Page 10 of Duke of the Sun (Regency Sky #1)

CHAPTER 9

W hen the carriage arrived back at Solshire, Cordelia jolted awake from a dreamless sleep. She blinked as the footman opened the door, a stream of late afternoon sun slicing through the dim compartment. The ride was quiet and swaying, pulling her into a sleep before she even realized she was the slightest bit tired.

The footman extended a hand to help her out, and she graciously took it. As the light grazed over her dress, Cordelia smiled, long wispy hairs from Tiberius lingering across her skirts. Without brushing them off, she began to make her way back towards the entrance to the estate.

When she was halfway up the stairs, the grand doors pushed open, and Mrs. Bellflower stepped out to greet her. Cordelia couldn’t help but remember her first few months at the estate, when the housekeeper barely batted an eye in her direction. It took plenty of time and many difficult moments, but after earning the woman’s respect, Cordelia found a friend in Mrs. Bellflower, in the same way she once cherished Mrs. Atty back at Darkenhill.

“Welcome home, your Grace,” Mrs. Bellflower chimed when she met her on the stairs. “I hope you had a pleasant trip at Darkenhill Manor.”

Cordelia smiled. “I will always be pleased to visit my siblings. Thank you for asking, Mrs. Bellflower.” As they walked up alongside each other, Cordelia heard noise being pulled along the wind from behind the estate. “Is the work on the orangery still going well?”

“It progresses just as planned, your Grace.”

“And Hunters, has he -”

“Hunters hasn’t left his spot overlooking the workers,” Mrs. Bellflower assured, a knowing smile on her lips. “There was a point in which he wandered back into the estate to retrieve something, but you will be most surprised to hear, your Grace, that it was the Duke himself who ordered him back to work.”

Cordelia paused at the threshold. “You aren’t trying to tease me, are you, Mrs. Bellflower?”

“Heavens not, your Grace!”

“Well,” Cordelia mused, swallowing down the pleased smile that threatened to show, “How peculiar. I can only assume it means my husband would want something.”

“Whatever for, your Grace? There isn’t a thing the Duke could be wanting, besides your happiness, of course.”

Cordelia laughed. “What an odd thing to hear.”

“Odd, your Grace?”

“My husband is seeking out my happiness,” Cordelia repeated. “Does that not sound unusual to your ears, Mrs. Bellflower?”

The housekeeper sighed. “While I very much see your point, your Grace, perhaps you might be open to considering the Duke’s efforts to forge a better relationship between the two of you.”

Cordelia glanced over at Mrs. Bellflower, surprised at the sincerity of the housekeeper’s voice. She couldn’t truly believe that the husband who had been missing from his own halls for over a year would want to ensure Cordelia’s comfortability, could she? Cordelia shook her head just as the tightness returned to her chest, spreading to her stomach where restless butterflies danced around haphazardly.

“Never mind it,” Cordelia said instead.

“I took to going through your ball gowns, your Grace, since you have an event steadily approaching.”

Cordelia frowned. Somehow, during the trip back, she had completely forgotten about the ball and everything a Season in London required. “Very well,” she muttered. “I assume there was something acceptable for the occasion.”

“More than acceptable, your Grace,” she replied. “You own so many delightful pieces, I am surprised you hadn’t taken to them much sooner.”

“Balls are not my preferred way to spend my time.”

Mrs. Bellflower laughed. “Why not, your Grace? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all,” Cordelia replied. “Some days, I believe the life of an aristocrat was meant for someone entirely different than me. I do not care to waltz around a room listening to the gossip and rumors the Ton decides to spread on any given evening.”

“Perhaps it would be a more exciting turn of events to spread gossip around yourself, your Grace.”

Cordelia glanced over at her with wide eyes. “Mrs. Bellflower,” she mused, “What a shocking thing to suggest.”

“The rumors spread about you and the Duke have reached even our ears, your Grace.”

Cordelia sighed. “They are foolish, aren’t they?”

“But still widely believed,” the housekeeper continued. “The Duke would not have returned if he didn’t have a sort of question about them. If they are that easy to be created, your Grace, what’s to say you can’t use this ball to reshape how the Ton thinks of you? However you might please?”

“My, my,” Cordelia teased with a growing smile, “Who knew you were such a gossip, Mrs. Bellflower?”

