Page 119 of The Language of Love

“Thank you, my lady,” Annis murmured, a bit overwhelmed by the woman’s enthusiastic greeting and stunning looks.

The slender, dark-haired gentleman beside her was a smaller, less distinct version of Henry—like a piece of stone that had been tumbled and eroded until all the sharp edges had worn away.

“It is a pleasure to have a new cousin—and a new mistress of Stoke.” The viscount cut the dowager a quick, sly look and turned to Henry, his pleasant smile slipping only slightly. “Henry, it has been many years.”

“Indeed.” Henry turned to Annis and missed the other man’s flush at his frosty, dismissive greeting. “Will you inspect the servants, my love? Or are you too fatigued after our journey?”

She jolted slightly at the my love, searching his face for any sign that he meant his words.

But his face was a mask, his eyes shuttering his thoughts.

Annis smiled. “I should be delighted to meet everyone.”

For such an enormous house, there were far too-few servants—only thirty for both inside and out—and most of those were either quite old or very young.

“This is Mrs. Jenkins,” Henry said, his voice warming slightly as he introduced Annis to a woman who looked to be in her early sixties and dressed in the sober attire of a housekeeper.

Annis recalled Henry had mentioned the name once—that she’d stood as a sort of parent to him while growing up.

“My lord, my lady,” the older woman said, dropping a graceful curtsey, her large brown eyes pulsing with some powerful emotion and never leaving Henry’s face.

“How have you been, Mrs. Jenkins?” Henry asked, some of the frost melting as he faced the gaunt, strangely rapt servant.

So, here, at least, was one person at Stoke he didn’t loathe.

“I have been well, my lord.” She hesitated and then added in a rush, “I am pleased that you have returned home.”

He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment and her pale cheeks darkened.

And then he turned to the short line of male servants who were mainly dressed for outdoor work, along with two aged footmen in faded, moth-eaten livery.

“Where is Cooper?” Henry asked Mrs. Jenkins.

“He died last year. I’m afraid we have not yet engaged a new butler,” Lady Rotherhithe said, her soft voice startling Annis, who’d not known she was right behind them. She turned her glorious midnight blue eyes on Annis. “May I escort you to your chambers? I’ve—”

“Jenkins will show us,” Henry said, his tone curt and cold.

Lady Rotherhithe inclined her head, a faint, tight smile on her lips. “As you wish.”

“We shall want tea in half an hour,” he said to Mrs. Jenkins. “The Red Salon?”

Again, it was the dowager who answered. “I’m afraid there was a fire in there three years ago and it has not been refurbished. We have been using the smallest of the sitting rooms—just down the corridor from the Red Salon.”

“Lead on, Mrs. Jenkins,” Henry said, as if the dowager hadn’t spoken.

“Thank you, my lady,” Annis added hastily before following Henry and the housekeeper.

Mrs. Jenkins led them into a truly magnificent, but freezing, stone entry hall. The walls were festooned with ancient weapons and two suits of armor were on display in front of exquisite wooden screens that had obviously been installed more recently.

Annis knew she was gawping like a rustic but couldn’t help herself.

“Next we will pass through the lower gallery, which is—”

The words blurred together and her head whipped from side to side as she tried to take in everything.

“You are going to give yourself a neck ache, Annis,” Henry teased. “You needn’t see it all at once—you will have plenty of time to acquaint yourself,” he said as they climbed a set of ancient-looking stone stairs.

After a bewildering series of turns and two more sets of stairs, they passed through a stylized arch with double doors.