Chapter 14 #2
She’d had plenty of experience with bullies. She knew that some created an atmosphere of barely suppressed violence. It could be quite frightening to those at the bully’s mercy. But she wasn’t at anybody’s mercy, and she wouldn’t be intimidated or manipulated.
Given the condition of the house, she expected Harrison’s records to be irreproachable. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was, Who was in charge?
Marchmont clearly wasn’t.
She would have to be. As a woman and, worse, the notorious Harem Girl, she could never hope to have the respect of the servants and control of the household if she accommodated the house steward instead of seeing that he accommodated her.
It was not the Duchess of Marchmont’s business to make servants happy. It was their job to make her happy. If it turned out they were underpaid for the job, she’d correct that. But it would be fatal to her authority to expect of them any less than the absolute obedience Marchmont received.
A few hours later
Servant problems.
Marchmont had never had a servant problem. He was not supposed to have servant problems. Servant problems were Harrison’s problem.
Now Marchmont had a wife. She had not been in the house for four days, and he had a catastrophic servant problem.
He found Zoe in her dressing room, frowning at a carriage dress Jarvis held up for her inspection.
“Out,” he said, making the go-away gesture at the maid.
Jarvis darted out of the room, taking the carriage dress with her.
Zoe stared at him.
“Harrison is threatening to resign,” he said.
She frowned. “That’s strange.”
“Do you think so?” he said.
“It’s very strange,” she said. “He simply came to you and said he wished to resign?”
“He tells me you asked to see all of the household records and—and I hardly know what else.”
“Inventories,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to review these records, to fully understand the management of this household.”
“You’ve impugned his integrity.”
“I think not,” she said. “I think this is about getting his way. You are the Duke of Marchmont. He’s your house steward. Where will he obtain a more prestigious position? If he leaves because of a small thing like this, then something is very wrong in this house.”
“Something is clearly wrong,” Marchmont said tightly. “We had peace here, and all running smoothly, and look what you’ve done.”
“I’ve done what is my responsibility,” she said.
“You don’t need to be responsible,” he said. “Harrison has been with this family for twenty years. He started as a footboy. If ever there were a trusted retainer, that is one—and you’ve implied he isn’t trustworthy.”
“Have I, really?” Zoe said. “Because I wished to do what every woman of my family does?”
“Every woman of your family is not the Duchess of Marchmont,” he said.
“Quite true. My responsibilities are greater than theirs.”
“Your responsibility is to bear my children,” he said. “And to spend my money. And to entertain yourself in the Beau Monde you were so determined to be part of.”
“That’s all?” she said. Her voice had grown dangerously quiet, and there was a light in her blue eyes that even he could read, whether he wished to or not. But he was too angry to heed the warning.
“It’s bourgeois,” he said, “to fuss about records and inventories, like a common shopkeeper.”
“Common?” she said. “Common?”
She snatched up a hairbrush and threw it at him.
He dodged instinctively, and the missile flew by him and struck the door frame.
He was not allowed to throw anything back.
He was not allowed to throttle her.
He stormed out of the dressing room and, soon, out of the house. He went to his club. He stayed there through the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening and drank steadily.
That night
The Duke of Marchmont was not carried into the house in the early hours of morning. He didn’t even stagger—not so one would notice. He’d drunk a great deal, but it wasn’t enough. Sobriety came and went, and when it came, it was too bright and cold, like a day of dead winter.
His bride had placed him in an impossible position.
There was Harrison saying the duchess was dissatisfied with his services and offering to resign if the duke so wished it.
What was Marchmont to say to that? What could he say but “Her Grace cannot be dissatisfied with your services. Clearly there’s a misunderstanding. I’ll look into it.”
Look into it!
Why must he look into it? Why must he be placed in the ridiculous position of negotiating between his house steward and his wife?
Zoe shouldn’t have put him in this position.
Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?
The arts of pleasing a man, indeed. Drive his house steward to resign. Drive her husband out of his own house. Oh, yes, how pleasing that was!
As pleasing as his house was at this dreary hour. Dark and quiet as death. All of them abed except the night porter…and Hoare waiting and no doubt whimpering upstairs…and the husband who’d been driven out of his own abode.