The housekeeper laughed, a delicate pink hue taking over her wrinkled cheeks. “I wouldn’t call myself a gossip, your Grace, but rather someone who understands how the Ton flows and ebbs. It is only food for thought, your Grace. You may take it as you wish.”

Cordelia’s smile widened even further. The housekeeper suggested to do gossiping of her own, some that could rid Solshire of the dreadfully foolish rumors that threatened to tarnish the Duke’s well rounded name for generations to come. While she had no interest in rectifying the things the Ton wished to believe, she found a sort of playfulness in Mrs. Bellflower’s suggestion. Why shouldn’t Cordelia have a bit of fun herself, in a time when she couldn’t imagine finding the slightest bit of pleasure in a ball?

As they pressed further into the foyer, Cordelia noticed an aching in her calves, one that shot down to her sore feet. Nothing a bout of warm water and a relaxing hour couldn’t fix. “It has been quite a long day of travel, Mrs. Bellflower,” Cordelia said. “Might you send a maid to prepare a bath for me?”

The housekeeper bowed her head. “Would you like to use your newly renovated bathroom, your Grace?”

Cordelia nodded. “It has been a successful addition to the estate, hasn’t it?” The words of her husband came rushing back to her, his consistent apprehension towards her renovations not hesitating to cling to her confidence. “Despite the work and cost.”

“I would say so, your Grace,” Mrs. Bellflower said. “The maids are very grateful to not have to lug the bathtub to and from any rooms.”

“I am glad.”

“The most important one to please is yourself, your Grace. As long as you approve of the addition, I do not see any qualms about it.”

“I cannot approve it enough,” Cordelia joked, letting out a light laugh. “The window the bathtub is placed in front of is the most relaxing spot in the entire estate. I could have a glass of wine in there, if I was so pleased.”

Mrs. Bellflower smiled. “And your art, your Grace? Have you brought it there with you?”

“I never thought of it,” Cordelia replied as they walked leisurely towards her chambers. “Though, it would be quite a shame to get water on a canvas, wouldn’t it?”

The housekeeper laughed. “You are the painter, your Grace.”

At her chambers, Mrs. Bellflower gave Cordelia a slight bow. “I will fetch the maids now, your Grace, to prepare you for a bath.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bellflower.”

The housekeeper scurried down the hall, gathering her skirts in one hand as she slipped around the corner. Cordelia passed into her room, walking past the series of canvases she had poised on her easels already. Her work, lately, consisted primarily of landscapes around the estate. She worked on a painting of the orangery, though she paused till the construction on it was entirely finished. Another consisted of the front of the estate, the lake and family mausoleum peeking out on either side. The last remained blank, a project she wanted to begin but had yet to decide on a subject.

Cordelia took a seat at the edge of her bed, peeling off her gloves and kicking her shoes haphazardly across the floor. All the while she stared at the white canvas, her mind suddenly fixated on something to fill it with. Her head tilted. An image came to mind, one that brought a heated blush to her cheeks at the exact same time.

Cordelia was not one to paint portraits. They were time consuming and required the subject to sit in the ideal position for long, grueling hours. Cordelia had her own portrait done as a child, and the time she spent stuck in an uncomfortable chair while a pinched looking man sketched her onto his canvas was not a fond memory. And yet, as she rose from the bed, drawing nearer to the canvas, Cordelia raised her finger, tracing the lines and shapes in her head across the page.

“Michael Rayson,” she whispered, glancing around as if someone might’ve been listening. The name hung in the air like a prayer, something she was not meant to whisper aloud, something meant for no ears. Cordelia breathed in. “Michael Rayson,” she said again, firmer that time.

“My husband,” she added, raising her shoulders.

Cordelia shook her head, letting her hand fall to her side. “What a ridiculous thought.”

Even so, she snatched up the wood-cased pencil sitting beside the easel, unable to stop herself from dragging lines and sharp edges across the canvas. Soon, from nothing but memory alone, Cordelia had the image of a familiar face sketched.

She took a step back, taking in the likeliness. Somehow, she managed to achieve the Duke’s harsh edges, his jutting chin, the way his brow cast a darkened shadow over his eyes. With a few lines and strikes of her pencil, Cordelia felt as though she stood face-to-face with her husband, enamoured by his presence and unable to turn away. To know him by memory in such a way was impressive, but the feeling attached to it almost frightened her.

