Lord Ruin by Carolyn Jewel Page A

stableboys arranged in the back could hear her. “All of you.” The corner of her mouth quirked as she glanced around. “And I thought Satterfield large. I shall certainly become lost in this house. If I shout, ‘hullo,’ I hope someone will come running to show me the way.” The moment she finished, she wanted to take it all back. How provincial that sounded. Unsophisticated and every bit the rustic she was.
    Cynssyr leaned close and softly said, “Well done, Anne.” He gestured to Merchant. “The duchess and I will dine in her rooms tonight.” That incandescent smile of his appeared, and Anne turned from the sight.
    “Your grace,” murmured the butler. Anne’s heart thudded, and she nearly missed Merchant’s gesture. “This way, Madam Duchess, to your apartments.”
    Anne walked at Cynssyr’s side. He kept a hand on the small of her back, and she felt the gentle pressure like sparks from a fire. They followed Merchant through the marbled great hall, the gleaming parquet upstairs, over thick wool carpets, past carved paneled walls, under high ceilings painted, molded or decorated with gold.
    Gilt-framed dukes watched sternly from beneath powdered wigs, high lace collars and the gleam of polished armor. Crystal chandeliers that must take a team of maids an entire day to polish sparkled from cavernous parlors and withdrawing rooms just glimpsed as they passed. Lovely side tables bearing exquisite vases and marble niches containing figurines of alabaster, marble or bronze decorated the passageways. Rococo mirrors and oils painted by a master’s hand hung from the walls. Through an arched doorway she saw a richer room yet, an entire wall carved with gold-tipped columns.
    They stopped. She felt bereft when Cynssyr removed his hand from her waist. For a deathless moment, they stared at each other, oblivious to Merchant. Oblivious to anything but each other. Impulse had her brushing a lock of mahogany hair from his forehead, as if she’d known him for years and was entitled to a gesture of such intimacy.
    He caught her hand in the moment before she would have snatched it back. Slowly, he brought her fingers to his lips. “Rest, Anne. I will join you later.” And then he let go and strode briskly down the hall as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
    “Your apartments,” Merchant said, opening the door for her.
    “Thank you.” Without Cynssyr so near and addling her wits, she recovered her sensible, practical nature. In she went, through a private sitting room done in ivory and gold. On the far side, an interior door led to a small withdrawing room. To the right of that was a dressing room in which young Tilly, who had agreed to leave Aldreth to take on the position of Anne’s ladies maid, and another servant unpacked her trunks.
    “To your left, your grace,” said Merchant, opening doors, “the bathing room and watercloset.” Directly forward was the bedroom, also decorated in gold on ivory and big enough to hold two of the largest rooms she had imagined would be hers. “To summon a servant.” Merchant indicated a gold-embroidered pull. “Another by the bed.” Silk gauze tented the bed, falling in delicate ivory curves from a spot high over the center of the bed. “Through here,” said Merchant, opening another door, “the boudoir.”
    “Where does that door lead?” She pointed to the opposite side of the room, by now expecting a private library or office, perhaps.
    He coughed. “To the duke’s rooms, madam.”
    “Yes, of course.” She felt herself go horribly red.
    “Shall I send tea?”
    “Thank you. Please do.” Tired to the bone, she sank onto a chair covered in gold-striped ivory silk. She thought of Cynssyr and his ease in this huge house, walking past an army of servants as if it were nothing. To him, it was. None of this was out of the ordinary for him. He took no notice of the luxury and splendor. Simply put, he belonged here, and she could not image she would ever feel at