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Chapter Eleven

L arsen Manor was a palace. Two, perhaps three, times bigger than Volk House.

As the coach rolled through the imposing black iron gates, Gemma found herself staring up at the enormous white-painted house, with its forest of chimneys, and rows and rows of gleaming windows.

A neatly manicured lawn spread out in front of the manor, lined with flowers in all colors of the rainbow.

Though she could see little of the garden from the front of the property, Gemma could tell it was expansive and full of trees.

At least I will have a beautiful home .

It was a small positive, but at least it was something.

Nonetheless, the sight of the manor made the pounding in Gemma's chest intensify.

Because she was suddenly, painfully aware that she was the lady of the house now.

And while the Duke's grandmother might have been somewhat pleased about it, she knew his mother would be anything but.

The Duchess, Martha, had handpicked Henrietta Henford as her son's wife.

It was no secret that she looked down on the Volks.

And now she had one as her daughter-in-law.

The coachman pulled open the door, nodding at the Duke as he leaped from the carriage. He waited at the stairs, offering his arm to Gemma. Her eyes narrowed at him, but she reluctantly accepted his hand, lest she fall again.

Not that falling again could possibly get me into more trouble.

The Duke glanced at her as he led her up the front steps. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to decide against it. Before Gemma could ask him to spit out whatever it was he had intended to say, the front door opened, revealing a butler dressed in a neat black suit.

“Your Graces, I—” His eyes widened at the sight of Gemma, his words dying away.

“Do not just stand there, Fielding.” The Duke's voice was clipped. “Welcome the Duchess into her new home.” He shot the butler a glare that clearly told him to ask no questions.

Fielding straightened obediently. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Grace. Of course.” He turned to Gemma. “Your Grace. Welcome to Larsen Manor.”

“Thank you,” Gemma managed. Regardless of her feelings toward her husband, she would take his lead on this outlandish situation.

Do her best to ignore the surprised stares of the household staff, who were lined up ready to welcome the new duchess into their home.

She noticed several younger maids exchanging quizzical glances.

Noticed an older woman she assumed was the housekeeper shooting down their unspoken questions with a glare fierce enough to quieten a raging bull.

The butler turned to Gemma with a slight bow. “May I introduce your household, Your Grace?” He rattled through a list of names that Gemma, in her chaotic mental state, knew she would never remember. The maids dropped into curtseys, and the men made awkward bows.

“Fielding.” The Duke turned to his butler with a business-like look in his eyes. “Have the footmen sent to Volk House to collect the Duchess's belongings. And her lady's maid, Ivy.”

“Yes, Your Grace. At once.” He wrung his hands together, as though debating whether to ask questions. “And the wedding breakfast, sir? Is it?—”

“There will be no wedding breakfast,” the Duke said shortly. His tone made it clear that no more questions were to be asked. There was a moment of silence, and Gemma could feel his eyes on her. His eyes, and the entire rest of the household's.

She refused to look at him. Refused to look at any of them. She kept her gaze fixed on the polished tiles of the entrance hall, feeling a fierce flush of shame gathering in her cheeks.

Finally, the Duke cleared his throat. “Mrs. Walsh, have the Duchess shown to her rooms at once. And then see to it that quarters are prepared for her lady's maid.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Walsh, extricated herself from the lineup and hurried toward Gemma, dropping into another awkward curtsey. “This way, Your Grace. Please follow me.”

Relieved to be free of the bewildered welcoming party, Gemma trailed the housekeeper up the wide staircase that rose from the center of the entrance hall. Only now did she dare look up and take in her surroundings.

Larsen Manor, it had to be said, was a work of art.

Tasteful and lavish, without being too ostentatious or overbearing.

High white walls were interspersed with wide windows, and curtains of tasteful pastel colors tied back neatly.

The floorboards in the entrance hall shone like a mirror and the polished marble of the staircase gleamed.

As Gemma followed Mrs. Walsh up to her rooms, she saw the walls of the upstairs passageway were painted a tasteful mint green, and one polished oak door after the next awaited her as she peered down the long hallway.