“He is a beast,” she murmured to herself. “And yet…”

Cordelia snapped the pencil back onto the easel, backing away from her canvas. She hardly recognized herself.

“It is Irene’s fault,” she snapped as she gathered her things to go to the bathroom. “ She has disrupted my thinking.”

Pushing open the door, Cordelia held her chin up, determined to wipe the image of the Duke clean from her face as soon as possible. A delightful bath, one that overlooked the setting sun, sounded like the perfect way to clear her turmoiled mind. She went down a hallway and a winding corner before coming across the newly renovated bathroom. Perhaps the maid collected her a glass of wine, as well, since she mentioned it to Mrs. Bellflower before. Growing more and more excited to spend some much needed time alone, Cordelia gently pushed open the bathroom door.

Steam from a previous bath filled the room. The tiles on the floor and walls were dripping with condensation, the tables beside the bathtub littered with formal papers and opened letters. Wax seals were on the floor around the tub, a fallen quill spilling leftover ink onto the tiles. A figure, recognizable the moment Cordelia opened the door, stood in front of the tub, facing the wide and tall windows that overlooked the back of the estate.

The Duke was in the midst of pulling a robe on. His back faced the entrance, water still dripping from his hair, trickling onto the floor beside his bare feet. Though Cordelia already knew his hair to be longer than most men in the Ton, it stretched further down his neck than she realized, now that it was weighed down with water.

But it was not the Duke’s hair or the mess he left around the tub that caught Cordelia’s eye. She had never seen a man so bare before, besides her brother, when they were nothing more than children. This occurrence was different than anything she might’ve once known. Not only was the Duke’s skin oddly alluring, fostering that familiar flurry of butterflies in her stomach, but there was something else, something more personal than she ever realized.

White lines, long and sharp scars, lined the Duke’s back. They stretched from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, down his spine and across his waist. Some curved to encroach upon his neck, others stretched further than what Cordelia could see. Despite the sun illuminating him, casting the rest of his figure into a silhouette like shadow, the white scars stood out like strokes of fresh paint. The breath was stolen from Cordelia’s lips. Too shocked and scandalized to move, she remained as still as a statue for a whole moment, till she realized the Duke was beginning to turn around, obviously aware that someone had entered the private space.

Cordelia flung around, almost slipping on the moist tiles below. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she blurted, facing the threshold.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied.

Without seeing his expression, Cordelia had no way of reading the tone of his voice. He sounded incredibly monotone, as if there wasn’t an odd thing to say about the situation they found themselves in. She fidgeted. “I shall ask you again,” she snapped. “What do you think you’re doing here? I thought you considered my renovations to be nothing more than an unneeded expense!”

“While I do not plan on retracting my statement anytime soon,” the Duke said, his low voice growing closer as his feet padded against the tile, “I cannot deny the impressive work done on this room. I can hardly remember what it was before.”

“I-I-” Cordelia stammered, unable to control her thoughts into an ordered statement. The hint of a compliment in his words took her for a spin, one that she had no intention of indulging in.

“As for why I find myself here,” the Duke continued, “I was under the impression I could go anywhere I pleased. This is my home, after all.”

Cordelia found herself frozen in place.

“You don’t have to be turned around, you know.”

“But you -”

“I am fully dressed,” he interjected, the hint of a tease shadowing his voice, “Have been for a moment.”

Cordelia swallowed. There wasn’t a word she could focus on, a thing she could say when the image of the white scars along his back haunted her every thought. Anytime she considered she might gain the confidence to speak, the scars came rushing back to her, and Cordelia was forced to clamp her mouth shut. What if she was foolish enough to ask about them? And what if he was willing enough to explain them?

She fidgeted again, her hands intertwined tightly in front of her.

“I must say, I was quite skeptical when Hunters advised me on using the tub here,” the Duke suddenly said. “But I never fancied myself to be a liar. I enjoyed the bath much more than I thought I would.”

Cordelia was caught in another blush. Heat swarmed up her neck and her cheeks. She fought the urge to fan herself, to stagger and beg for some air. Every word he dared to speak sent the butterflies rushing through her stomach once more. He couldn’t be complimenting her so much, could he? There must’ve been something she missed, something she was too foolish or blind to see. The Duke that arrived those few days ago, determined to fix everything he swore she did wrong, could not be the same man who valued the work she had done.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Cordelia’s distraction shrouded her from knowing how close the Duke came to her.

