Chapter2

Nico puts his finger to his lips, the signal I usually give him when the duke is sleeping. I relax instantly. Of course he doesn’t think anything different.

He whispers, “Catch me if you can, Duchess.” Then he bolts back out the doorway.

I give chase.

“Did you really just come find me with crumbs on your chin and no sweets to share?” I call after him.

Nico shrieks with laughter. He is surprisingly fast for being so little. He slides down the banister at the stairs, while I have to take them slowly because of the heaviness of my skirts. When I hit the ground, I take off at a run once more, finally gaining on the boy. He pumps his little arms, and just before I’m upon him, Kyros rounds the corner with the duke’s breakfast tray.

I scoop Nico up into my arms and twirl him in the air. His giggles lighten my heart, and I reach down with one arm to tickle his tummy before setting him back on the floor. His laughter feels so right in this large manor. It is finally a place where we can all be happy. The duke is dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

I don’t think there’s a sweeter word.

“What are you two up to?” Kyros asks.

“Father, the duchess was indignant that I didn’t bring sweet rolls to share with her.”

“I would have tickled you, too, for such an oversight,” Kyros says.

“I’ll get more for us all!” Nico darts for the kitchens.

Kyros has nothing but love in his eyes as he watches the child run away. “We best return quickly, before the duke grows incensed, Your Grace.”

I say, “He fell back asleep, so I thought to escape for a moment.”

Kyros nods in understanding, and together, we return to the master suite.

It is hours before anyone realizes the duke isn’t breathing.

In the days that follow, nothing bad happens. No one suspects a thing. The man was dying anyway. Why should foul play be involved? Besides, everyone thinks me too stupid to even conceive of murder. I’ve made sure of that.

I wear black to the funeral, manage fake tears on Pholios’s behalf, keep my face buried in a silk handkerchief gifted to me by the dead man himself with our initials embroidered on it. Father comforts me and brings me flowers; he even asks if there’s anything he can do to help manage the estate. He’s quite pleased with me, since my brideprice saved him from ruination. Father may be an earl, but his estate was bankrupt.I was bankrupt until I married Pholios.

Now his fortune is mine to do with as I choose. No man can tell me how to spend it. Not even my own father.

I’ve done it.

I’ve attained what so few women have managed.

True freedom.

The first thing I decide to do with that freedom is explore the estate and get to know my staff. Pholios never let me venture far from him. I was to take all my meals at his bedside. I was to be there when he woke up and long after he fell asleep. The duke mentioned many times that he was going to get his money’s worth out of me. I was his property, he said.

In the end, I think he realized he was sorely mistaken about who had control over whom.

“Your Grace, it is so good to see you again,” Mrs. Lagos, the housekeeper, says when she meets with me in the parlor.

I have seen her only a few times since I first set foot inside this dreary manor, when all the staff greeted me in the entryway as their new lady.

Mrs. Lagos looks about as formidable as a kitten, at four feet, eleven inches tall, but gods help anyone who tries to defy her claim that she’s an even five (I overheard a particularly nasty conversation to that effect). Her hair is black as night, and her skin is white as ivory. With oval eyes and not a wrinkle in sight, it’s impossible to guess her age, and I dare not ask her.

“You as well, Mrs. Lagos. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course. How can I be of service?”

“I would like to make some changes to the estate. I hoped you might be up for helping me.”

“Certainly. What changes?”

I want my staff to adore me. I want them towant me to be their mistress. It’s the best way to ensure a seamless transition, and I don’t want anyone to question the control I now have. There is a very simple means to achieve that from the start.

“I’d like to raise the wages of the staff by twenty percent.”

Mrs. Lagos blinks slowly, as though she didn’t quite hear me. Then she grins. “You and I are going to get on well, Your Grace.”

“Excellent, because I have plans for lots of redecorating …”

First things first, the master suite. I order it gutted. Every single item is moved to storage, from the bed to the draperies to the carpet. I refurbish the entire room so it looks like Pholios never once stepped foot in it. I want it free of anything that could possibly remind me of him.

I’ve always been fond of pink, and I find a delightful bedspread in a dusty rose that immediately draws my attention at Matilda’s Shop. I decorate the whole room to match. White wallpaper with sporadic chrysanthemums, after my namesake. A white oak four-poster bed with mesh hangings. Gold filigreed armchairs with plump white cushions. An elaborate vanity, painted ivory with more gold knobs. I have the ceiling painted with the colors of the daytime sky with rosy-cheeked cherubs darting through the clouds.

While that’s being done, Mrs. Lagos prepares the rest of the manor for renovation. I don’t want any reminders of the horrible man who once darkened this home, so she sees to it that all the old paintings and vases and any other heirlooms of the Pholios family are removed to the attic, until they can be sold. Until my yearlong mourning period deemed mandatory by society is up, I’m not permitted to attend events or take social calls.

And yet, not even a week goes by before the letters start pouring in. I glance over mere snippets before tossing them all in a pile near the fireplace.

This from the Earl of Barlas.

From the Earl of Varela.

From the Duke of Simos.

And then one terribly embarrassing bit that makes my cheeks blush.

From the Baron of Moros, who is already married.

I’ll not be anyone’s mistress. I’m done with men telling me what to do, whether it’s in the bedroom or not. The correspondences remain thoroughly ignored, though I do read them from time to time when I feel in need of revitalizing. It is a boost to one’s self esteem, even if such attentions are unwanted.

At least from powerful men.

For years I’ve dreamed of the day when I will be the one with the power, free to seek out relationships of my own choosing. I have been alone all my life, denied the simple pleasures of romantic companionship as a highborn lady. The second my mourning period is over, I have every intention of putting an end to that loneliness.

I will take a lover.

A handsome, poor—yet skilled—lover who will dote on me and love me and want nothing from me except for the earthly comforts I can give him.

Men take mistresses all the time, and as a dowager duchess, I may do the same. It is unconventional but not unheard of. I will have the power and standing to withstand any scrutiny I receive as a result. And besides, I’ll obviously find someone who can manage to be discreet.

But that’s not an option for another eleven months and two weeks. In the meantime, I focus on making new friends around the manor or supervising the improvements to the...