"Very good, your grace."
Bramwell turned and descended the stairs, dissolving back into the shadows. Alaric pulled Penelope up the remaining steps. They bypassed his own chambers and moved down the eastern corridor, throwing open the heavy double doors of the sapphire suite. It was a room reserved for visiting royalty. The walls were draped in azure silk. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, heavy with velvet hangings.
Penelope stood in the center of the room. She was dripping a slow, steady mixture of coal dust and dirty water onto the priceless Aubusson carpet. She looked at the bed, then at her own filthy hands and shrank into herself.
"I am ruining the rug," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"I will burn the house down if it makes you comfortable," Alaric replied.
The door opened behind them. Three maids hurried in carrying heavy copper jugs of steaming water. They were young girls from the upper floors. When they saw Penelope—Jane, the mute, terrifyingly grim woman who scrubbed the pots—standing in the center of the Duke's guest suite, their eyes widened. One of them nearly dropped her jug.
Alaric stepped between Penelope and the maids, shielding her from their gaze. "Fill the tub and get out," he ordered.
They worked in terrified silence, pouring the boiling water into the deep porcelain basin in the adjoining washroom, piling thick white towels on the brass rack, and fleeing the room as if the devil was snapping at their heels.
When the door clicked shut, Alaric turned back to Penelope. She was shivering violently now, the adrenaline fading, leaving only the bone-deep cold of her exhaustion.
"Wash," he said quietly. He pointed to the adjoining room where the steam was already fogging the mirrors. "Lock the door from the inside. I will be in the sitting room. No one will come in."
She looked at him, her gray eyes searching his face for a trap. She had lived in a world where men's favors always came with a horrific price. He saw the calculation in her gaze, the desperate, cynical arithmetic of a survivor.
Alaric turned his back to her and walked into the sitting room, closing the adjoining door behind him. He did not lock it, but he dragged a heavy mahogany armchair in front of the handle and sat down. In the silence, he heard the faint click of the lock sliding into place on her side. Only then did Alaric bury his face in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to block out the overwhelming, suffocating urge to kill a man.
Inside the washroom, Penelope stood motionless for a long time. The steam curled around the edges of the room, carrying the scent of lavender and expensive milled soap. It smelled like her old life. It smelled like the girl who used to read poetry in the garden while her father drank in his study. That girl felt like a stranger. That girl was weak, stupid, and dead.
Her fingers trembled as she unfastened the heavy iron hooks of her scullery dress. The coarse wool smelled of grease, sour milk, and sweat. She let it fall to the marble floor, stepping out of it like a molting skin. Her shift followed.
She caught her reflection in the tall, fogged mirror. She raised her hand and wiped away a circle of condensation. She stared at her own ghost. Her collarbones jutted out sharply against pale translucent skin. Her ribs formed a harsh visible cage. But it was the geography of her survival that held her attention. A faded yellowish bruise bloomed across her left hip, a parting gift from the cook's heavy wooden spoon 3 days ago. But beneath that, older, deeper, were the marks of her marriage. The faint silvery scars of a riding crop across her shoulder blades, the slightly crooked set of her right collarbone, which had broken when she was thrown against a marble fireplace in Yorkshire, and had healed poorly because she hadn't dared call a doctor.
Viscount Carlisle had treated her the way he treated his hounds. He broke them until they stopped whimpering, and then he expected them to perform.
Penelope turned away from the mirror and stepped into the scalding water. The heat was agonizing. It bit into the cracked, weeping skin of her hands and knees. She bit her lip until she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound. Slowly, the agony shifted into a deep, penetrating warmth. She took the bar of white soap and began to scrub. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink. She washed the coal dust from her hair, the grease from beneath her broken nails, the smell of the kitchens from her pores. She wanted to scrub away the last 3 years, to peel her skin off and step out as someone entirely new.
When the water had turned the color of slate, she finally stood, wrapping herself in a towel so thick and soft, it felt like an embrace. She unlocked the door.
Alaric was sitting in the mahogany chair. He hadn't moved. The sky outside the window was beginning to bleed a dull London gray. Dawn was breaking. On a low table beside him sat a silver tray. Steam rose from a teapot. There were thick slices of buttered bread, roasted meats, and a porcelain bowl of coddled eggs.
Penelope's stomach cramped so violently she had to brace her hand against the door frame. Alaric stood up. He pointed to a velvet dressing gown draped over the back of the sofa.
"Put that on, then eat."
She didn't speak. She slipped the heavy navy blue velvet over her shoulders. It was Alaric's, massive and heavy, smelling faintly of tobacco and the sea. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows, sat on the edge of the sofa, and looked at the tray.
She wanted to tear into the meat like a starving dog. She wanted to shove the bread into her mouth until she choked. But Alaric was watching her. The Duke was watching the scullery maid. She forced herself to pick up a fork. Her hand shook so badly the silver rattled against the porcelain plate. She took a small bite of the egg. The richness of it coated her tongue, making her lightheaded. She ate slowly, meticulously, terrified that if she ate too fast, she would be sick and he would be disgusted by her.
Alaric poured a cup of tea and set it near her hand. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell her it was going to be all right. He just watched her with eyes that were dark, stormy, and entirely devoid of pity.