Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Duke Gregor
“My lady.” I rise from the dining room chair where I have sat, waiting, for nearly half an hour, for her appearance.
The lady lacks her normal luster as she approaches. Her countenance is somber, her complexion drawn, and the dark half-moons under her eyes are quite vivid against her pale skin. She lifts her chin haughtily and pretends not to have heard me, thanking the servant that pulls back her chair.
Yet she looks lovelier than ever before. I hide my smile and sit down once more. I can be gracious now that she has clearly slept terribly, no doubt because I left her in her chambers last night, practically humming with desire.
“I hope you slept well,” I begin congenially as the staff swarms in and begins serving us. I wave away the plate of sausage links.
“Oh, most assuredly, Your Grace. I do thank you for your kind inquiry.”
The smile she gives me is so cloying, it is too studied by half. She must realize her dismissive attitude toward me—particularly so early—will do nothing but give the staff gossip to spread.
She shows herself to have a remarkable talent for invention.
“Perhaps a cup of tea, madam?” the housekeeper inquires.
“Yes, please, that would be splendid.” She looks so grateful at the suggestion, I believe she might, in this moment, be willing to sell her finest jewels for the pleasure of a cup.
I eat my egg thoughtfully as I watch the Duchess.
The servants are well trained and move to and fro with nary a word.
The sunlight streams in through the tall glass window, and the light does nothing for the duchess, whose countenance is pinched and miserable.
Steam rises from the hot buns before her, and strawberries in their bowl gleam like jewels. Her toast is laid thick with marmalade.
She touches none of it, merely brings the dainty porcelain cup to her lips and sips slowly, apparently unaware of anyone or anything else in the room.
Does she struggle to take nourishment? I confess, I never watched for such a thing… it will not do. Especially while she carries a child.
Lost in thought, I observe how she holds out her cup until the servant girl moves swiftly to her side and refills it with steaming liquid.
“Pray, take some nourishment, my dear.”
She meets my gaze across the table, her expression making it plain she intends to dismiss me before she’s spoken. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am most content.”
“Indeed? I fear I am not, for you seem to be sustaining yourself on tea alone.”
Her smile is still in place but grows brittle to the point of breaking. “I am well. I do thank you for your concern.”
I study her, wondering what weighs upon her mind. I expected her to be out of sorts this morning, but I did not anticipate the childish impudence. “It is essential that you keep up your strength, my lady.”
She turns her head away without a word.
My gaze narrows and I begin to rap my fingers upon the table as I consider her. Her insolence is beyond what I will endure. If this is the way it must be… she has her made her choice.
I push back my chair, rise and go to the other end of the table where she sits. I look down at her dark head while she sips her tea—I imagine it is as much a tactic to avoid having to look at me as it is to keep drinking.
“My lady, I must insist.”
When she lowers the porcelain cup and sets it upon the matching floral saucer, her fingers are shaking. “Do you hate me so you would see me humiliated?” she murmurs, softly enough as to not be overhead.
I look around the room at the four servants assembled. “You are dismissed.”
“Oh, but Your Grace—”
I silence my wife’s maid with a look so severe she sets down the teapot, curtsies hastily, and wastes no time in making her escape.
Then I look to Freya, whose lowered gaze makes it clear she does not wish to look at me.
The tight hunch of her shoulders allows me to believe she is either irritated, a tad frightened, or both.
I do not care which it is. A duke must rise above people’s irritation, and he must use their fear to his advantage. When that person is his wife? Even more so.
“You must eat,” I tell her, my voice low, but commanding.
When she deigns to look at me, I see it is both—she is irritated, yes, though perhaps not due to this exchange. And she is afraid, though what she fears, I have no way of knowing. “I think perhaps another cup of tea—”
“No more tea,” I tell her sternly. “It shall be water for you from now on if I hear one more word about it.”
She gasps, her dainty hand going to her chest as she looks at me, aghast. “Water! Surely not! Do you mean for my own servants to laugh me out of my home?”
“Then you will obey,” I say simply, with no ire behind it, nary a threat.
But I see her tremble. It begins at her head and moves down, making her lips quiver, her shoulders shake, her breasts heave. Her body has spoken for her, though her lips utter not a sound.
