The cynicism in his eyes was completely gone. "Done," he said. They didn't speak for the rest of the night, but he didn't move back to his side of the carriage. When Norah finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, her head drifted sideways, coming to rest against his shoulder.
Henry didn't move a muscle for the next hundred miles. Lochavan was not a delicate, manicured country house. It was a fortress built in the 16th century on a jagged cliff overlooking a vast black loch. The estate was made of dark gray stone that seemed to absorb the weak Scottish sunlight.
The wind howled relentlessly around the turrets. Inside, it was a maze of drafty corridors, massive fireplaces, and tapestries faded by centuries of woodsmoke. When the carriage pulled into the courtyard, there was no line of polished servants waiting to greet them. There was only an elderly groom and Mrs. Gordon, the housekeeper.
Mrs. Gordon was a formidable woman, built like a brick wall, with iron-gray hair and eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She stood on the stone steps, her hands folded over a spotless white apron, staring at the mud-splattered carriage with deep suspicion. Henry handed Norah down. Norah's boots hit the cobblestones.
She was exhausted, filthy, and wearing a ruined morning dress. She looked entirely feral. "Mrs. Gordon," Henry said, his voice carrying over the wind. "This is Norah, the Duchess of Rothford."
"My wife." Mrs. Gordon's eyes flicked from Henry to Norah. She didn't gasp. She didn't curtsy instantly.
She assessed. She looked at Norah's mended, muddy hem, the lack of a maid, and the severe, unadorned braid down her back. Then she looked into Norah's eyes. Norah didn't shrink.
She didn't try to look regal or apologize for her appearance. She met the housekeeper's hard gaze with equal flint. "We require hot water, Mrs. Gordon," Norah said, her voice steady and clear. "A great deal of it."
"And whatever food can be prepared quickly. We have been on the road for four days." Mrs. Gordon's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile exactly, but it was an acknowledgment.
She gave a short, crisp nod. "Aye, Your Grace. I'll have the copper tubs brought up to the master suite." "Separate rooms, if you please, Mrs. Gordon," Norah corrected smoothly.
She felt Henry look at her, but she kept her eyes on the housekeeper. "We are both too exhausted to share quarters tonight." "Very good, Your Grace." Mrs. Gordon finally curtsied.
The first month at Lochavan was a quiet, brutal war of attrition. Norah had expected resistance from the staff. She had expected sneers behind her back. But the Highlanders were pragmatic people.
They didn't care about the London season. They cared that the roof leaked in the west wing and that the Duke had neglected the estate for five years. Norah didn't play the delicate aristocrat. On her third day, wearing a simple woolen skirt and a heavy sweater, she walked into the steward's office, sat down at the massive oak desk, and demanded the ledger books.