A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 18 - Eighteen

Mr Simmons followed her in. He looked around the room critically, adjusting a vase of fresh white roses on the mantelpiece. He straightened a painting that was already straight.

"I’m sorry if the room isn’t to your taste,"

Simmons said quickly. He sounded genuinely anxious. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Lady Margery informed us of your arrival in a sudden manner—barely two hours ago—so we didn’t have time to ask for your preferences."

Delaney turned to him, wide-eyed. "Not to my taste? Mr. Simmons, it is..."

She stopped herself. She couldn’t say, ’It is a palace.’ She couldn’t say, ’I usually sleep in a room the size of a closet.’ She was Miss Kingsley, the respectable distant cousin. She had to act like she was used to silk walls.

"It is lovely," she finished softly. "Truly."

"If you have any changes in mind," Simmons continued, "please be free to notify me. Would you prefer lavender sheets? Or perhaps different flowers? Some guests find roses too... scented. I’ll do my best to make sure your stay in Hamilton House is as comfortable as possible."

Delaney shook her head. "It is perfect, Mr. Simmons. I require nothing."

Simmons looked relieved. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver pocket watch. He clicked the lid open.

"The time is now twelve-thirty," he announced. "Breakfast—or rather, a luncheon, as the Duke has not eaten yet—will be ready in thirty minutes. It will be served in the morning room downstairs."

Delaney’s stomach gave a nervous lurch.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes until she had to face the "Shiny boy" again. Thirty minutes until the war of words resumed. Thirty minutes to prepare her strategy.

"Please do well to come down," Simmons advised gently. He lowered his voice. "The Duke values punctuality. He considers lateness a personal insult. And given his current mood..."

"I shall be on time," Delaney promised. "I have a watch, and I know how to use it. Unlike some people who walk into people while looking at theirs."

Simmons’s lips twitched. He fought back a smile. He clearly knew who she was talking about.

"Very good, Miss Kingsley," he said.

He bowed formally. Then he backed out of the room.

The door clicked shut.

Delaney stood alone in the center of the room. The silence rushed in to fill the space. It wasn’t the lonely silence of her house in Chelsea. It was a heavy, expensive silence.

She let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. She dropped her leather bag onto one of the blue velvet armchairs.

"Sixty thousand pounds," she whispered to herself, looking at the silk walls. "And a room fit for a queen. Not bad, Delaney. Not bad at all."

She jumped into the soft bed.

" Mmmm" she murmured into the pillow. She turned her head.

In the corner, two large trunks were sitting. Aunt Margery must have had them brought up the back stairs while Delaney was in the drawing room. They looked battered and old against the pristine wallpaper.

They contained her meager belongings: her gray dresses, her nightgowns, her writing supplies, and the three metal tins marked DEBT, JUSTICE, and FREEDOM.

She stood up from the bed and walked over to the vanity table. It was made of rosewood. The mirror was oval and flawless. There were crystal bottles of perfume arranged on a silver tray—scents of lavender, rose, and jasmine.

Delaney touched one of the bottles. Jasmine.

She pulled her hand back as if it had burned her.

She walked away from the vanity. She needed air. The luxury was almost suffocating. It’s been long she felt this life. It has been twenty years.

She walked toward the far end of the room. There were tall glass doors draped in sheer white curtains. Sunlight was pouring through them, pooling on the floor like melted butter.

Delaney reached out and pulled the brass handle. The latch was well-oiled; it opened silently.

She stepped out onto the balcony.

The air hit her face instantly. It was fresh and cool. It smelled of cut grass, damp earth, and blooming flowers. It didn’t smell of coal smoke or city drains.

Delaney walked to the stone railing. She placed her hands on the cold stone and looked out.

The view was magnificent.

Below her lay the famous Hamilton gardens. She had heard of them, but she had never seen them. There were manicured hedges arranged in intricate mazes. There were fountains sparkling in the sun, tossing water high into the air. There were rows of old oak trees standing like guards along the perimeter of the estate.

Far in the distance, beyond the stone walls, she could see the green rolling hills of Hyde Park, and beyond that, the smoky haze of London.

But here, on the balcony, the air was clear.

A gentle breeze swept past. It tugged at the loose strands of hair that had escaped her severe bun. It cooled her flushed cheeks.

Delaney closed her eyes. She tilted her face up toward the sun.

For the first time in twenty years—since the night her parents died, since the night her uncle betrayed her, since the night she put on the gray dress and became a shadow—she felt a strange sensation in her chest.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t the gnawing anxiety about debt. It wasn’t the crushing weight of responsibility.

It was peace.

She opened her eyes. She looked down at the beautiful garden. She saw a gardener clipping a hedge. She saw a bird flying toward the trees.

"I could get used to this," she whispered.

A slow, genuine smile touched her face. It transformed her features, softening the sharp angles, lighting up her hazel eyes. It was the smile of a woman who had been fighting a war for a long time and had finally found a fortress to rest in.

She gripped the railing.

"Two months," she vowed to the trees. "I will survive two months with him. I will find him a wife. I will take my money. I will buy my cottage with kittens and puppies. I will then enjoy the freedom I longed for, far away from London."

She took one last deep breath of the sweet air.

"Thirty minutes," she reminded herself.

She turned around and walked back into the room.