CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Caledon
DUCHESS GIRT’S ESTATE SITS ON the far side of Mont, just outside the city proper, one of the old homes that was built before the city walls went up, and many years before the Long Wars with Renovia began. It’s surrounded by a tall spiked fence, painted white over black wrought iron—as evidenced by a few flaking spots—and a thickly wooded area to the rear of the main building. A wide gravel lane leads from the gatehouse up to the actual residence, lined on each side with towering trees that shade the drive.
The duchess seats Cal between her and Shadow in the cramped carriage. While riding to the estate, she keeps finding reasons to touch his arm, his leg, to get closer to him. He smiles broadly at her while inching as close to Shadow’s side as he can, which causes a cascade of completely different feelings. While in the past he would gladly manipulate the duchess’s attraction to him if he were alone on this task, he is not alone. To make matters more awkward, it appears Shadow is trying as hard to get away from him as the duchess is to get closer.
The house itself is little more than a huge brick rectangle covered in windows, a strangely utilitarian architecture considering its pretentious resident. All of Montrice’s architecture appears this way, though, created with defense taking precedent over decoration. Strong buildings made to protect a weak people, Cal thinks. Renovia, he realizes, is quite the opposite: a powerful populace who surround themselves with beautiful, ornate structures.
The carriage grinds to a halt in the paved circle at the front of the house. Two footmen wearing deep-red uniforms stand outside the front entrance. One of them rushes forward to open the carriage.
The other footman holds out his hand for Shadow; Cal climbs out after her. The duchess follows, gripping the footman’s hand tight and a bit longer than strictly necessary. “Good to see you again, Danier, darling.” Cal notices that Danier smiles at the duchess in a way that would be considered highly impudent from a servant in Renovia.
They walk up the stairs out front and through the double-doored entry into the foyer. It’s not quite what Cal expected—less pink and feathery than he’d have guessed the duchess’s home would be . . . it is far more traditional and stern. There are black-and-white-checkered tiles throughout the front hall, with walnut paneling covering the walls from floor to ceiling. Against that backdrop, the footmen look more like part of the décor than actual people.
“Hellooo,” Duchess Girt calls out. Two white fur balls scurry up to her feet, yapping, their nails clicking on the tiles. “Oh! Mommy’s babies.” She picks them up; little pink tongues pop out from under all the white fur and begin licking her face. “You missed your mommy! Yes, you did!”
“The duke is in the library, my lady,” the footman tells her. He stands still, hands behind his back, staring ahead.
“Thank you, Danier, darling,” she says. And to the tiny dogs: “Let’s go see Daddy, shall we?”
“I thought your husband passed away?” Shadow blurts.
Cal is wondering as well. Who can she be referring to?
“Passed awa—oh!” She laughs. “Oh dear, no. I meant he passed on the dinner invitation. The duke has no interest in idle gossip and nonsense. Or at least that’s what he calls it; it’s not nonsense to the rest of us, now is it?”
“No, not at all,” says Shadow, glancing at Cal.
He can’t help but notice how a sigh—almost of relief—escapes Shadow’s lips. Perhaps she’s jealous, Cal realizes, and the thought consumes him. The idea sparks something in him, but he can’t risk the distraction and pushes it aside.
FROM THE FIRST GLANCE Cal can already tell the Duke of Girt is nothing like his wife. He is a good deal older, with a quiet manner, withdrawn where the duchess is outgoing and loud, and clad in much simpler clothes than the other Montrician nobles Cal has met so far. He is vaguely familiar, and Cal wonders whether he has met the duke before, but cannot place him. The duke keeps his dark hair—no wig—held back in a low ponytail. His suit, also black, is finely tailored but simple and unadorned except for a fine platinum pocket watch and a simple ring with a black stone on his fourth finger. Like all aristocrats, he is heavily perfumed—perhaps even more than most. Cal has a desire to hold his nose. Still, despite the unassuming demeanor, the duke isn’t particularly friendly or welcoming.
When he sees two strangers enter the library behind his wife, he doesn’t hide his irritation. Without acknowledging them, he looks at her and says, “You are aware we have an entire hunting party invited to the estate this weekend?”
She doesn’t address what he said directly, and nuzzles the dogs in her arms. “Darling, this is Lord and Lady Holton of Bruckley Villa. They were guests of the vizier. They’re only here for a short time, and Lady Lila has misplaced all her luggage and she can’t be brought in front of the king in . . . in that.” She sweeps her arms out toward Shadow. “I offered to fix her dilemma and outfit her . . .”
