Chapter 10
Brandon was wrong.
It had been three days since Cathy went home with him to Baxter Hall, but he had not seen her shadow unless they passed each other in the corridors. His wife apparently was not enthused to hover around him.
He told himself it did not matter.
He was a fool.
Brandon’s words had been rattling around in his skull since the wedding breakfast.
‘She scowls most of the time. A thistle.’
Tristan now wished that he had slapped some sense into Brandon for speaking of his wife like that.
What Brandon had failed to understand, what Tristan himself was reluctant to examine too closely, was that he had seen what lived behind that scowl.
He had felt it against his lips. In the library, when he kissed her.
Against the chapel wall, when she forgot to be Miss Priggish entirely.
He did not want to think about that.
What he wanted was for his wife to conduct herself accordingly. That was all this irritation amounted to. Practicality. The preservation of what remained of both their reputations. Nothing more.
He did not miss her company. That would be ridiculous.
On the fourth day, the Duke found himself eating breakfast alone. He was used to the silence, but knowing now that he had a wife made the silence all the louder. If he had married Miss Longrove, she would have been prattling about the events of the Season she wanted to grace with her presence.
But no, he had to eat his eggs and bread while listening to the clock ticking three rooms away.
“Where is the duchess?” Tristan asked the butler, Henderson, unable to contain himself anymore.
Henderson bowed politely before responding neutrally, “Her Grace has departed early this morning, Your Grace. In fact, she left at first light of dawn.”
Tristan frowned. “At first light of dawn? Why? Where would she go?”
“To her family, Your Grace. She mentioned something about... managing the transition. I believe she is staying with Lord and Lady Marlow and her sisters.”
“And what about yesterday? I have not seen her in days,” Tristan said, trying to ignore the ticking of his jaw.
“The same, Your Grace. She left early and returned late. You were already in your bedchambers, by then, or your study.”
Tristan placed his fork sharply on his plate.
A newly married woman, especially a duchess, should not be spending almost every waking hour away from her husband.
If the ton caught wind of it, the whole thing was as good as a public slap in the face.
Baxter Hall had become nothing more to her than a place to sleep.
And then she fled back to her family whenever given the chance.
Tristan tried to hold on to the last of his temper. He reminded himself that the transition might have been difficult for her, considering her family’s current circumstances.
However, by dinner time on the fifth day, that patience had eviscerated.
Fury made his vision blur. He had been navigating the halls of his own home, his mind caught by the vision of her blue eyes and luxurious brown hair, the same hair she pinned tightly for everyone but him, which he had seen loose.
The problem was that he had seen her beyond how people saw her, and now she had been actively erasing that picture.
He wanted to confront her. She needed to acknowledge the marriage. She needed to acknowledge him.
This time, the table was set for two. A steaming hot and delicious meal was waiting on gleaming silver. Four footmen waited to serve the duke and duchess, while the butler supervised. Yet again, he was alone.
“Henderson,” Tristan called.
The butler quickly approached. “Your Grace?”
“Where is my wife? Has she not returned from her visit to her family yet? I had the meal arranged for later so she could join me.”
“Your Grace, she returned about an hour ago,” Henderson replied. “However, she had requested to have her dinner served in her private chambers, expressing the need for... solitude. Apparently, the ledgers at the Marlows and Quintens gave her a headache.”
The ledgers? How is that her responsibility?
He had to admit the mention of ledgers took him by surprise.
He had not realized she even knew how to balance a balance sheet.
Worse, he did not know that she was so deeply in financial misery because of her father’s irresponsibility.
He had unfairly assumed that solitude meant embroidery or a book, or even that she was just being difficult.
“Solitude?” Tristan echoed. “Did she happen to mention me at all? Did she send a message? A duchess should not be dining in her rooms alone, as if she were in hiding or in mourning.”
“I am afraid she did not mention Your Grace at all,” Henderson commented pensively.
“This is unacceptable!” Tristan exclaimed. “She is my wife. She is not a guest, and even guests have to show some sort of respect to their hosts.”
