“Another Christmas Alone,” She Thought — Until a Duke’s Carriage Broke Down at Her Gate
Chapter 17
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Outside, the winter moon rose above the orchard, the snow glittering beneath its pale light. And in two rooms beneath the same roof, a woman and a duke lay awake, each wondering whether a broken carriage might have brought them to the beginning of something neither had dared to hope for.The morning Julian was meant to leave, Rosamond woke to the sound of hammering. For one blissful moment, she imagined that someone was repairing the roof; then she remembered the gate, and the carriage, and the gentleman who had arrived in a snowstorm and somehow managed in the space of three days to make Willowmere Cottage feel less like a refuge from the world, and more like a place where the world might begin again.She lay still beneath the blankets. Downstairs, the clock struck eight. She had slept badly—not because of the cold, for the fire had been kept burning throughout the night, but because she had spent an unreasonable amount of time imagining what she might say when Julian departed:"Thank you for coming." That sounded absurd; he had not intended to come."I hope you enjoyed your visit." That sounded like something one might say to a distant cousin after an uncomfortable dinner."I shall miss you."Rosamond closed her eyes. That was the truth; unfortunately, the truth was not always the wisest thing to say.She rose, dressed, and pinned her hair with greater care than usual. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. "Really, Rosamond," she murmured, "he is a duke, not a visiting archbishop. You needn't look as though you are preparing to be examined."Pickles, who had been waiting impatiently beside the door, barked."Yes, I know you have no interest in my appearance. Your only concern is breakfast." He barked again. "An admirably consistent philosophy."She went downstairs. The kitchen was empty. The breakfast things had been arranged neatly, and a small note rested beside the teapot:
Miss Fairchild, His Grace has gone to inspect the repairs. We shall return shortly. — Peters
Rosamond read it twice. She was not entirely certain why the absence of Julian's familiar voice made the kitchen feel so different: it was only a room—the same chairs, the same table, the same crooked shelf Aunt Beatrice had always insisted was perfectly straight. Yet something was missing. Rosamond set the note aside and began preparing breakfast.She had just placed the kettle on the stove when the back door opened. Julian entered carrying a bundle of firewood: his boots were muddy, his dark hair had been thoroughly disturbed by the wind, and there was a small streak of something suspiciously resembling grease upon his cheek.Rosamond stared. "Good heavens."Julian stopped. "Good morning to you as well.""Have you been repairing the carriage?""Not precisely.""Then what happened to your face?"He touched his cheek; his fingers came away black. "Ah."