Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The estate was larger than she had imagined at first, and Alexandra had been to her sisters' estates in the past. The grandeur and beauty had been astounding at each of them, it was just now it belonged - at least a little - to her.
She was still holding onto the small bundle of flowers she had held as a bride, waiting to be given to the worst man she had ever met. The stems were crumpled together so tightly that they had almost fused into one in her fist, sticky and sweaty and damp with fear and rage and humiliation.
The flowers themselves were wilted and drooping, a sad array of daisies and roses. A foolish combination, she thought. Innocence and love, two things that had no place in her marriage to Benedict Lennox.
Her dress was uncomfortable with all the extra embroidery and lace.
She stood, glancing at the clock in her room, which was too large and at the same time too impersonal.
If her husband was not going to come to her room and remove her dress the way he was meant to, she could at least get out of the things herself and make herself comfortable.
Why am I crying? she thought to herself crossly as she fumbled for the laces and buttons, carefully undoing them one at a time with clumsy fingers until she could slip the dress off over her shoulders and step out of it.
It lay on the floor, a puddle of white silk and pink lace and girlish dreams she'd never even had in the first place.
She had never wanted the wedding night, the discarded clothes, the wedding bed.
She had just wanted freedom.
Alexandra bit her lip as hard as she could and took off her gloves one finger at a time, folding them and crossing the room to find a dresser to store them in.
There was pleasant enough furniture in the room, a pale green dressing table that had clearly been owned by a woman at some point in its past, a tall wardrobe of pale wood with cunning handles and a writing desk with a lovely red velvet lining.
Yet there were no decorations, none of her things except one of her bags propped in the corner, nothing that marked it as belonging to her.
If Louisa had been here, she might have said something whimsical about it being like Alexandra had stepped into a shell left behind by another woman, but as it was just her, she felt cold and alone.
She carefully smoothed out her gloves and then stepped out of her wedding slippers, which had delicate satin and beaded tops, and put them away in the wardrobe at the very back.
She crossed back across the room and picked up the gown, draping it over one arm and taking it to hand it up in the closet on its own, stark and lonely like her.
That done, she sat at the dressing table and looked at herself.
She was bony and lanky, long-legged and long-armed with a long, thin nose and too many freckles.
Her eyes were green like her mother's eyes, and her hair was too untamable if left free, brown waves tangling around her shoulders and refusing to sit in one place.
She slowly removed each pin from her head, placing them neatly into a drawer of the dressing table and then brushing her hair carefully the hundred times she had always been told to.
Her throat was tight and sore, with not crying out loud, her eyes ached and stung, but she kept moving, kept fastidiously cleaning up her things.
She was strong and sensible, and she was capable of surviving anything.
When her hair was in chestnut clouds around her shoulders and her pale, drawn face was even paler peeking out of the middle of it, she stopped and put down her brush.
Every motion was particular and careful, just as she needed to be as she crossed to her case and drew out a nightshift, slipping it over her head and buttoning it up.
Demure. Polite. A good wife. A promising marriage. A duchess. All things she could make herself into if she tried. She would try. She could. It was better than the alternative, after all. He couldn't be worse.
What now?
Why is he taking so long?
She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was after nine.
Surely no man had ever been so reluctant to join his wife in their marriage bed? Why was he not here? Was he displeased with her? Was he angry?
Alexandra felt a slow thrum of anger build in her chest. If her lord husband was displeased, then she had a right to know about it, to know what she could do to make things better, not to be left to wonder when or if he was coming!
Was he expecting to come to bed after she was asleep?
Perhaps to wake her from some dream when she would not be expecting him at all?
No.
She frowned and walked across the room. With as much deliberation as every other action she had taken that evening, she opened the door and left.
She walked slowly and steadily to the end of the hall, turned, and headed towards the kitchens, where she would likely find someone who might know where her husband was.
"Your Grace," Mr. Laroux was saying, an elegant man with enough ruffs, buttons, and fancies on his clothing to qualify as a dandy in his own right.
"His Grace has retired to his study for the night.
He was quite clear that he had work to do and did not want to be disturbed.
Might I suggest you take up with him in the morning -"
"Quite," Alexandra said coldly. "And yet I am his wife and we have just been married. I believe it is quite within my rights to disturb him tonight of all nights."
"Your Grace," Mr. Laroux was leading her towards the study in question, even if he did have rather a lot to say about why it was a bad idea. "His Grace was not expecting to be wed today. Perhaps after a little time to get used to the idea -"
"I also was not expecting to wed His Grace today," Alexandra retorted. "He can adjust. I have had to."
“Can I implore you to change your mind, Your Grace?”
“Do Duchesses usually change their minds?” Alexandra asked with interest. “Or do they do what they will?”
