"Your Grace?" A knock sounded on the heavy oak door, hesitant yet insistent.
Raphael Emberlin, Duke of Barrington, stirred from his sleep with a muffled sigh. It felt as though he had barely closed his eyes, and now, for what seemed the hundredth time, someone dared to disturb his rest.
"Your Grace," the knock came again, slightly firmer.
"What is it?" His voice was hoarse from sleep, carrying the unmistakable tone of irritation.
"The dowager duchess asks that you begin your preparations. She says it's nearly dawn."
"And what did I tell you when you brought this up earlier?"
A pause. Then the maid's voice, trembling slightly, answered, "You said not to disturb you, Your Grace. I told the dowager duchess, but she… insisted."
Raphael sighed again, though this time it was with resignation. He could imagine the poor maid wringing her hands, caught between her duty to him and the dowager duchess's unyielding commands.
"Very well," he said, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. "Tell the maids to prepare my bath and breakfast. Have the valet start loading my luggage onto the carriage."
"Yes, Your Grace." The relief in her voice was palpable as her hurried footsteps retreated down the hall.
For a while, he stayed in bed, eyes fixed on the carved beams of the ceiling above. The room was silent, except for the soft crackling of dying embers in the hearth. The air was cool, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of lavender from the firewood burned the night before.
He sat up slowly, his body heavy with the weight of restless sleep. The thick blankets slid away as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor greeted his bare feet, sending a sharp jolt through him. Rising, he moved across the room, his steps silent on the polished wooden boards.
At the tall windows, he carefully pulled back the heavy drapes and stepped out onto the balcony. A brisk, chilly wind wrapped around him, sharp against his skin, but it made him feel fully awake. He inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh, damp morning air. Below, the gardens were covered by a thin veil of mist, their shapes soft and indistinct in the early light. The dew sparkled faintly, clinging to the well-kept hedges like tiny jewels. Beyond the gardens, the fields stretched out, rolling gently into the distance, their faint contours disappearing into the soft haze of dawn.
A soft breeze carried the damp, earthy scent of grass, mingled with the faintest trace of smoke drifting from the kitchen chimneys. Somewhere far off, a rooster crowed, its call sharp and sure, marking the start of a new day.
He rested his forearms on the cool stone railing, his gaze steady on the land before him. His mind wandering to the tasks that had kept him awake. Balancing the estate's finances was no small feat, especially with the added strain of his upcoming travels.
"Your bath is ready, Your Grace," a maid's voice called from inside the room.
"You may all leave," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.
He stayed on the balcony for a moment longer, letting the quiet sink in. These rare moments of peace, when he could forget the pressures of the day, were something he valued deeply. But they never lasted.
With a sigh, he stepped back inside. The warmth of the fire greeted him, chasing away the cold that had clung to his skin. Inside the bathing room, a copper tub stood ready, steam rising from the hot water. The faint smell of lavender hung in the air, soothing and familiar.
He began to undress, folding each piece of clothing neatly and placing it to the side. The air was cool against his bare skin, making him move a little quicker. He stepped into the tub, the heat immediately relaxing his tense muscles.
He let out a long breath as the warmth surrounded him. For a while, he just sat there, letting the heat ease the stiffness in his shoulders. The lavender scent mixed with the soft crackle of the fire, creating a brief moment of calm.
When he climbed out of the tub, his skin was warm and pink. He grabbed a towel hanging near the fire and dried off quickly, the soft fabric still holding a bit of the fire's heat. The air felt cold again, but he moved briskly, dressing to keep the chill away.
He chose his clothes with care. A clean shirt, sturdy trousers, and a dark coat, all practical but well-made. His boots, polished and shining, showed the scuffs of past travels but were ready for another. As he straightened his coat and ran a hand through his damp hair, he glanced at the mirror.
The reflection stared back—a man who looked ready, though the weight of his responsibilities was ever-present. He squared his shoulders, took a steadying breath, and headed for the door.
The estate was already alive with activity by the time he descended to the dining room. Maids and footmen bustled about, their steps quick but purposeful. They paused only to bow as he passed, murmuring "Your Grace" before continuing with their tasks.
To his surprise, the dowager duchess, his mother, was already seated at the far end of the long dining table. It was a rare sight. Since he had taken on the title of Duke, their meals together had grown increasingly infrequent.
"Good morning, Mother," Raphael greeted as he took his seat at the head of the table.
"Morning, Your Grace," she replied, her tone formal and clipped.
He inwardly winced at her use of the title. It served only to remind him of the growing distance between them, a rift that had widened ever since he assumed his father's mantle.
"You should have risen earlier," she said without preamble. "The earlier you begin your journey, the sooner you'll reach Denva."
"Early or late, the journey will take a week at least," he responded coolly, signaling a maid to serve his breakfast. "An hour or two will make little difference."
The maid gently placed a dish in front of him with practiced precision, the rich aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted meats drifting up, filling the room with warmth. He picked up his cutlery and began eating in silence.
"I heard you've left the estate's financial matters in the hands of Mr. Benedict Thornhill," his mother said, her tone sharp.
"I have," Raphael replied without looking up. "Is there an issue?"
"There is."
"And that would be?"
"The insult you dealt me by putting that man in charge of the estate's finances."
Raphael raised an eyebrow, setting down his fork. "The financial matters of the estate," he corrected. "You remain in charge of its operations."
"And why can't I handle both?"
"Because it pleases me," he said simply.
"Pleases you?" she echoed, her voice rising. "You've made it plain to everyone that I cannot be trusted with the accounts!"
Raphael leaned back in his chair, his expression calm though his patience was wearing thin. The memory of his mother's extravagant spending during his father's tenure as Duke was still fresh in his mind. Her penchant for expensive gowns and jewels had nearly drained the family's coffers. Restricting her access to the estate's finances had been a necessary, if unpleasant, decision.
"I've made my decision," he said firmly. "Mr. Thornhill is a certified advisor. He is capable, and I trust him. The matter is settled."
The dowager duchess glowered at him, her face a mask of anger. With a clatter of cutlery, she rose abruptly from her seat.
"I'm done," she declared. "Have a safe journey."
Her departure was swift, her maids scurrying after her. Raphael stared after her, his appetite thoroughly diminished. He pushed his plate away and stood, heading outside to inspect the carriage.
To his annoyance, he found a second carriage being prepared. A group of maids, a footman, and a guard stood nearby, their presence clearly unnecessary.
"What is this?" he demanded of his valet. "Where are they going?"
"They're to accompany you, Your Grace," the valet replied.
"On whose orders?"
"The dowager duchess."
Raphael's jaw tightened. "I travel with one carriage. I have no need for maids or guards. There are servants waiting for me in Denva."
The valet hesitated, clearly torn. "As you wish, Your Grace."
He turned toward his carriage but paused mid-step. A thought struck him. Perhaps he did need one maid—just one.
"Where is the maid who prepares my tea?" he asked.
"You mean Natalie, Your Grace?" one of the maids volunteered.
"I don't recall her name. She's short, and…" He frowned, realizing he couldn't quite describe her. "You know who I mean. Find her and tell her to prepare for the journey. She will accompany me to Denva. Quickly now—I don't have all day."
The maid hurried off toward the servants' wing, leaving Raphael to wait by the carriage. He climbed inside, leaning back against the cushioned seat.