The Duke's Headstrong Woman (Strong Women Find True Love 2)

"That's quite enough, Egan," Lady Havenshire said in a huff, ignoring the beautiful, palatial estate before her. Egan chuckled, driving the horses around the bend and leading the carriage to the doors of the estate.

"Announcing the Lady Havenshire," Egan boomed, pulling the door to the carriage open for her. She hesitantly lifted her ornate, white-blue gown and carefully stepped out of the vehicle, exhaling softly and looking around. Once more the stormy gleam of the manor caught her eye; as darkly enticing as the man she had met that night. She quickly tried to compose herself, wearing her most uninviting expression, as she marched stridently towards the front door of the manor.

"Have fun, m'lady," Egan imparted on her as she left, much to her chagrin. She prepared to open the vast entryway doors, until they flew open before her, bright and inviting faces there to receive the lady.

"Hello and welcome! It's been such a long time since we've played host to such a lovely personage," came the warm and comforting voice of an old woman ushering Nadia out of the cool sunset and into the darkly-paneled, richly-appointed halls of the estate. "I'm Ms. Cauthfield, head of staff here at Berrewithe Manor, and it's an utter joy to host your arrival, m'lady," The old woman insisted, taking the lady's hand and leading her past plush couches, maple tables and gold-trimmed accoutrements. "Lord Beckham has anticipated your arrival all week! We've been preparing endlessly to ensure everything's just as you like it."

Nadia quietly admitted that this... was certainly not what she expected, not when coming to the manor of a stormy man, on a rocky moor, possessed by ghosts of his own past. She had expected... well, frankly, she had expected a woman to shout at her in much the manner she had grown used to dealing with, as she had with Ms. Mulwray. Instead, Ms. Cauthfield appeared to be something of a kindred heart. Her own defenses still starkly drawn up, she couldn't help but be impressed by the beautiful art paneling the halls of the manor as Ms. Cauthfield led her through.

"Is that a piece by Madame Gerard?" Nadia blinked, utterly stunned to see Parisian art adorning the house of a man as dour as the one she remembered.

"You know your art, do you?" Ms. Cauthfield smiled. "Lord Beckham has an eye for the finest painters you'll find in much of Europe, and elsewhere."

"I spent time in Paris," Lady Havenshire recalled, momentarily awestruck. She tried to reel back her surprise, briefly forgetting she had come here to rebuff the man and all he stood for. Instead, she found herself admiring his art as they strolled towards his dining room.

The doors to the dining hall flew open, cool lights dimly illuminating a table covered in ornate candelabras and a gold-trimmed tablecloth. It took her a long moment to take in the wondrous look - and the wealth it must have taken to assemble something so luxurious.

"Lord Beckham's quite excited to see you," Ms. Cauthfield insisted, pulling out a chair for her to sit in - it was taller than she, its wood-carvings hand-painted, weaving beautiful flowery patterns among overstuffed, plush cushions. "He's quite pleased to have you. Is everything to your liking, m'lady?" the old woman asked gleefully.

"I'm... yes, quite, Ms. Cauthfield," Nadia said, a quiet and incredulous laugh in her voice. "I... well, I simply didn't expect this. Given, you see, what I've known of your master, thus far."

"I know how he can come across as," Ms. Cauthfield explained, "but we're all behind him. We, his staff that is, know him quite well."

"I didn't imagine anyone knew him quite well," Nadia remarked.

"Few do, but he is far more of a generous man than he lets on," Ms. Cauthfield said with a smile. It seemed so wrong to Nadia; a chipper maidservant praising her master's generosity so sincerely? Had this been the same man, the one who had inherited from his sister - the one who had taken the family fortune, who had benefited from this warped system Lady Havenshire so despised? She began to wonder on whether she had too harshly judged him.

"He'll be here in just a moment; I need to check on things in the kitchen. It's been such a pleasure, m'lady," Ms. Cauthfield nodded, rushing off towards the doors at the rear of the long, tall chamber.

Nadia had to admit. Even the dining room chair felt so, unusually comfortable. Nonetheless, she steeled herself. He could present himself as fashionably and as bombastically as he wished; it would do little to change her mind on precisely what she felt about the nature of this entire arrangement her father had made. She wouldn't fall for it. Not for the fancy paintings or the stormy setting or the handsome face, or the mysterious nature of him, or—

"Announcing Lord Beckham, Duke of Berrewithe!" She couldn't stop herself from looking to the door - and there he was, wearing only a simple jacket, that same endless expression on his face; the one she had looked into, had almost gotten lost in, at the dinner party.

"You don't need to announce me, Ms. Cauthfield," Lord Beckham insisted with some manner of derision, as his maidservant emerged from behind him.

"Yes I do! It's only proper," the woman insisted with a little self-satisfied snicker.

She denied it, so sternly, but... something about him, about Ms. Cauthfield, about all this, had begun to thaw that rigid iciness she had arrived carrying in her heart.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"How is your braised beef, m'lady?" he asked plainly.

She wanted to tell him how it was. She wanted to tell him that the honeyed delicacy had crashed into her mouth with a ferocity of sweet and savory taste she had never anticipated, or yet experienced in so simple a dish. She wanted to tell him it tasted overwhelming; it tasted like nothing she had expected to taste, and that it had helped to set her free from the anger she carried with her after a week of suffering the rude and intolerable notions of a society bent against her. She wanted to tell him everything she had felt since she saw his manor, and since she saw what lived beneath it; a confusing mire that enticed her at the same time that it repulsed her, the majesty much like the beauty of northern England, which she both appreciated and deplored for what it represented. She wanted to tell him everything.

"It's fine," she said quietly, keeping her words sparse, and her emotions sparser. He didn't respond with words, but only a simple nod, seeming as

out of place and as unsure of his feelings as she was, but she held out hope she could make it through this without exposing those feelings. Seated at the opposing end of the long dining hall, their words came not directly but as distant echoes reverberating along tall, vaulted ceilings.

She hadn't strayed yet from her original plan. She was halfway there; she need only finish her food, offer those same empty pleasantries as would be expected of her, thank her host, and leave. Then this week of contemplating and curiosity and hatred and of everything other confusing notion would end.

"It's rather lovely, isn't it," he asked, his voice that commanding and powerful tone she remembered, but feeling so... forced, so disingenuous. "The... sky," he said awkwardly. She regarded him closely, and began to think on a curious thought, one that struck hard at her pride. Had he been as anxious of this meeting of theirs as she had been? It wasn't something that would have troubled her before, but she could feel herself slipping.

"Yes," she responded coldly, and then silence. She devoured another exceptional bite of this braised beef, confident that she could report to Egan that whichever chef had crafted so divine a recipe deserved many times the credit he had given to the Havenshire home's kitchen staff. Knives and forks scraped against porcelain and teeth chewed quietly with mouths closed, but little else happened for a long and uncomfortable stretch of time.

"Your father is an honorable man," Lord Beckham said quaintly, making sure to clear out his throat before saying it, in the same stilted manner as his previous query. Something inside of Nadia flared up; perhaps that same, prideful part of hers that had brought words out from inside of her the first time they'd met. She'd always been willful, after all.

"Are these the manner of things you think it necessary or appropriate to say in the usual sort of courting ritual that women endure from rich dukes and barons?" she asked bluntly, surprised even at herself for having said it. She cleared her throat and an awkward silence followed. He shifted in his chair, watching her intently, and she wasn't certain her question would elicit an answer, and hoped that it would pass ignored, so that she could stick to her plot of remaining indifferent and leaving.