A collection of portraits were gathered at the top of the stairs, as though overseeing the smooth running of the house.

Gemma found her gaze lingering on the timeworn faces of the old dukes and duchesses.

Would her own portrait hang on this wall one day?

The thought was so ridiculous she almost laughed.

Because not a piece of this felt real. It felt like nothing more than a cruel joke, a terrible daydream. This could not be her life now. There was just no way. Gemma reached out a sudden hand, grappling with the wall to stay upright as her legs wavered beneath her.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Mrs. Walsh asked in alarm.

To her horror, the hysterical laugh Gemma had been trying to hold in slipped out. The housekeeper raised her thin gray eyebrows and opened her mouth to speak.

“Forgive me,” Gemma said before the older woman could speak. “You must think me terribly rude. This is all just… something of a shock.”

Mrs. Walsh tilted her head, and Gemma could practically see the curiosity burning behind her brown eyes. She could tell the housekeeper desperately wanted to ask what on earth had led to this bizarre turn of events.

The harsh expression Mrs. Walsh had dished out to her misbehaving charges in the lineup had vanished, replaced with one of empathy.

The old woman's face was kind, creased with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that suggested a life full of laughter and smiles.

Gemma could tell that, while she might run the household with an iron fist, there was an undeniable warmth to her character.

Inexplicably, she felt a sudden urge to open up to her. After all, she was completely alone in this place. She had been torn from her family in the most confounding of circumstances.

But of course, Gemma knew she could do no such thing. Not as the daughter of an earl, and certainly not as a duchess.

A duchess! The thought almost brought a second round of manic laughter.

Instead, she lifted her chin and offered Mrs. Walsh a pale smile.

In spite of all that had happened, Gemma was proud of the way in which she carried herself.

Proud, in a strange sort of way, of being known as Lady Highbrow.

It showed the world she would not let herself be dragged down by her father's reputation.

Showed the world she had a little pride in who she was.

And right now, that was the only thing she had left.

“I am quite all right, Mrs. Walsh. Thank you. But I would like to see my rooms.”

The housekeeper bobbed her capped head. “Of course, Your Grace.” She led Gemma down to the end of the long corridor and opened the door on the left. It opened onto a room so vast and exquisite that it was all Gemma could do not to gasp.

Sunlight poured in through enormous windows that took up most of one wall. Beyond them stretched the acres of garden behind the manor, neatly manicured in places and allowed to grow enchantingly wild in others. A place to escape to , Gemma found herself thinking.

A polished wooden writing desk was tucked beneath the window, a set of empty bookshelves standing beside it, waiting to be filled. Through the open door beside it, Gemma could see what she assumed was her dressing room, with its large mirrored dressing table and a porcelain washstand beside it.

In the center of the room stood a palatial bed, hung with white damask curtains and laden with blankets and pillows of the palest pink. Gemma found herself staring at it and felt her stomach turn over.

“You must tell us if the décor is not to your liking, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Walsh. “The colors were chosen at the request of…” She faded out. “Well. You know… If there is anything you would like altered, do not hesitate to ask.”

Gemma swallowed, the near-mention of Miss Henford barely registering. Her mind was suddenly swamped with the thought of what she might be required to do in that bed.

Like it or not—and she most certainly did not—she was the Duke of Larsen's wife. And as his wife…

No. She could not follow that thought through. Partly because it filled her with anger. And partly because the thought of the Duke coming to her bed set something simmering inside her. And that was something she was certainly not going to entertain.

As far as I am concerned, he is my husband in name alone…

The moment the thought entered her head, tears began to well behind her eyes. She blinked fiercely, determined not to let them fall.

She turned back to Mrs. Walsh. “Thank you,” she said, barely managing to keep the waiver from her voice. “The décor is lovely. I do not need anything altered.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have tea and sandwiches brought up to your room?”

“Thank you, yes. That would be lovely.” This time, she knew the tremor in her words had betrayed her. But to her relief, Mrs. Walsh did not react. She simply bobbed another curtsey and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

The moment the door had clicked into place, Gemma's tears spilled. Usually, she was not one to cry, but if there were ever extenuating circumstances that might allow for such a display of emotion, surely this was it.

