Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
S ebastian sipped his brandy as he cast a gaze over the correspondence on his desk. Letters from tenants, from debtors, invitations from a large collection of people wanting to get in with the new Duke. And, of course, letters from several members of the ton congratulating him on a marriage he had never wanted.
He consigned those letters immediately to the fire.
In the past few days, he had gone out of his way to avoid Eleanor. The only time he saw her was for dinner every evening, during which she wore one of her own gowns. He could have demanded that she wear one of the ones he provided, but he suspected she would do so without demur, and that was not the response he wanted, nor the outcome he desired.
In truth, he had not wholly decided precisely what to do about her. There were options, and he knew he ought to get about making her marriage unpleasant enough to leave. But his attention had been entirely focused elsewhere. Specifically, on the news he had been anticipating for several days now.
As though on cue, he heard a knock on his study door. He put his brandy down. “Come in.”
“Correspondence,” the messenger said as he entered the room. He held a letter in his hand, and Sebastian took it with unbecoming eagerness. “I’m sorry I came to you directly, Your Grace, but when I knocked, there was no answer, and the butler—”
“Think nothing of it,” Sebastian said curtly. Every other Sunday of the month, he replaced the entirety of his staff. There would be none of the sentimentality around him that he saw in other households, and certainly no chance for someone else to get close to him and ultimately leave.
Of course, that did on occasion put him out, but the sacrifice was more than worth it.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The messenger gave a clumsy bow, sandy hair falling into his eyes, and made his escape. Sebastian sat back down and tore the letter open, scanning its contents. Yes: he was correct. The inheritance had been released on the point of his marriage, and Sebastian might make withdrawals as he pleased. The caveat being, of course, that his marriage did not prove to be a farce. Pratt mentioned that the adjudicators of the Will would be watching hawkishly to ensure that the marriage was not a premeditated way for him to exploit the conditions of the clause.
For if they suspect foul play, you may be sure they will revoke the release of the funds, and you will lose the inheritance; moreover, it will be incumbent on you to repay any withdrawals you might have made in this period .
Scowling, Sebastian tossed the letter back onto his desk, where it lay amongst the other invitations to balls and routs.
How displeasing.
No doubt he would be required to appear in public with her, and treat her as though she was someone close to his heart, not merely a means to his end. An objectionable thought, particularly when he wanted nothing more than to keep his distance from her.
He drew a page of blank paper closer and dipped his pen into the ink. If he was going to enact his plans properly, he would have to make a list of all possible strategies and work through them one at a time.
Unusually for Eleanor, she found herself awoken early by a disturbance downstairs. For the first time in her life, she had grown accustomed to sleeping in, and not getting up with the sunrise to darn some stockings, or assist in some other drudgery task her stepmother had concocted for her.
The reality of her situation was that now she was a Duchess, she had more time in the day than she knew what to do with, yet no one to spend it with. At her stepmother’s house, she had at least been on familiar terms with the servants; she spent more time with them than with anyone else. But here, the servants seemed nervous to speak with her, and certainly did not treat her—or anyone else—with the affection she had come to expect from retainers.
Rolling out of bed, she rang the bell and waited for Abigail to come and assist her. After several minutes, she rang again, then selected her dress. After waiting still a little while longer, she rang one more time, and eventually, the door opened and a maid entered.
“I—I apologize, Your Grace,” she stammered, and Eleanor stared at her.
She had spent five days in this house now. Five days of getting to know Abigail, who was the closest person she had to a friend. And now a new face looked into hers, freckled and shy.
“Where is Abigail?” she asked, brows knitting.
“Ah.” The girl looked confused and a little upset. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. She must have been one of the other servants.”
“What do you mean, the other servants?”
“The ones that was let go.”
“All of them?”
“Well, I think so, ma’am. To be sure, there’s a new butler, and he’s learning the way of doing things. The old butler has stuck around for that, ma’am, but most everyone else has gone already.”
