Page 25 of The Phantom Duke

Maria raised her glass, a warm and fond sensation overcoming her. “As dire as the situation might be,” she said, “no woman in Britain—no, in all the world—could ask for better sisters. To the Corset Chronicles!”

“To the Corset Chronicles!” the others echoed.

Maria tossed her head back and finished the brandy in a single swallow. The spirit burned down the back of her throat, and she grimaced, regretting her decision.

But she had always found the spirit to be fortifying, and she would need an iron resolve if she was going to survive what was to come.

“All will be well,” Maria said. “I am certain of it.”

“Indeed,” Evelina said. “And we will be with you always.”

“Until the end of time,” Anna added.

“Thank you,” Maria replied. “Thank you so very much.”

The words did not seem nearly enough to encompass all the gratitude that she felt at that moment, knowing thatdespite any obstacles, she and these lovely, brilliant women were united.

CHAPTER 8

“Lady Maria, welcome back to the Phantom’s lair,” the duke said, mockingly.

“Thank you, Damien. It is an interesting house,” Maria replied, refusing to take the bait.

Maria had driven the road to Winterleigh with tears on her cheeks, tears of relief and joy mixed with continued worry and anxiety. The approach to Winterleigh had been dramatic to say the least. The house sat atop a hill on grounds that had gone to wilderness. Woodland swathed the hill, maple and birch reaching for the stone walls, trying to overtop its chimney forested rooftops.

She saw a collection of windows that were lit, but most were dark, and some were boarded over or simply gaping, empty and broken. Ivy clung to the walls and reached through several empty window frames. Moss carpeted the cobbled front yard, and flower beds had long since run wild.

Philby had morosely greeted her at the front door and led her to the duke. The room was lit by candles, casting a golden glow that was not quite sufficient to see clearly. The duke was standing, hands clasped behind his back. He had his back to a stone fireplace in which a fire burned merrily. The light from those flames rendered his face a shadow.

“The property is chaotic, certainly,” he said. “My ancestors added to it as they saw fit, with little reason or thought to what had gone before and might come after. You will learn to find your way eventually. At least through those parts of the house that I permit you to enter.”

He moved forward, striding to a table that had been set in the middle of the room atop an ancient-looking rug. He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat.

Maria arched an eyebrow. “Permit me to enter? I will not have the free run of the house?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I will not allow it.”

The duke brought over a bottle of wine from a sideboard and poured her a glass.

“But I will be your wife, will I not?”

“You will. And as such, you will obey. Certain doors will be locked and will remain so.”

Maria sipped her wine, which was as crisp and bright as the first day of October, when autumn had not yet chased away all the glory of summer.

Damien took his seat opposite her, but his glass held water only.

“Are you not joining me?” Maria asked.

“I do not indulge in spirits,” the duke said, sipping his water.

Maria sipped again, taking her time and savoring the excellent flavor.

He does not drink wine but is an excellent judge. He does not seek to flatter or persuade me of the merits of being married to him, either.