“Your Grace,” he cooed, the words practically resting on Cordelia’s shoulder, “Is there any particular reason as to why you’re still here?” If it were at all possible, Cordelia felt as though she could hear the smirk in his voice, the corner of his lip turning up in a way she had never seen before.

Devils!

Her shoulders raised, an unexpected chilling rolling down her shoulder blades. In front of her, the Duke’s shadow stretched across the tile, as if he stood directly behind her. If she concentrated, she quickly realized his even breathing sliding over the top of her head. The magnitude of his height and closeness rattled Cordelia down to her very bones. Growing up, she knew the scandal it would be to reside so close to a man, especially if he wore such little clothing. Even then, bound to one another through marriage, Cordelia felt as though she had one foot securely stepping into a world of scandal and inappropriate gossip, as if the entirety of the Ton could see her now.

Without another thought to spare, Cordelia shot through the door, almost sprinting down the hall. When she rounded the corner, she slowed to a walk, unsure of where exactly she was trying to end up. There was not a single coherent thought in her mind, even when there was countless amounts of space between her and the renovated bathroom. Perhaps the Duke barely spared her a second thought, only laughing to himself about her stupidity and childish behavior.

Cordelia crossed another corner, and slid down the wall, sitting with her knees pulled up into her chest. There wasn’t a soul around, no prying eyes to see her in that dramatic state. Even if it was nothing more than a silly encounter, Cordelia pressed a hand to her chest, unable to ignore the insistent hammering of her clueless heart.

And as she sat there, desperate to calm herself down, Cordelia became aware of one thing, and one thing only. She had yet to see her husband smile, and a part of her was truly disappointed in that.

“Your Grace?”

Cordelia’s head shot up. To her right, coming down the hall, was Mrs. Bellflower. The housekeeper had a dreadfully worried look on her face, immediately dipping down beside her on the floor.

“Whatever is the matter, your Grace?” She reached, pressing the back of her palm to Cordelia’s cheeks and forehead. “You look awfully flushed, your Grace. Are you feeling unwell? Shall I fetch the doctor?”

Cordelia shook her head, barely capable of finding her words.

“I went to find you in your chambers, your Grace, but you weren’t there,” Mrs. Bellflower continued. “It passed my mind that the Duke was using the bathroom himself. I’m sure he’ll be finished in the next minute or two, and we can get you relaxed and better in no time.” The housekeeper touched her cheek another time. “Perhaps I will fetch the doctor, your Grace, just in case something ails you.”

“Whatever ails me,” Cordelia finally said, “Cannot be healed by a doctor.”

Mrs. Bellflower frowned. “The Duke enlists the brightest and most talented doctor in Solshire, your Grace. I don’t doubt the sir’s capabilities one bit.”

“Neither do I,” she replied in a murmur. “And yet, I do not believe he would be well versed in my ailment.”

The housekeeper sighed, kneeling down in front of Cordelia. She had the look of a concerned mother, her brow deeply knit and eyes widened. “Let me guess,” Mrs. Bellflower said, “Do you have a beating heart, your Grace?”

“Of course I do.”

“But is it painful? Perhaps it beats like a drum, or a burst of thunder. Like that, your Grace?”

Cordelia met the housekeeper’s persistent gaze. “I suppose so,” she whispered.

“Then I might say you are more than well, even without a doctor.” Mrs. Bellflower rose to her feet, reaching her hands out to help Cordelia up after her. Once they were both standing, Mrs. Bellflower ran her hands down Cordelia’s skirts, brushing them off and straightening them out. When she stood back up, the housekeeper reached, tucking strands of hair behind Cordelia’s ears.

“How do you know?” Cordelia finally asked. “If I am well, I mean.”

Mrs. Bellflower smiled. “We are all affected by that ailment in our lives, your Grace. And, in the end, we all survive it.”

“What is it?”

“That, your Grace, is something you might need to discover on your own.”

And as the housekeeper led the way back towards Cordelia’s chambers, she found her heart would not stop in hammering the way it insisted upon, never once letting up. She kept a hand pressed to her chest, repeating Mrs. Bellflower’s words in her head, as though they would be the cure she greedily searched for.

In the end, we all survive it.