“Already,” Eleanor repeated, glancing at her carriage clock. It was barely eight in the morning. “Why?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace. I saw an advertisement in the paper and I answered it.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Was there something you wanted me for?”
“Yes. Dress me. I must see His Grace.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The new girl did as she was told, and although she did not perform her duties quite as well as Abigail had—the two had worked out a system in the time they had come to know each other—she did a good job, and Eleanor thanked her briefly as she left the room. Deciding a confrontation would be better on a full stomach, she went to the breakfast room, where she found a letter resting by her place.
My dearest and newest friend,
Imagine my shock when I discovered the lady I had spoken to at the masquerade had only gone and married a Duke! You have my congratulations—and of course, my admiration, because you did not mention that you had such a fine match brewing when last we met.
Do come and call on me. I know my mother would be positively delighted to welcome you to the house, in the vain hopes it will make my big mouth more palatable to this Season’s eligible bachelors. I doubt even your rank and influence can compel a man who prefers a silent wife to marry me. Still, one must have hope. Hope that such men do not exist at all—or if they do, that they’ll have the good sense to avoid me entirely. Because while I can be silent when absolutely necessary, I much prefer not to be. And I don’t think I could endure a lifetime of quiet submission. Not without going mad. Or worse—boring myself to death.
But I digress. I hope I am not beneath your notice now, although I am certain that cannot be the case—when we met, you impressed upon me the purest sensation of your honor and kindness. I anticipate your answering letter with indecent excitement, my dear friend.
Yours,
Olivia Ashby
Eleanor could not help her smile at the rushed, energetic letter, filled far more with affection than decorum. A good thing the Duke had not been compelled to offer her his hand in marriage; that would not have made for a good match.
Thinking of the Duke made her wonder again about the change in staff. Surely not all of them could have offended him. What would he even have to do with Abigail? Aside from acting as Eleanor’s personal maid, she would have changed and tidied the bedchambers and kept entirely out of sight.
It transpired Eleanor had the appetite to eat very little, and after a slice of dry toast, she pushed back her chair and left the room. As she went, she saw so many new faces as to disorient her, and when she finally reached the study, she barged inside without so much as knocking.
“Your Grace,” she began, and stopped at the sight of the Duke behind the desk. He glowered down at a sheet of paper before him, ink staining his fingers, and brandy in a glass—at this hour in the morning—to one side.
All around lay evidence of his bachelor behavior. Nothing could more clearly have signaled that he lived life as a rake, caring about nothing and no one but his comfort. Discarded clothes lay across clothes, coats tossed off and cravats thrown against cushions, the starched white vivid against the dark material of his woolen carpets. Then there were the drink decanters, many empty, that littered every available surface. Trays of partially eaten food lay piled on the other armchair, rendering both useless for their intended purpose.
Irresponsible. And, given the state of the place, he had evidently not allowed servants to enter and clean. No doubt she would have to do so at some point—and brave his inevitable wrath. But she would prefer that to knowing he spent his days in squalor.
“Your Grace,” she repeated, turning her attention back to him.
He cocked a brow. “I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my private space.”
Her face heated as she recalled the last time she had done that. His half-naked form, and the way he had loomed over her. Perhaps he had intended to intimidate her, but the difference in size between them had inspired very different emotions.
Ever since then, the adjoining door between their chambers had remained locked.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” she mumbled, ducking her head. “I merely came to inquire about the servants.”
“What of them?”
“They appear to have been… replaced?”
“Indeed.”
“I wondered at the necessity. My maid—”
“She has gone,” he interrupted, setting his pen down. “They have all been dismissed. You do not need to know why.”
Eleanor bit her lip. No doubt he wanted her to bow to his word and accept it at face value, and she very much wanted to, but Abigail had been the closest thing to an ally in this strange house with her mercurial husband.
“I appreciate you must have your reasons,” she said as calmly as she dared. “And I do not mean to imply that they are unjustified.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said with some irony.
“However, Your Grace, I must ask that you do not dismiss my personal maid, Abigail. She has served me well, and I would prefer to keep her over this new girl.” She ducked her head, doing her best to appear humble. Anything that would convince him.
