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As Patience glanced up at her husband, the muscles of his jaw moved, and he glared at his supposed best friend. An unease shifted in Patience.
“Duchess, allow me to introduce Lucien, the Duke of Luhst.”
“Pleasure,” Luhst murmured and stretched his hand out towards her, bowing once again.
What was she supposed to—
“Your hand, Duchess,” said Lucien with a soft smile and a cunning glint in his eyes.
Did he want to kiss her hand? Was that allowed? Her husband didn’t even kiss her hand! She glanced at Rath, whose face was twitching with barely contained rage.
“Lucien—” growled her husband, just like an angry dog.
“Oh, go on, Duchess,” murmured Luhst like a devil, “you don’t want to leave me rejected like this. It’s merely a gesture of high respect and appreciation from a man to a woman of high class.”
She felt everyone’s eyes on her. She had no idea about these things. But her husband was positively scaring her. She shoved her hand into Luhst’s; he bowed his head even more and lightly touched his lips to her skin.
She burst into flames. That was what it felt like, her whole body hit by fiery wall of embarrassment. When the Duke of Luhst let go of her hand, she wanted to disappear.
“See, not so scary?” he said with a devious smile.
“You are despicable!” barked the Duke of Rath at Luhst, making everyone’s heads turn to him. “You’ve seduced every woman in London and now are trying for my wife?”
He was making a scene. And Patience didn’t understand why. This fury she saw in him, the clenched fists, the quickly rising and falling chest, the sinews on his neck bulging beneath his red skin.
Was he going to throw himself on his best friend for kissing her hand? No, surely not because of her!
“Please forgive me,” she muttered. “I am in urgent need of fresh air.”
As Patience hurried away from the tense scene in the ballroom, she navigated through the unfamiliar corridors of Rath Hall, her heart pounding in her chest. She passed through an arched doorway, finding herself in a long, elegantly decorated gallery. The walls were adorned with portraits of the duke’s ancestors with dark, almost black backgrounds. The polished marble floor echoed with the click of her heels, and the afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall leaded-glass windows, casting intricate patterns on the plush rugs.
At the end of the gallery, Patience reached a set of French doors that opened onto a stone terrace and closed her eyes, gulping in the cool, fresh air full of scents of decomposing vegetation and nature. Taking in breaths of air was soothing.
It was only when she opened her eyes that she noticed what spread before her, just a few steps down from the terrace. A garden.
It was as vast her eyes could see—although she couldn’t see much at all because of the dead and dried-out trees, bushes, underbrush, and grass.
The overgrown expanse sprawled before Patience, wild and untamed. What must have once been manicured lawns were now a tangle of weeds and grass, the blades reaching towards the sky in defiant spikes. Dandelions, their yellow heads bobbing in the breeze, dotted the greenery.
She thought she could almost distinguish what must have been flower beds in a jumble of foliage. She saw old, desiccated rosebushes in the chaos of brambles and thorny vines that had crept in from the edges, snaking across the soil like grasping fingers. The trees, ancient and gnarled, loomed over the garden like beasts frozen in time. Heavy with age and neglect, their branches drooped low to the ground, creating shade that swallowed the light.
She walked what must have once been a path, barely discernible amid the overgrowth.
She gasped, mesmerized. What a huge space, and yet so abandoned, so lonely. Such a stark contrast with the rest of the house, which was refined and opulent.
She craved to touch and to see her rosebushes so much, her fingers tingled. She walked through the garden, lightly brushing her fingers over the leaves and stems. She relished even the dandelions, nettles, and coltsfoot. With some work and planning, this garden could be beautiful.
Her own personal heaven. She could see it in its full glory in her inner eye.
She must have walked for a few minutes when she turned a corner and stopped.
There was a glasshouse.
A glasshouse!
She’d only read about them in one book. She’d thought they were a myth! They were very expensive and difficult to build. She knew this could be a haven for plants.
It was a large rectangular building with a vaulted ceiling high enough to accommodate trees. The iron frame, once painted a deep black, now bore the marks of time, with green rust-resistant paint flaking away to reveal the weathered metal beneath. The neglected state of the structure made it clear that no one had set foot inside for an extended period. Grime and dirt obscured the glass panes, making it difficult to discern the interior, though Patience could make out the silhouettes of dry grasses and twisted branches pressing against the clouded windows.