Henderson cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Grace, it is quite touching to see how deeply concerned His Grace is about the duchess’s welfare.”
Tristan’s eyes snapped to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your concern for Her Grace,” Henderson repeated, his expression remaining perfectly neutral. “It speaks very well of Your Grace’s character, if I may say so.”
“You may not,” Tristan said flatly. “I am concerned about appearances, Henderson. Nothing more. A duke whose wife refuses to dine with him is a duke being made a laughingstock in his own home.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Henderson agreed. “Shall I send word to Her Grace, then?”
“No,” Tristan snapped, rising from his chair. “I shall deliver the word myself. Let us see if that would be enough for Her Grace, then. She will be dining in the hall tonight.”
The Duke took the stairs two steps at a time.
He could feel the heat around his neck and the blood rushing in his ears.
When he reached her chambers, he did not bother to knock.
He turned the handle and pushed the door open, ready to confront the woman who had so far been avoiding him and making a fool of him in his own home, in front of his own staff.
Cathy was sitting by her small, wooden table.
The tray of food set in front of her was untouched.
Her brown hair was loose and cascading down her back in such a manner that it made his throat go dry.
When she looked up at him, there was a fleeting look of icy disdain before it became a look of complete disinterest.
“Your Grace,” she said calmly. “What brings you to my chambers? I believe I have already made my wishes known to eat in solitude.”
“Is that so?” Tristan asked, stepping into the room and slamming the door shut behind him. “I believe you have forgotten that this is a marriage, and that you must explain why you continue to ignore your own husband in his own home for almost a week.”
“As you can see, Your Grace, I am busy.”
His eyes swept the space and landed on the open ledger beside her untouched dinner tray.
“You are working,” he said. It came out less like an accusation and more like a discovery.
“I have ledgers to balance,” Cathy replied, her quill not pausing.
“Whose ledgers?”
She finally looked up at that. As if the response to his question should have been obvious. “My family’s.”
He let his eyes drop to the columns of neat, precise figures she had been filling in.
There were pages of them. He pulled the ledger toward him before she could protest, turning it to face him.
The numbers told a story he had not been prepared for.
Debts, creditors, outstanding accounts. All of it recorded in her careful hand. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I was old enough to understand what the numbers meant,” she said, pulling it back. “Someone had to.”
He did not know why that particular detail needled him as much as it did. She had been gone from dawn until late every day, and she had not been resting or socializing or doing anything a new duchess might reasonably be expected to do. She had been working without asking him for anything.
He set the thought aside.
Tristan strode toward his wife, his movement making the candles on Cathy’s table flicker.
“I make the rules of Baxter Hall, Cathy. And one of my rules is that we dine together. We show unity. After everything that has happened, are you truly suggesting we live as strangers under the same roof?”
Cathy stood up, her height imposing, and she was using it tonight. No more hunched backs. No more hiding. He still towered over her, looking down at her flashing eyes.
“Why?” she asked simply.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why does it matter to you whether we dine together, Your Grace?” Her voice was quiet, but there was nothing uncertain about it.
“You made yourself quite clear to Lord Farstone on our wedding day. I was not meant to hear it, but I did. So let us dispense with the pretense, shall we? This is a marriage of convenience. I know how devastated you were to be married to Miss Priggish, and how you suspect I may be behind a terrible scheme.” She paused, her jaw setting.
“You did not want this. I did not want this. So why should we perform over dinner when there is nobody in the room to perform for?”
“What Brandon said—”
“Was the truth,” she said quietly. “Or at least your truth at the time. I am not angry about it, Your Grace. I am simply practical. You wanted a quiet, biddable duchess who would not embarrass you. You were given me instead. I think we can both agree that the ledgers are a more productive use of my evening than sitting across a dining table pretending we are something we are not.”
“And what are we?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
She blinked. The question had caught her off guard; he could see it.
“Strangers,” she said. “Strangers who share a surname and a scandal. Nothing more.”