He strode more or less steadily across the entrance hall, through the main doorway and on to the great staircase.
As he grasped the handrail, he glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, a glimmer of light to his left.
He turned away from the stairs and crossed to the door of the anteroom.
A fire still burned in the grate and a lone candle burned in the candelabrum standing on one of the tables.
More light filled the doorway to the library.
He went to the library door.
She sat at the great table, her back to him. The candlelight shimmered in her hair, which was coming down. Dark blonde tendrils clung to the back of her neck.
The table was heaped with books and stacks of paper. As she dipped her pen into the inkwell, she must have become aware of him, because she turned and looked over her shoulder toward the doorway.
“You’re working very late,” he said.
“It’s most interesting, what I’m finding here,” she said. Her voice was cool.
He advanced into the room. She recommenced writing.
“It must be fascinating indeed, to keep you up so late,” he said.
“It is,” she said.
As he neared, he saw an ink smudge on her cheek and another at her temple. He was still angry with her, but the smudges were adorable, and she looked so weary and cross, like a child forced to do sums against her will.
She’d despised sums, he recalled. Yet she’d insisted on studying ledgers, column upon column of the numbers she’d hated.
“It’s too late for such work,” he said. “You’re all over ink. Come upstairs and let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.” He thought about washing her…everywhere…and his cock began to swell.
“I’m not quite done,” she said.
“Zoe,” he said.
“Marchmont,” she said crisply.
He supposed she wanted him to apologize. He was tempted. She really was adorable, all smudged with ink and cross. But she was cross with him, and she had no business to be, after very nearly driving his house steward out of the house.
Then what would become of them? England could manage well enough without a monarch. It had survived a mad king and his not-exactly-mentally-balanced son, even during wartime. Marchmont House could not manage without Harrison.
“The numbers will still be there in the morning,” he said. “You need sleep.”
And he did not want to get into his great, cold bed alone.
“I’ll be along in a little while,” she said. “As soon as I finish these calculations.”
She gave the slight, go-away wave of her hand.
Was she dismissing him?
“As you wish,” he said, and stormed out.
The Duke of Marchmont’s bedroom faced east. When he woke, the angle of the sun told him it was late morning. No one had to tell him he was alone in the bed.
No one had to tell him he was an idiot, either.
He’d figured that out the second time last night he’d woken after a bad dream. In it Zoe rode away on a black horse and disappeared, forever.
He winced, recalling what he’d said. Bourgeois. Common. What had possessed him?
He wasn’t sure. Panic, perhaps, because he’d found himself required, suddenly, to do what he’d never done before. He’d found himself required to pay attention and make a decision.
He’d decided wrong, unsurprisingly.
He heard a light tap at the door connecting his room to Zoe’s. His sinking heart cautiously lifted. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, come in.”
His heart lifted another degree when she spilled through the door in a delicious confection of a morning dress. Made of a cream-colored muslin trimmed in pink, it had long, loose sleeves and an abundance of lace. “You look like a sugar cake,” he said.
She looked tired, too. He saw shadows under her beautiful eyes. His conscience said, Your fault, your fault, you beast.
She beamed at him, just as though he wasn’t a beast.
His heart lightened further.
“Zoe,” he began.
But before he could embark on his apology, a train of footmen entered behind her, some bearing trays.
Those unencumbered set about moving a table and chairs in front of the fireplace. Then they set out the dishes. Then they went out via the room’s main door, which the last servant discreetly closed after himself.
“When I came up this morning, you were asleep,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Come here,” he said.
“Come eat your breakfast,” she said.
As he did every night, Hoare had laid out Marchmont’s dressing gown on the back of a chair, near at hand. She took it and held it up, playing valet.
More coals heaped upon the duke’s head.
He climbed out of bed, donned his slippers, and obediently thrust his arms into the sleeves. He tied the sash and said, “I must beg your pardon, Zoe. I behaved badly yesterday.”
“Oh, thank you.” She flung herself at him and threw her arms about him in her usual impulsive way.