The duke begins shaking his head and throws his hands in the air to quiet her. “Yes, yes, yes, fine. Whatever you need to do. Just don’t tell me any more about it.” He focuses his attentions back on the papers spread across his desk, grumbling under his breath.
She smiles, satisfied. “We’ll leave you to your work, then.” The duchess hands Cal a puppy. He accepts it with some reluctance. “Let’s see to your rooms,” she chirps. The puppy in her arms cocks its head and considers Cal. Or maybe it feels sorry for him.
“Lord Holton can borrow a bow from the armory, I suppose,” the duke adds.
“For the hunt? Of course,” the duchess says. “Are you familiar with a bow, Lord Holton?”
“Of course,” says Cal, still holding one of the dogs.
The duchess leads them to a grand split staircase, freshly waxed mahogany lined with a handwoven wool runner. She stops at the first door in the hallway to the right, closest to the stairs. “This one’s for you, Lady Lila,” Duchess Girt says.
“Your Grace is too kind,” says Shadow, entering the room.
“Do you have everything you need, sister?” Cal asks her, not quite ready to be alone with Duchess Girt.
“Absolutely,” Shadow says from behind a tiny crack in the door. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” She slams the door closed in finality.
The duchess walks ahead of him, carrying a lantern. The wall sconces are not lit. There are no sounds aside from his boots on the tile and the swoosh of the duchess’s skirts. His room is on the other end of the long hallway, at least ten doors from Shadow’s. They stop in front of a doorway.
“The other guests are all in the opposite wing,” the duchess says with a sly look on her face. “I thought you’d prefer being away from the commotion. So many people wandering about. Poking their noses into everything. Watching. Isn’t it so much better to be alone?”
“Yes, that’s true, I prefer being alone,” he says. “In fact . . .” He yawns dramatically and places the puppy down on the floor between them, hoping she takes the hint. While her attraction to him might be useful, it is clearly upsetting Shadow for some reason, and there are always other ways to infiltrate the court.
The duchess fumbles for the key, the other puppy perched precariously in the crook of her arm. “Here it is!” she exclaims. She unlocks the door and pushes it open. For a moment he’s uncertain if she’s going to walk in front of him or not—she moves as if she’s about to, but then steps back.
He grabs the opportunity and steps inside the room, immediately beginning to shut the door behind him. “You are too kind, Your Grace,” he says. “The evening has quite tired me out. I bid you good night.”
The door clicks shut as her mouth opens to say something. He hears her on the other side of the door: “Good night!”
Then the sound of another door opening and Shadow’s voice calling from down the hallway: “Duchess! Oh, I’m so glad to have caught you before you go downstairs. If I may, do you have a candle? I can’t seem to find one in here. Oh, and if it isn’t too much bother, would you send up a lady’s maid to help unbutton my dress?”
No doubt, if they were still sharing a room at the inn, it would fall upon him to do the honors. He is a stupid, stupid man.
The dogs both start barking, their yaps traveling down toward Shadow’s room. The duchess’s voice follows them as she answers Shadow’s request. “Oh yes, my dear, I can take care of that for you, of course!”
Cal’s room is clean and comfortable, from what he can see with only the dim night sky in the open window, but he doesn’t care to inspect it just now. He really is exhausted—it hits him fully, all at once, the weeks of being on alert morning and night.
He sits on a chair to remove his boots, then climbs onto the wide, fluffy bed. His body sinks into the soft cotton bedding. Newly laundered, smelling faintly of rose water and fresh air from hanging to dry outside the wash building. No creaking old bed frame, no sagging middle of the mattress. This one is stuffed full with fresh down. He was right about it being far better than the room they had at the inn.
Except for one exception, and the loss of her presence makes the room as quiet and unforgiving as his cell in Deersia prison.
Alone in the silence, his thoughts return to last night at the inn . . . Her silhouette behind the screen and under her linen shift. The warmth of her next to him. The way she burrowed herself against his chest, their bodies entwined in sleep. Just last night his hand curved around her waist, and her hair rested against his cheek.
She is the most maddening girl he’s ever met, defiant, stubborn, and impulsive. She doesn’t listen to reason and is much too reckless with her person. Shadow has also made it quite clear that she has no desire for romance or a family and doesn’t care a whit whether he likes her or not . . . and yet. He finds he can’t deny the truth. He hopes she cares at least a little bit, that he is right, that she might be jealous of the duchess.
He falls asleep imagining what would happen if he got up, walked down the hall, and knocked on her door . . .