Chapter Six
Christiana was not surprised to see that when they arrived at the posting inn, the duke had reserved a private parlor. The room was small but comfortable, with a table with refreshments in the center and an unnecessary fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The air was stifling.
Christiana removed her gloves as she walked to the window, hoping to open it for some fresh air, only to find it painted shut. “Well,” she said. “I suppose we now know what a visit to the tropics might be like.”
The duke observed her for a moment before lowering himself into a chair. “I’ve heard the tropics are a trifle damper.”
“Is anywhere damper than England?”
“Perhaps not in terms of rainfall.” He sighed as he rested his hands across his stomach, still gloved despite the proximity of the fire. A reflection of the flames danced across the painted wood of his mask, now once again in place.
“You know, there is no need to wear your mask and gloves when there are merely the two of us here,” she said.
“I wouldn’t want to upset the staff.”
“So you will put your own comfort behind that of theirs?”
The visible side of his jaw clenched, and although his brown eyes had seemed remarkably mild thus far, a hard light entered them. “It brings me no comfort to see their disgust, Christiana.”
She gritted her teeth to prevent herself from saying anything else that might offend him. After a moment, she nodded tightly. “Of course, Your Grace.” Partially to distract herself, she poured herself wine from a carafe, and sipped it, wincing at its vinegary flavor.
“I ought to have warned you,” the duke said, drawing a hand over his eyes. “The wine here is very poor. I recommend the ale, if you have anything.”
She placed the glass back on the table. “I doubt a lady ought to have ale.”
“Do you put so much stock in being a lady?” He raised his brows in challenge. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon told me about your proclivity for gambling.”
She flushed, though more in anger than in shame. “If you think I am about to step into my father’s shoes and—”
He held up a hand. “If I thought that, I would not have consented to the wedding.” He examined her for another long minute, and she disliked the way he made her feel as though someone had put her in a display case.
As though she were nothing more but a fancy brooch or snuffbox.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon also told me you frequently won.”
Christiana lowered herself into a chair and picked up the wine again, mostly for something to do. “She was correct.”
“Why did you take such steps to visit the Lyon’s Den when you were a mere girl?
” He frowned, and she knew he was wondering at the doormen for having let them in.
But they had been wearing veils, and although Christiana knew now that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been aware of everything that had gone on in her establishment, at the time she had been wildly overconfident.
“I enjoyed the thrill of it,” she said at last. “Laura—that is, Miss Crawford—used to watch me play.” While Laura flirted with any enterprising gentleman who caught her attention, which was most of them. When it came to flirtation, Laura was not choosy.
Which is what made her fixation with this groom so odd. Marrying a stableboy when she had flirted with half of London?
Then again, what could Christiana judge when she had agreed to sell herself into marriage—all to save her father from destitution?
Her stomach turned.
“I’m not hungry, Your Grace,” she said, standing. “I would like to retire and—”
“You will sit.” The iron note in his voice had her dropping back into her chair.
“You forget that you are now a duchess. My wife.” His eyes closed, and he inhaled sharply.
“Once we are back at Somerset Hall, you may retire when you choose, and the servants we keep will not gossip overmuch about it, but here we must do everything to keep scandal at bay.” He brought two fingers to the edge of his mask, scratching as though uncomfortable, and said in a quieter tone, “I would not have the servants here gossiping that you fled from me as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Please, at least stay until you’ve had something to eat. It has been a long day for us both.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, measuring his will against hers.
“For years,” she said tightly, “my father took every opportunity to give me orders, particularly when it went against my own desires and preferences. The reason I accepted this marriage was because I wanted something different for my future.”
The duke sighed, and to her surprise, rose and took the seat opposite her at the table. “I have no desire to be a tyrant,” he said. “But, as they say, one must walk a mile in another’s shoes to understand them—if you had walked in mine, you would understand why I make this request.”
“Request,” she repeated. “Not a command?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed, but after another long moment, he too poured himself a glass of wine. “I would prefer it if you remained here until after we have eaten dinner. If you object to my presence enough that you cannot bear my company, however, I will put about that you are ill.”
“It’s not you,” she said. “Or your company. I just—” It was her wedding night, and she had never felt less like celebrating. She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“You dislike your situation.” He took a sip of his wine and curled his lip. “Yes, I understand the sensation. But we must make the best of things. As far as is in my power, I will make you a good husband. You requested freedom, and if nothing else, I can give you that.”
“Aside from tonight,” she said slyly.
“Hearing that the Beast of Somerset’s bride fled from him on their wedding night might not reflect well on either of us.
” The corner of his mouth pulled into a wry smile, but even she could see there was no humor in it.
“I made the request for your sake as well as mine. You are the one who will have to venture into London next year with Amelia.”
Christiana tilted her chin. “I am a duchess now. What rumors can harm me?”