She heard his chair scrape back, and footsteps approach. Her entire body tensed as his finger came to her chin and tilted her face to his. “You are very daring, wife,” he murmured, but although his tone was almost tender, the light in his eyes was not. The sight of it both terrified and excited her. “Do you mean to ask me to recant my word? To fire a girl I have just hired so I can bring back the old?”
“Merely retain Abigail as well,” Eleanor said.
“And if I do not?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“ Anything ?” His brows rose, finger still under her chin. “That encompasses a great many things. Will you not barge into my study at all hours of the day? Will you restrain your desire to ask me about my choices, even if they make no sense to you?” His thumb came to pinch her chin, none too gently, and as she stared up at the Duke, she saw his expression harden. “My motivations are none of your concern, and your audaciousness astonishes me. Did I not lay down the rules?”
In her urgency and confusion, she had forgotten about his rules. She closed her eyes, trying her best to suppress the anticipation buzzing in her stomach at the thought of what his punishment might entail. That question had been occupying her thoughts far more than it ought to have been. “I understand. You will have to punish me. I am very sorry.”
“Are you?” He brought a hand into her hair and tugged, firmly enough that it pinched and her eyes watered. And although she suspected it was deeply wrong—in simply every regard—something in her stirred in response to the vehemence. Something hot and aching in her lower stomach, that although she hated to admit, she knew was desire. “Are you sorry, Eleanor? Or are you simply determined to defy me?” When she continued to keep her eyes closed, ashamed at how she felt, and wanting him simultaneously to do more—do worse—he shook her. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and met his, and watched his expression change as he read what there was to see in her face. She had not known until now that she was so very different from other well-bred, polished, proper young ladies, but there was no hiding it now. She craved the roughness of his touch, for him to lay down the law and force her to submit.
She wanted to know how his punishment would feel against her skin. The harshness of his palm against hers, or perhaps even worse. Pain under his direction seemed like a distinctly appealing prospect, more so than she could ever have imagined before meeting him.
He released her and stepped back as though she had burned him. But although his eyes were wide and horrified—she could clearly read the terror—she thought she saw a flash of something else there. Answering heat that scorched through her, sending the fluttering ache in her lower belly lower still. A hot, liquid feeling.
“We are to attend societal functions together,” he said tightly, as though every word cost him. “Balls and routs and the like. We must be seen together, and you must be everything a Duchess is supposed to be. Do you understand me?”
Eleanor’s knees felt as though they might buckle. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Do not prove a disappointment.” He returned to his desk and sat as though he wished not to be standing a moment longer. “Leave me.” As she reached the door, he added, “And Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“In public, you may call me Ravenscroft. Let us pretend we enjoy a modicum of intimacy.” He gave a thin smile. “Practice the notion at dinner.”
Dinner, where his request for silence went almost unacknowledged. “Yes, Y— Ravenscroft. ”
“Good.” He glanced down at the paper before him, frowning. “One more thing. If you wish to retain your maid, you will have to approach her yourself. I will next change the staff in two weeks. If she still pleases you by then, I suppose you may keep her around longer.” He scratched another note on the parchment and said, as though an afterthought, “If you have not displeased me in that time.”
Eleanor almost asked whether, by coming in here, she had displeased him—or even asked why he chose to change his staff every two weeks when it was surely more of a hassle than anything. But she already knew the Duke—no, Ravenscroft —well enough to know such a question would not be received well. So, she bobbed a curtsy he didn’t see and closed the door after her.
Once she was alone in the corridor, she pressed a hand to her stomach. Heavens, what had that been? Why did she still feel hot all over, and as though she needed something but did not know what? Her body was not her own, or at least, it was not any version of herself that she recognized.
But at least she had Olivia’s friendship. And if she could retrieve Abigail, that would be two people on her side; two more than she’d ever had before. With their help, she was certain she could find a way of winning the Duke over and making him hers once and for all.