Page 32 of A Duke in Autumn

If he thought of her only as a passing amusement, then for her to write to him would be utterly, mortifyingly, embarrassing.

How did Isabelle do it, she wondered? Her sister had always been rashly willing to act, if she wanted something, but even now, feeling braver, Eugenia could not imagine simply writing to the man. She suspected that, had Isabelle been in her position, such a letter would have been written many days ago.

Her life was lonely, with Isabelle now married and living elsewhere – lonely, and getting more so, no matter how much she loved the rest of her family. Even her designs did not fill her with the pleasure they once had. For her mind insisted on wondering whether he would like each one, before she remembered, each time, that he would never have the chance to see them.

When she looked back, she realised, rather loweringly, that much of her life had been lived vicariously, through Isabelle, while she, Eugenia, stayed safely ensconced in her respectability. And now, when she wanted to do something different, she did not know how.

Chapter Fifteen

Disconsolate, Eugenia rose from the table in the parlour where she had been sketching, so that Juliana could easily sit beside her and, leaving the sketches scattered on its surface, she went to curl in the window seat, and stare out at the view. The late afternoon sunlight cast the whole scene into golden tones, with the last of the leaves on the trees along the drive, and all of the fallen leaves beneath them, making the drive seem like some fairytale avenue paved with gold. Along that avenue came a carriage, also limned in gold by the light, making it seem as magical as the scene around it.

She looked more closely – who was it? They were not, as far as she knew, expecting any visitors. Caught by the scene, almost wondering if the carriage was real, or a creation of her imagination, she watched as it approached. Finally, it stopped on the wide gravel expanse before the house. There appeared to be a crest on the door, but she could not make it out, with the sun sparkling off it, and the whole polished side of the carriage reflecting the golden glow. A footman rushed out, and let down the steps, then opened the door.

Eugenia leaned forward, pressing her face to the glass, oddly desperate to see who emerged. A man stepped out, and stood a moment, straightening his attire, before turning his face towards the house. Her heart nearly stopped.

It was him. Oakthorpe.

A sense of unreality filled her – why was he here? Habit sent her to her feet – was she respectable? Did she need to change? She should tidy away her drawings in case they were seen…

In the middle of the room, she jerked to a halt.

No! to all of those thoughts. It did not matter if she was ‘respectable’ or not, it did not matter if he saw her drawings – he of all people! For he already knew about them, for a start. And, she did not know why he was there. She reasoned to herself - if he is here, then either it is for some reason unrelated to me, in which case I don’t care how I appear, or it is to see me, in which case, I will show myself as I am – no more hiding behind a perfect face – certainly not with the man whose words freed me from needing to do so!

With a deep breath, she tried to calm the pounding in her chest, the unevenness of her breath, and the sudden dryness of her mouth, tried to prevent herself from foolish hope. Then, she walked quietly to the table, sat down, and lifted her pencil.

~~~~~

Morris stepped down from the carriage, and brushed his coat into place, then glanced up at the imposing house before him. It was, in a word, enormous. The old stone caught the gold afternoon light, making it seem almost magical.

The long drive had felt similar – as if he had been driven through a dream of gold dust and magic, towards a fairytale castle. The place dwarfed Oakthorpe Grange – dwarfed almost any other stately home that he had seen, for that matter. For a moment, fear assailed him – what if she rejected him? Then he shook his head – if she did, so be it, but he would not believe that until he heard it from her own lips.

He stepped forward, and the footman closed the carriage door behind him, as a most formal looking butler opened the door of the house.

“Good afternoon…?”

“I am Morris Woodfield, the Duke of Oakthorpe. I was hoping… that Lady Eugenia might be at home?”

Morris knew that he should ask for her brother, should speak to Kilmerstan first – but he could not wait – and, if the lady did not want his attentions, then asking her brother was to no point. The butler appeared to consider for a moment, then nodded. Morris wondered just what thoughts had gone through his head.

“Come in Your Grace. If you will just wait a moment, I will enquire.”

Morris waited. The foyer was as impressive as the outside, and the walls were lined with paintings, most likely of ancestors. Within moments, the butler returned.

“This way please, Your Grace.”

He was shown to a pleasant parlour, on the next floor up, where the last of the afternoon’s light blazed in through a large bay window, to paint the woman at the table in gold.

The sense of unreality filled him again, as she raised her eyes to meet his, then slowly stood. She was perfectly imperfect. His heart pounded so loudly he wondered that she did not hear it. Her gown was pretty, but not anything special, her hair was tidy, yet a little disordered in places, with a pencil tucked endearingly into her curls. She wore no gloves, and on the table behind her, a scatter of pages lay in an unordered heap – but he could see, even from the door, that they were sketches of gowns.

Her gaze challenged him to comment, filled with a kind of determination which he had rarely seen in her, except when provoked. She came forward to greet him, and gave him an elegant curtsey, her eyes never leaving his. He took her hand, feeling a smile so wide as to be ridiculous take possession of his face, and bowed over it, turning it in his grasp, and pressing a kiss to her bare palm. A shiver went through her – he could feel it – and she gave a tiny gasp. Pleasure filled him at the sound.

He rose from the bow, retaining her hand in his, and simply looked at her. Somehow, all words deserted him – no matter that he had spent half the journey here planning what to say. It seemed that words had also deserted her, for they simply stood, staring at each other, hand in hand, as a maid slipped past them into the room, and hurried to sit in the corner. Propriety served, he supposed.

He took a breath – the silence had gone on too long, he was looking like a fool, just standing here, staring at her – he needed to speak.

“Lady Eugenia…”

“Oakthorpe…”