He simply watched her, his sea-gray eyes assessing her as one might assess a new piece of livestock.
She bore his scrutiny without flinching, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her gaze level.
She was wearing her best traveling dress, a practical gown of dark gray merino, refitted twice. It was clean and neat, but she was acutely aware of its plainness in this grand, cold place.
She was a gray wren in a cage of eagles.
“Hemlock will show you to your rooms,” the Duke said at last, turning his attention back to the fire. “Dinner is at eight.”
It was a dismissal.
She had been received, inspected, and now put away.
She gave a small, formal curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
He did not reply.
He did not turn again.
Helena followed the butler up the grand staircase, her footsteps and the tap of his staff the only sounds. The chill seemed to deepen as they ascended.
Portraits of long-dead ancestors watched them pass, their painted eyes cold and critical. They all had the Duke’s dark hair and sharp features. They were the Blackwoods of Ravensdale, and she was an intruder, a Withorp of nowhere.
Her rooms were in the east wing, a suite comprising a sitting room and a bedroom, both vast and opulent.
A fire had been lit in the sitting room, but like the one downstairs, it seemed cowed by the scale of the chamber. The furniture was heavy and dark, shrouded in dust covers.
“Her Grace’s rooms have been prepared,” Hemlock stated, gesturing to the closed door of the bedroom. “A maid, Agnes, has been assigned to you. She will be up shortly to assist you.”
Her Grace.
The title sounded absurd.
She was Helena Withorp. She would always be Helena Withorp. The Duchess of Blackwood was a role she was to play, a costume she was to wear.
“Thank you, Hemlock,” she said.
He gave a stiff, shallow bow and departed, his footsteps receding down the long, silent corridor.
The silence he left behind was heavier than his presence.
Alone, Helena walked to the tall window and looked out. The view was of a formal garden, its geometric beds bare and brown, its statues stained with green. Beyond the garden wall, the parkland rolled away into the mist.
It was a bleak, unforgiving vista.
She did not cry.
She had learned a long time ago that tears were a waste of energy, an indulgence.
Instead, she unpinned her bonnet and set it on a chair. She smoothed her dark auburn hair, tucking a stray strand back into the simple knot at the nape of her neck.
She was here.
The contract was fulfilled.
Her family was safe.
This was the price.
She would endure it.
She had always been good at enduring.
Dinner was an exercise in silent misery.