids didn’t mind doing that for her. They also seem to like the change.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, she asked Cook to prepare her favorite tea regularly. She doesn’t ask much, but she said she needs her tea to feel alive.”

“What kind of tea?”

“Jasmine with a slice of lemon, Your Grace.”

Dominic did not question her further, but that night, he found himself in the kitchen, pretending to be there for pantry inspection. Nobody batted an eyelash since he seemed to be bent on performing as many duties as possible in a short period.

Cook gave him a cup of jasmine tea, and he drank it in silence.

The next day, when she offered it to him again, he took it without any complaint and drank the whole thing.

One morning, Dominic stepped into the library, intending only to retrieve a ledger he’d left behind.

The room was quiet, filtered with the gentle hush of turned pages and the scent of old bindings. But what made him stop mid-stride was not the room itself—it was her.

Marianne was curled into the window seat, barefoot and entirely at ease, as though the library belonged to her and always had.

Her brown curls had come loose from their usual order, tumbling over her shoulder in soft waves. A few strands caught the light like silk thread, rich and unruly. She brushed them back absently, her eyes trained on the book in her lap.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Her lips moved slightly as she read—silently forming the words—and her brow creased with focus. There was a small furrow between her brows, a mark of concentration he found unexpectedly charming.

The freckles across her cheeks and nose were more noticeable in this light, softening her features, making her look younger than she did at balls or dinners. Less guarded.

Her bodice was a pale blue this morning—something simple, soft, with a neckline that revealed the graceful column of her throat. The fabric clung gently at her waist before falling in loose folds over her skirt.

Next to her lay a stack of thick tomes, their bindings worn and their pages yellowed. She was working her way through them with a kind of quiet hunger, as though by sheer force of will she could steal a march on time. Read everything, know everything, before the world caught up with her again.

Dominic watched her for a moment too long. She looked peaceful, yes—but there was something else. A kind of aching determination behind the calm.

Serafina nuzzled her feet. Thankfully, Perseus remained in his kingdom at the garden pen, where he, hopefully, did not encounter snakes or Medusa herself.

“So, you’ve been reorganizing the library, too,” he remarked.

“It must be done,” Marianne said, looking up, surprise etched on her features. “Your books were rather disorganized. Shelley was placed next to your Roman history books.”

“Well, he will be a part of history soon, with the way he is living.”

“I don’t disagree with you when it comes to that,” she muttered, returning her attention to her books.

“But where is Byron now?”

“Shelley is a cad, but Byron is worse,” she said with a shrug. “He’s there. You will find him somewhere at the bottom of the biography shelf.”

“You put his book of poems on the biography shelf?” he asked.

“Yes. Isn’t that appropriate? His poems are veiled explorations of his life.”

“Hmm, I see,” he sighed.

“I knew you’d understand, Your Grace.”