Page 15 of Two Blessings For His Duchess
“The record of what?” said Euphemia.
“Of everything. Of this entire catastrophe.”
“You are also expected...” said Leonora, still reading. “...to manage the social correspondence of the household. Invitations, acceptances, regrets. A duchess does not decline without good reason and should not accept without strategy.”
“She is facing a lifetime of cold dinners with a terrifying recluse, Leonora.”
“He is not a recluse, Sera,” Leonora argued.
Euphemia sat inside the carriage, simply listening to the two of them go back and forth. It was exhausting, funny, and deeply comforting all at once. Even as a newly minted Duchess, she was still just the sister trapped between two entirely different sisters. Her sisters. Her impossible, beloved, entirely maddening sisters.
When the argument finally hit a brief lull, Euphemia offered a soft, watery smile and reached out to press their hands. “I am going to miss you both so much.”
Seraphina’s composure, which had been held together with considerable effort, cracked at the edges. She stepped forward and put her arms around Euphemia and held on.
Leonora closed her book and joined them.
“We will miss you more,” Seraphina said, into her hair.
“We will visit,” Leonora said. “Frequently. Without warning.”
“So frequently...” Seraphina said, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes bright. “...that the Duke will personally write to us begging us to stay away.”
“A formal letter,” Leonora said. “With the ducal seal.”
“He will develop a nervous condition.”
“He will invent prior engagements that do not exist.”
“He will consider moving to the continent.”
Euphemia laughed, and it came out slightly broken. “You are going to terrorize the man.”
“We are going to visit our sister,” Leonora said. “Whatever he calls it is entirely his own concern.”
“We are the Byron sisters,” Seraphina said quietly, and the teasing had gone from her voice entirely. “We are entirely inseparable. Not even a powerful man like the Duke of Greymoor can separate us from each other.”
The footman stepped forward, politely indicating that it was time to depart, just as Nathaniel got into the carriage. There were final embraces. Final words. Seraphina’s hand pressing hers briefly, warmly, saying the thing that did not need saying because they all already knew it. As the vehicle jolted forward and the wheels began to turn against the gravel, Euphemia watched her sisters’ wave from the chapel steps until they turned into small blurs in the distance.
A sudden wave of emotion caught her off guard, and she felt hot tears welling up in her eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure what the tears were for. If they came from the sadness of leaving her family, the sheer fear of the unknown, or the exhaustion of the past week.
But she refused to let them fall. Sucking in a sharp breath, she stared fixedly out the window at the passing London scenery. She kept her chin up and resolutely refused to look toward the other side of the carriage, entirely convinced that her new husband was still sitting there, peering at her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“This is Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, and Mr. Harris, the butler,” Nathaniel said, his deep voice carrying clearly across the cavernous marble entryway. He did not offer his hand to help Euphemia remove her traveling cloak, leaving that task to a waiting housemaid. “They will oversee your settling in. If you require anything for your personal comfort, you are to direct your requests through them.”
Euphemia stood perfectly still beneath the towering, vaulted ceiling of the grand hall, trying to suppress the sudden urge to shudder. The interior of Greymoor was spectacular, built from cool, pale limestone with imperial staircases that curved upward into the upper gallery. It looked exactly like the sprawling, symmetric floor plans published in the architectural folios Leonora so fiercely studied.
Yet, for all its structural perfection, the house felt entirely frozen. There were no fresh flowers in the urns, no warmth in the hearths, and the air carried the faint, crisp scent of bees wax. It was a massive fortress built to keep the world out.
The household staff stood in two perfectly straight lines, their faces entirely unreadable. Mrs. Gable, was dressed in immaculate black silk, offered a low, stiff curtsy that felt more like an obligation than a welcome. Beside her, Mr. Harris bowed but kept his face straight.
“Welcome to Greymoor, Your Grace,” Mr. Harris said. “Your wing has been prepared, and the footmen are currently unloading your trunks.”
“My wing?” Euphemia asked.
“Carter,” Nathaniel interrupted, stopping before a young woman with good posture. “Your maid. Her references are sound.”
