Birdie and the Beastly Duke by Sofi Laporte

Chapter 8

Birdie was rearranging the furniture.

After all, she told herself, she was the Duchess of Dunross; this was her home, and she could bloody well do whatever she wanted. She was determined to make this place more homey. It needed a womanly touch. Since there were no servants to help her, she had to do things herself. But she was used to that.

Whenever Birdie decided to do something, she did so systematically and thoroughly. After Gabriel had fled—really, there was no other way to say it, he’d literally fled after she’d mentioned children—and Higgins had shuffled away, she’d been left alone in the gigantic medieval hall.

She had heard the carriage rumble into the courtyard and stop in front of the stairs. It was to take her home. She ignored it.

Her gaze now fell on the door to the right. It was a smaller, oaken door next to the fireplace that she’d not noticed before.

“Plan for the day: investigate the castle,” she said aloud. She’d open each door, peek into each corner, discover every secret of this place. After all, this was to be her new home. A feeling of excitement overcame her.

The room behind the door was dark as the drapes were drawn. Birdie pulled them aside, releasing a shower of dust. She sneezed.

Weak daylight poured through the grimy windows.

Birdie turned and gasped.

This was a library. Heavy oaken bookshelves with gothic woodwork lined the walls. Thousands of books spilled out of the shelves in a disorderly fashion. Books were stacked on the ground, strewn on the table. She took a few steps and stumbled over a pile. It looked like someone had collected all the books in Scotland and crammed them into this room without any rhyme or reason. A portrait of a sour-looking man with a wig, eagle-like nose, and piercing eyes hung over the massive fireplace. The old duke, no doubt. Birdie pulled a face. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and a white veil of dust covered the books.

Birdie ran a finger over a shelf and inspected the thick layer of white powder on her finger. She sneezed.

“This needs some desperate cleaning,” she mumbled. She bent down to pick up a pile of books when she noticed something strange. As dusty as this entire library was, one shelf to the right of the fireplace was clean and polished. A path cleared of books led right to it. But what was even odder was the arrangement of the bookshelves. Why were there additional bookshelves haphazardly set up in the middle of the room? It served neither a functional nor aesthetic purpose. If one were to move this shelf so it stood perpendicular to the adjacent wall, and get rid of the other one, which seemed to be placed at random and appeared half-empty, it would allow for more light in the room. And it wouldn’t be so cluttered.

“Sometimes less is better,” Birdie decided.

Birdie eyed the half-empty bookshelf. It should be easy to move. She took all the books out, set them on the floor, and gave it a push.

Her assessment had been correct, and she could, with some force, move the shelf right through the door into the hall.

She surveyed her work, satisfied. Maybe Higgins needed an additional bookshelf somewhere? One could move it to the kitchen to use for storing jars of preserved fruit.

Now, to the second shelf. Emboldened by her success, she gave the shelf a push. Except this one was heavier, and it still wouldn’t move even after she had taken out the books. It moved an inch, then snagged on the carpet, which folded up and stopped any further movement.

Birdie pushed harder.

With a growl, she gave it a final push. The shelf wobbled and wobbled some more.

“Oh no. Oh, no, you don’t!” Birdie tried to stem against it from the other side, but it had gathered momentum and crashed with tremendous force to the ground.

It sounded like an explosion.

The ground shook. The chandelier clanked.

Birdie clasped both hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut for good measure.

When she pried one eye open, she saw the entire library floor splattered with books. And the shelf had broken in half.

Running footsteps sounded in the hall.

“What the devil is going on?” a voice roared.

Gabriel’s hair stuck in all directions, his dark eye flashed, and the side of his face that wasn’t too handsome looked devastating when daylight shone directly on it. He truly looked like the Beast of Dunross castle.

She backed off involuntarily.

“I was rearranging the library.” She lifted her chin. “It needs to be cleaned. As does the rest of this place. And because there aren’t any servants around here to do the job for me, I have to do it myself.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked curtly, taking in the full disaster.

“No. I’ve somehow only received a small paper cut.” She lifted a finger where a drop of blood oozed out. She popped it into her mouth.

“Why aren’t you in the coach on the way home?” Gabriel asked with a sigh. “I thought I’d made it clear that you were to leave.”

“And I thought I’d made it clear that I would be staying.”

“Is it more money you want, then?”

“How dare you!” Birdie hissed at him. “Do you think I am the kind of person whom you can bribe by offering a sufficient amount of money?”

“Then why?”

Birdie picked up a book. “Why what?”

“Why are you still here?”

She glared at him in defiance. “Because I said a vow? I happen to take my vows very seriously, even if you don’t.”

She saw his shoulders slump. He pulled his hand through his hair. It was thick, wavy and dark brown—on one side. It was rather too long and in need of a haircut. Or he could bind it together as was fashionable in the previous century. And if he’d get a decent shave and get rid of that dark stubble and put on a neater set of clothes—even Birdie could tell what he was wearing was grossly out of fashion—he’d look devilishly handsome.

Gabriel pulled himself up and turned to her. In the light of day, she saw the thick red and blue welts crisscrossing the side of his face and down his neck. His skin appeared melted and welded together into thick lesions. His long, scraggly hair covered his ear. Birdie assumed it was partly gone. Not that it mattered, as the man seemed to hear very well without it.

“You are mistaken,” Gabriel said hoarsely. “I take my vows very seriously. I made a vow to both our fathers before they died. I intend to fulfil it. But I can only do so successfully if you leave and carve out for yourself a life away from this unwholesome environment.” He lifted a hand and waved around. She saw it was scarred as well. “Away from me.” He added with a low voice. “There is no happiness to be had here. I can offer you my name and whatever money I have. But nothing more.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Birdie understood. “I see. You think you will make me unhappy.”

His shoulders drooped.

She picked up a pile of books from the floor and stacked them on the table. “What if I have decided that this––this rainy corner of Scotland––will suit me perfectly? This, admittedly, ghoulish place? And when you don’t shout, growl, or snipe at me, you are not half bad to be around.” She smiled.

Her husband looked taken aback.

“What on earth do you intend to do here? There is nothing––nothing at all for a young woman like you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Birdie set her hands against her hips. “I’d like to clean up this library, for one. I do like books, you know. Look!” She lifted a book. “A first Folio of Shakespeare! It’s astounding!” She leafed through the book reverently and laughed out loud. “The Taming of the Shrew. Do you think this place has more treasures like this? Why aren’t you taking better care of it?”

“I have no idea. And I couldn’t care less.” Gabriel shrugged. “This is the previous duke’s home. He left it in shambles. The estates aren’t any better.” He threw up his hands in defeat. “Do what you need to do. I can’t be bothered with any of it.”

He turned and left abruptly.

Birdie stared after him with an open mouth. Had he just said he couldn’t be bothered with it? With his own dukedom? What on earth?

Gabriel stopped in his tracks. “Also, thank you for those biscuits.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t had biscuits since I was a child.” Birdie had sent up Higgins with a plate of lavender biscuits earlier.

“Goodness me!” Birdie cried. “You poor man. How can one not eat biscuits for so long!”

He rubbed his neck. “One commonly isn’t served lavender biscuits in the army.”

“Of course not.” Birdie decided immediately to bake up a storm. The poor man had to catch up.

She closed the book with a snap. After she was done with the house, she’d have to refurnish her husband.