Page 8 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Eight

L ady Rosalind smiled at the waiting staff and exchanged a few pleasantries before the housekeeper approached and introduced herself.

"I'm Mrs. Wilson, Your Grace, Lady Rosalind. And may we offer our condolences regarding your father—what a great loss it must be for you and your family, my lady."

"Thank you. You are very kind," Rosalind managed to reply, though she did not share such melancholy thoughts about her father. He had been cold and unforgiving toward his six daughters—blaming and even hating them simply for being the females they were born as and the ladies they had become. That the staff here appeared genuinely downcast over the duke’s passing gave her a small measure of solace. Perhaps he had not been such a beast to them. Maybe he was happier in London, and the servants here were treated with greater kindness than those back home.

"Come, Your Grace, Lady Rosalind. I shall show you around the house before I guide you upstairs to your rooms."

"Thank you."

As they entered the foyer, the duke slipped Rosalind’s arm free. The staff who had greeted them outside gradually returned to their duties, disappearing into the bustling corridors of the mansion.

Rosalind glanced upward at the two-story foyer, where a sweeping staircase flanked both sides of the upper floor. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She had never imagined that houses in London could rival the grandeur of their cousin country estates, yet the Ravensmere London estate appeared capable of matching even her beloved home in Hampshire.

The housekeeper led them through numerous rooms—the dining room, the billiard and drawing rooms, the duke's library, and even the private office adjoining his own, reserved for his future wife. Rosalind found herself especially taken with the latter, for in its refined quiet she could almost envision her dear mother seated behind a lady's desk or gazing out at the lush gardens that surrounded the home.

"The ballroom is upstairs along with the painting gallery and a private parlor for the lady of the house," the housekeeper explained as she guided them into a large room at the back of the mansion. "There is also a terrace through here. This room is east-facing, so it receives beautiful morning light. The late duke often broke his fast on the terrace when the weather permitted."

Rosalind offered the housekeeper a small smile, though she found little pleasure in discussing her father. He had despised them, and in turn, they had come to repudiate him. Whether he found solace on a terrace mattered little to her.

"There is a conservatory, where the duke—most fond of exotic fruits—kept banana and orange plants. There is, of course, a lovely seated area there as well if you desire a change of scenery."

"Sounds delightful. And what do the grounds of the property entail?" the duke inquired, catching Rosalind’s eye as he followed the housekeeper into a back drawing room that overlooked the gardens.

"The mews lie at the rear of the grounds, and a tall stone wall encloses the property for security. There is a small pond with a fountain, and a large hedge runs along the wall to ensure privacy. The garden boasts several established trees and even a small wooden structure where one might sit outdoors and read. Jasmine has grown over it entirely, and it’s a lovely cool position in the garden on a hot day. You are most welcome to explore if you wish before I show you to your rooms."

Rosalind shook her head. "No, thank you. I must freshen up—and perhaps take a short nap—before this evening’s dinner.”

“I have an appointment that cannot be postponed, so I shall not be in for dinner,” the duke said, moving to leave.

"You're going out?" Rosalind blurted before she could stop herself. Sensing the awkwardness of the remark, the housekeeper curtsied and departed, likely to await their request for further guidance.

"I am," the duke replied. "I have some pressing business that requires my attention, so I shall dine with you another night."

"I hope there is nothing wrong, Your Grace?" Rosalind ventured, not yet ready to call him Nathaniel, even though he had given her leave. With the duke somewhat distracted at that moment, it did not seem the proper time for familiarity.

"Nothing at all. Merely a situation that requires my attention. I shall be back for breakfast."

"I shall see you in the morning then, Your Grace." Rosalind curtsied and made her way toward the front foyer, noting with a twinge of disappointment that no footsteps followed her .

The duke was, after all, a busy man—perhaps a matter concerning his ducal or earldom demanded his immediate input. There was no sign of any mistress, nor any suggestion that he had rushed back to London solely to be with her. Still, the thought left a sour taste in her mouth, and she composed herself when she next met the housekeeper in the foyer.

"Lady Rosalind, would you like me to take you to your room now?" the housekeeper asked.

"Please, thank you. And if you could arrange for some hot water and have my dinner served in my room this evening, that would be most helpful."

"Of course, my lady. Come," the housekeeper said as she led her up the stairs. "Your room is in the west wing and offers a lovely view of the back gardens. I think you shall like it very much."

"I'm certain I shall."

Rosalind loved her new suite of rooms. It was a far cry from the modest quarters of her late father's country estate. This room was opulent, clean, and bright. New linens adorned the bed—a pretty blue-and-white-floral pattern embroidered on the bedspread—and an abundance of pillows, along with two candlelit lamps on matching wooden side tables, lent an air of comfort. Rosalind strolled about, running her hand along the mahogany writing desk and the elegant dressing table, complete with a mirror positioned high enough to see her full reflection.

The curtains were drawn aside so that she could gaze out onto the yard. Outside, a gardener trimmed the roses while another meticulously tended the large hedge that bordered the property, ensuring that nothing was out of place.

Rosalind wondered silently. Was all this opulence provided by the new duke, or had her father reserved more funds for his London home than for his country estate? Could she even ask the duke such a question? Perhaps she was being overly suspicious of her late father. After all, he had given them no reason to believe that any of his words or actions held truth, despite the considerable money suggested by their surprisingly generous dowries. Why, then, would he allow his country seat to wither away without proper care? It made little sense—but then, her father had always been so bitter toward his family; perhaps he acted merely out of spite.

A knock at the door interrupted her musings. Her maid entered, directing the footmen to place the trunks in the dressing room adjoining her bedroom. Once they had departed, Rosalind stepped into the dressing room and peeked around the corner into the washroom—a small rectangular space equipped with a bath and towels, all arranged for her comfort.

"How lovely to have a private space apart from the bedroom in which to bathe," she thought aloud. "I think I shall enjoy my time here. Who knew a house could offer so many luxuries?"

"Oh indeed, my lady," the maid replied. "But I believe some of the finer furnishings in these rooms are due to the new duke. I overheard a footman and a maid discussing it downstairs. He sent orders—and, from what I gathered, an abundance of funds—to ensure his arrival went smoothly and that nothing was amiss. This room’s inviting state is evidence that his wishes were fulfilled."

"Indeed, the room is most pleasing." So it was not her papa who had been living an opulent lifestyle in London, but rather another kindness the new duke extended for her stay—and for her sisters when their debuts arrived. What a good and kind man he was.

Handsome, too.