She longed to see her sisters. Her father. Her grandmother. Longed for her cozy, worn blankets on her bed in Volk House. She longed for her old, simple existence when she had had nothing more than the life of a spinster laid out before her.

And heaven on earth, she longed to get out of this damn dress and into a change of clean clothes.

But right now, none of that was happening. Some distant part of her knew that the simple life of spinsterhood in Volk House was gone forever, but it was a reality she could not yet allow herself to go near.

Right now, all she had the strength for was to curl up on her bed and cry.

Wyatt found himself pacing his study, a glass of whisky firmly in hand. Well, this was his second glass now, but who was counting?

The thought of his wedding day had always elicited a faint pull of horror. But he had never imagined it might turn out like this.

He was acutely aware of her—his wife—in the rooms designated for Henrietta Henford.

I ought to go to her. Make sure she is all right.

Wyatt felt fairly certain he was the last person Lady Gemma wanted to see right now.

But he could only imagine how she must be feeling.

This whole chaotic turn of events had felt completely unmooring for him—how must she feel, having been torn from her family, her home, without even a hint of warning?

And, he acknowledged distantly, without a scrap of it being her fault.

Tossing back the last of the liquor for courage, he shoved open the door of the study and strode down the passage toward the other wing of the house. He paused outside the door of Lady Gemma's bedchamber.

Is she crying?

Inexplicably, the thought made something ache in Wyatt's chest. He knocked gently. “Lady Gemma? May we speak?”

There was a moment of silence, then sharp footsteps clicked toward him. The door, however, remained closed.

“We have nothing to speak about, Your Grace,” came her taut reply.

In spite of himself, Wyatt let out a chuckle. “I really don't think that is true. Do you?”

There was another silence, and just as he was about to give up, the door opened. Lady Gemma's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy with tears. Her dark hair was rumpled, stray strands clinging to her wet cheeks.

“You are upset,” he said stupidly.

Lady Gemma snorted. “No, Your Grace. These are tears of joy.”

In spite of himself, a faint smile flickered in the corner of his lips. Though he hated seeing her so upset, there was something about her feistiness he could not help but be drawn to.

“May I come in?” he asked tentatively.

“No,” she snapped. “Of course, you may not come in.” She met his eyes in a gesture of challenge. A look that said she knew she was out of line in speaking to her husband, the Duke, in such a manner. And a look that said she could not have cared less.

Wyatt looked past her into the room. It had been decorated in shades of cream and pale pink, at Miss Henford's request, no doubt.

He found himself wondering what Lady Gemma thought of it.

A teapot and an untouched plate of sandwiches sat on the side table.

“Perhaps you ought to eat something,” Wyatt said, grappling at something to break the icy silence.

“I am not hungry,” Lady Gemma replied brusquely.

Wyatt sighed. “Very well then.” Clearly, the conversation he had hoped to have, about how they might go about making the best of this situation, was not going to happen right now.

“Your belongings shall be here shortly. Along with your lady's maid. You shall have plenty of time to tidy yourself before dinner tonight.”

At the mention of dinner, Lady Gemma's eyes widened slightly, and he detected a faint hint of horror in them.

I don't blame her. I am dreading it too.

Wyatt had no idea how he was going to face his mother and grandmother, especially not with his surly, sour-tempered new wife at his side.

His mother would still be fuming, no doubt.

And as for the Dowager Duchess, well… There were a few choice words Wyatt wished to hurl at her too.

After all, this nightmare was all her doing.

As though he had conjured them with his thoughts, Wyatt heard the front door opening, and the butler murmuring greetings to his mother and grandmother. Heard the deliberate click-clack of footsteps heading across the foyer.

“I've got to go,” Wyatt told Gemma. “I shall have your things brought up the moment they arrive.”

No doubt she had heard the Dowagers' arrival too because his wife managed nothing more than a pale-faced nod.

Wyatt closed the door and headed in the direction of his mother's footsteps, trying to summon his courage and wishing he had had a third whisky.