Mr. Laroux seemed a little perplexed by the question. “It depends on the duchess, Your Grace.”
She nodded. “I believe I am going to do what I will tonight, Mr. Laroux. If you would not mind showing me my husband’s study, I would appreciate it.”
Mr. Laroux did not reply to this; he merely drew her attention to a particular door and then withdrew politely, as any good servant should, when there was about to be trouble between his master and mistress.
It was the first time that she had been in a position to cause that kind of trouble, and Alexandra was rather excited about it. It felt not quite like having power, but at least like being able to impact her fate for once.
She knocked.
"Who is it?"
"We were just wed, Your Grace," she said pertly. "Perhaps I should refresh your memory?"
There was a startled noise from within and then her husband, all of him, the whole mountain of a man, opened the door to the study and peered down at her.
He seemed even bigger out of his finery, in his shirtsleeves with his cravat undone.
Something about the expanse of him was more unrestrained, more unlimited this way.
"What are ye doing up so late, Alexandra?" he asked, letting her step into the room and then closing the door behind her. "It's well past nine, fair time to be abed, I would say."
"I agree," Alexandra said. "Which is why I have come to find you, Your Grace. You have been remiss in your duties to me."
"I have what now?" he blinked at her, staring outright at her face in so bold a way that she was forced to sigh.
"Your Grace, please. Is it not our wedding night?"
He stared again and then laughed, throwing his head back and bellowing with such merry abandon that a flush flew up her cheeks in annoyance. "What are you speaking of, girl? What does our weddin' night have to do with anything?"
"I am not a girl," Alexandra snapped. "Your Grace, your manners leave a great deal to be desired.
You cannot simply call me 'girl' or 'lass' or whatever you like.
I am your wife, I command respect from others, but only if you respect me yourself.
" She drew a deep, calming breath. "You may call me Alexandra.
That will suffice. And further, Your Grace, you have offended me by your lateness. How do you explain yourself?"
He was looking at her now with his dark blue eyes with such a curious, assessing look that Alexandra wanted suddenly and fiercely to flee the room, go back to her safe, boring bedroom, and hide under the covers.
It was very uncomfortable to be so closely observed, to be weighed down by that heavy gaze.
"What exactly have I been late for, Alexandra?" he asked, his low, rough voice tasting her name as though it were a foreign dish.
"Your wedding night!" she exclaimed. "You are very late indeed! Why would you leave me waiting in our marriage bed for you to arrive?"
"Our -" he paused and blinked. A slight flush mounted his cheeks for the first time, and he turned away from her quickly. "Our weddin' night?"
Alexandra wished that he was still looking at her so she would be able to try to read him better. "Yes. Do you recall how we were married today? That makes tonight our wedding night. On such occasions it is usual for a man to visit his wife in their bed."
"Oh." He sounded as though he was choking. "I see. And that is something you have been expecting, is it?"
"Should it not be?" She was honestly confused. "Is that not quite usual for a wedding?"
"Alexandra." He turned back, looking at her with so serious an expression that she was a little afraid of what it meant. "Do you know what - you are asking about? What it would - mean?"
It wasn't something her sisters had ever really spoken about.
Of course, they had all talked when they were younger about being swept off their feet by a young gentleman and taken away to his beautiful house, where they would be laid onto a bed that smelled like roses, but from that moment, the details had always become rather vague.
It was certain that something happened between the man and the woman that made them closer and brought them together, of course.
Alexandra knew that something was quite necessary for a child's birth, for instance.
But with her mother dying so young and none of her sisters ever having been specific -
The most she knew about the matter was from hearing a couple of maids laughing about their experiences when she was a teenager and even that had confused her. Something about people lying on top of each other. It had sounded exhausting and also as though it would be uncomfortable.
So did childbirth, for that matter. Her sisters had discussed that at length several times, and each time it had made her wish to curl herself into a tight ball and hide her body away from the possibility.
"Of course, I do," she said firmly, refusing to look him in the face in case he would know the truth from her eyes.
"Mmm," he didn't sound convinced. "Daenae worry about it, my dear. Ye can go rest your weary head tonight and all will be well."
Was he turning her down? Didn't he want to - be her husband in the ways men did?
Alexandra folded her hands together tightly to hide the way she was beginning to tremble a little from tiredness and bone-deep sorrow. "Do you not want an heir, Your Grace?"
Hector Lennox scoffed a little, looking back at her with a stormy gaze that she couldn't read. All men wanted heirs, especially men in such high positions. If he didn't want an heir, then surely his half-brother would inherit, and he must want to avoid that at least.
"I think there will be time enough for children," he said quietly. "A bouncing bairn will bless us soon enough, me wife."
She frowned a little. He wanted a child, and yet didn't want to make a child?
Why would this man never make an ounce of sense?