His black-gloved fingers traced along the rim of his glass. “You would be surprised.”
The door opened, and the innkeeper arrived with servants, bringing their dinner. Roast chicken, beef, and one meat pie made up the main course, along with some roasted potatoes and wilted vegetables that had seen better days.
Christiana wondered if the duke would complain, but he merely waved a hand and dismissed the servants from the room. “I prefer to serve myself,” he explained to Christiana, finally reaching up to remove his mask. “And it’s easier to eat without servants staring at me.”
“Is everyone you meet so rude?” she asked, allowing the duke to cut the meat and put a little on her plate. Now that she had the food in front of her, she found she was hungry, after all.
“I am a duke, and my face repulses them. Do you expect anything else?” Before she could answer, he gestured at the table. “Pie?”
“What do you suppose it has in it?”
“Game, presumably.” He lifted the lid and steam rose into the air. “And gristle.”
“How appealing.”
“I take it that’s a yes?”
“How could I refuse such a delicacy?” She held out her plate. “At least the pastry is good. The cook must have cold hands.”
He frowned. “Cold hands?”
“Everyone knows that in order to make superior pastry, one must have cold hands. My hands are perpetually warm, so my pastry is atrocious. At least, that’s what I tell myself.”
His face revealed not a flicker of emotion as he said, “And you have spent a great deal of time in the kitchen?”
“Shocking, isn’t it? But Father forced me to dismiss most of the servants, and we only had an old charwoman come in twice a week at one stage. Fortunately, she was kind enough to teach me until Father could afford another cook.”
“I see.”
“I also have a handful of mediocre accomplishments,” she said, “courtesy of my education at a finishing school.”
“Not a governess?”
“My mother preferred to send me away.” She forced the sting from the words and offered the duke a smile. “St. Mary’s came highly recommended.”
“But you disliked it?”
Had she been so obvious? “Only a little.”
“Then I’m sorry for that,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. The texture of it reminded her of crushed velvet, and she briefly thought it odd that a man with such a ruined face could have such a deep and lovely voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said, prodding at the excellent pastry. “In London, I shall pretend to be excellently educated and to have never stepped foot in a kitchen.”
“Necessity is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“And yet I should not confess to it.” She shrugged at his piercing gaze. “That is the nature of pride. A duchess should never admit to possessing certain skills. And now that I am a duchess, I must keep the secret.”
He inclined his head. “The nature of pride is a cruel one.”
“True.” She cocked her head at him. “Tell me something, and with no fear of hurting my feelings. Would you have married if you hadn’t your sister to think of?”
To her surprise, he took some time to consider her question, pouring himself another glass of wine.
His hand shook very slightly, and she wondered at it.
How much damage had the fire done? She had a sudden, terrible urge to see all the scarring, to map the damage across his body and know for certain.
What would it achieve? Nothing. But he was the Beast of Somerset and she his bride, and she wished to know what sort of monster she had married.
If he was a monster at all.
“No,” he said at last. “If things had been—different—I may have married already, but things are not different. And so you were the sacrificial lamb placed on my altar.”
“That you paid good money for.” She dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “I’ve heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon is not cheap.”
“No,” he acknowledged with a grim smile. “She is not.”
“I suspect,” she said, laying her cards on the table, “she ensured my father’s debt belonged to her—and perhaps even engineered it so she might have this opportunity.”
“Entirely possible. There are plenty of gentlemen searching for wives in unconventional ways.”
“And I was a pawn she could wield at her command.”
The duke looked at her for another long minute as she finished her plate. Then, without saying another word, he replaced his mask and rang the bell, summoning the servants to clear the table. He asked for ale, and she requested nothing; there was very little she wanted to drink from this place.
Once everyone had left, his gaze returned to her. “You may retire now, if you wish,” he said. “I will stay here awhile.”
“Has enough time elapsed?”
“You look tired,” was his only reply. “And I find that when I drink, it is better I do so alone.”
“Why? Do you turn cruel? My father has never laid a hand on me, but he has thrown things at my head when he’s in the throes of inebriation.”
“Have they ever hit?”
“I’m remarkably good at ducking,” she told him.
“Well, you will not have to be with me, no matter the occasion.”
“No matter how I try you?”
The left corner of his mouth curved in a crooked smile that struck her as oddly charming. “Even then.”
“Well, I am tired,” she said. “Thank you for dinner, Your Gr—Hugh.”
“Goodnight, Chris.”
Once her lady’s maid, Baxter, arrived, Christiana left the parlor and took the corridor across to the room that had been assigned to her, noting as she did the door in the wall that would connect her, presumably, to the duke’s room.
Baxter set up a truckle bed, and Christiana lay back against the pillows, wondering if she would hear the duke come upstairs before she fell asleep.
She did not.