I pick up a bun—still warm to the touch, though steam no longer rises from it—and tear off a piece. Then I offer it to her lips.
“Stop!” she hisses. “Do you mean to shame me?”
“There is no one here, my lady, no one to see.” I proffer the bread more firmly.
She purses her lips and turns her head.
“My lady, I warn you, I am tireless when I want something. Play this game if you must, but I will cancel all my meetings, put off any paperwork. If you wish to sit in this chair until evening, so be it.”
From the moment I began to speak, her body began to lean toward me, though I dare say, she is unaware.
Her ear strains toward me also. When she deigns to turn her head to face me, she gives me a dour look.
“Surely you have no business to attend to at all, Your Grace, or else you would not trouble yourself to do a servant’s work. ”
I master my expression around her a great deal without any trouble, but I cannot help but frown at this remark. “Servant’s work? Whatever do you mean?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Looking after me, forcing me to eat. That is servant’s work.”
I shake my head. “Nay, Freya, my love. That is husband’s work, and I have made my mind up to do it. Now, obey as you promised to do.”
She scowls, but as soon as she makes her point by twisting her lips in distaste, she opens them and accepts the bread I offer.
“There, now, that isn’t so bad, is it? It smells quite lovely, actually, which isn’t surprising as our cook is very good.”
“You eat it then,” she says mulishly.
I tsk my tongue at her and wag my finger. “You must remember to temper your wit. I feel certain it is merely you are faint from hunger. Another bite, I entreat you.”
She takes a delicate taste of the piece of bread in my hand. This time, she is quicker this time, and more aimable than before.
I watch her carefully for any signs of fatigue—or rebellion. I meant what I told her the night before. I intend to make it clear from the very first that when she promised to obey, she made a binding one I shall hold her to.
Still, it does puzzle me that she refuses to acknowledge her obvious want.
I do not believe it a burdensome demand, and yet, clearly, we do not share the same opinion on the matter.
She obviously desires me, and even now, as she takes food from my hand, a part of her seems shamed by what is happening; there seems to be a larger part that wishes to surrender to my touch.
“Open,” I command.
She obeys, gazing up at me with eyes brimming with emotion.
I put the bread in her mouth, then smile at her when she obediently begins to chew. “Good girl.”
A shudder meets my words, though she quickly turns away, as though she can hide her body’s reaction from me.
“You have done well, my lady. Now, if you are well and truly satisfied, I have something I should like to show you.”
“Indeed? What would you like me to see?”
Her stiff formality does not trouble me. I knew before we wed it would take time for her to warm to me. Judging by her body language each time I am in her presence, she will need to surrender soon.
Duchess Freya
I eye the arm he offers, recalling only too well how my body reacts to his by showing him a loyalty it denies me. Yet… my skin tingles whenever he approaches, and though my very bones betray me, I do nothing but spite my skin to sit here, longing.
I offer him my hand, and he steps around me to pull my chair from the table. Then the duke returns, takes my hand, and helps me to my feet. My fingers are alive with sensation at the briefest touch. I drop my eyes to the polished mahogany and try to marshal my flighty emotions.
The child must stir these mad passions! I surely will be glad to have this ordeal behind me if it means returning to my usual ease!
The duke bows over my hand and presses a kiss to the thin material. Heat sweeps through me so suddenly, I fear I might sway on my feet.
It is the child. Not him—never him! Now, do get ahold of yourself, Freya!
I do my best to follow the stern self-issued rebuke as we leave the dining room, arm in arm. As we walk, the duke points out distinctions of the house.
“The colored stone of the fireplace is quite rare,” he says.
I follow the direction of his finger and murmur politely, though to me, it is no more than a pile of rocks.
“Are the Turkish carpets not exquisite, my lady?”
His presence renders me hopeless at making polite conversation at present.
It is the same when he directs my attention to the antique furniture, said to have been installed with the first Duke of Fairwynd nearly two hundred years ago.
I nod and murmur politely, but it all is a blur to my eyes, and quickly swept away from my mind.
I am too focused on trying to keep myself upright while my knees wish to give way.
The duke appears to be unaware of my internal distress, and for that, I am grateful. He stops in front of a large portrait that dominates the wall it rests on. “The late Duke of Fairwynd.”