The Insufferable Husband
Eleanor surveyed the dining table with a critical eye.
The Sinclair family silver gleamed in the candlelight, polished to perfection.
Her mother’s Wedgwood china—an extravagance she’d refused to relinquish when Mr. Abram began his systematic pillaging of her assets—was arranged with military precision.
Perfect.
She’d selected the intimate corner of the dining room where shadows played across the table’s western side, her own place illuminated by the best of the candlelight.
The documents detailing her proposed allowance increase lay beside her place setting, the figures she’d carefully calculated positioned to catch the light.
“Is everything to Your Grace’s satisfaction?” Mrs. Wright, her housekeeper, asked.
“It’s lovely, thank you.” Eleanor rearranged the crystal glasses, ensuring the duke’s would catch the light in a way that might draw his eye at critical moments. “I’ve selected the ’08 Bordeaux for dinner.”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened slightly. “The special reserve, Your Grace? The one from the hidden cellar?”
“Indeed.” Eleanor offered a cool smile. “One must mark important occasions appropriately.”
“Very good, Your Grace. If I may say, it’s been some time since the house has had a master present. The staff is quite pleased by His Grace’s arrival.”
Eleanor merely nodded, dismissing the woman with a slight wave. So the household had already shifted loyalties. All the more reason to ensure this negotiation proceeded as planned.
She straightened the neckline of her gown, a rich burgundy silk with silver threading that matched the color of the wine they would drink.
The modiste had insisted the lower neckline was the latest fashion from Paris.
Eleanor had initially resisted, but tonight, she was grateful for the daring cut.
George had always said she had a beautiful décolletage—might as well make use of it in battle.
The door opened, and she turned, expression perfectly composed.
Her most inconvenient husband paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over her with unhurried appreciation before moving to the carefully arranged table. One dark eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.
“My dear duchess,” he said, crossing to her. “You look magnificent. That color becomes you immensely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She extended her hand with practiced grace, noting how his gaze dipped briefly to the neckline of her gown before returning to her face. A small victory. “I’m pleased you could join me for our discussion.”
His lips curved as he bowed over her hand. “I believe we agreed to negotiate terms. Though I must say, if this is how you conduct all your business affairs, London’s merchants must be at a severe disadvantage.”
Eleanor withdrew her hand, ignoring the warmth his touch and words had kindled. “Shall we be seated? I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some figures for your consideration.”
He gestured for her to precede him to the table, following with measured steps. When she indicated his chair—positioned so the documents would be in shadow from his vantage point—he paused.
“How thoughtful of you to arrange such an intimate setting,” he said, eyes twinkling with unmistakable amusement. “Though the light seems rather particular in its focus.”
Without waiting for her response, he lifted his chair and moved it to the adjacent side of the table—next to her own seat rather than opposite it. “There. Much better for reviewing documents together, don’t you think?”
Eleanor stiffened. “That’s not the customary arrangement.”
“I’ve found custom often interferes with efficiency.” He settled beside her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of sandalwood and bergamot. “Now, what figures did you wish to discuss?”
The footman appeared with the first course, a delicate consommé. Eleanor waited until they were alone before sliding the papers toward him.
“As I mentioned earlier, I’m prepared to triple your quarterly allowance in exchange for your prompt return to the East.”
His Smugness didn’t look at the documents. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on her face. “A generous offer. Though it seems a shame to travel so far only to depart immediately.”
“The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll receive the funds.” Eleanor sipped her soup, acutely aware of his proximity.
“I’ve never been one to rush pleasurable experiences.” His voice had dropped lower, the words seemingly innocent yet laden with suggestion. “And getting to know my wife strikes me as potentially quite pleasurable.”
Heat rose to Eleanor’s cheeks. She reached for her wine glass, using the motion to create distance between them. “Our arrangement was clear from the beginning. Your presence in London was never part of the agreement.”
“Plans change.” He reached for his own wine, but instead of using the ornate crystal goblet she’d selected, he lifted her glass from her fingers and took a sip from where her lips had touched. “Excellent vintage. Your cellars must be remarkable.”
“You’re being deliberately provocative.” Eleanor reclaimed her glass, disconcerted by the intimacy of his gesture.
“And you’re being strategic.” His smile deepened as he gestured to the table arrangement and the documents. He then gave a slight nod toward her neckline. “Though I confess, some strategies are more diverting than others.”
The soup bowl before him remained untouched. Instead, he reached for a piece of bread from the basket, breaking it with his fingers rather than using the silver bread knife she’d carefully positioned beside his plate.
“In the East,” he explained, catching her glance, “one learns to appreciate the tactile pleasures of dining.” He offered her a piece, holding it just close enough that she would need to lean toward him to accept it. “The feel of the bread, the warmth, the texture against one’s fingers.”
Eleanor ignored the offering. “We were discussing business, Your Grace.”
“Damien,” he corrected. “And yes, we were. Though I wonder if what you’re offering is truly what I desire.”
There was something in his eyes—a calculation, an assessment—that made her suddenly wonder if his apparent susceptibility to her feminine charms was one of his tactics. The footman returned to clear the soup course, and the duke finally turned his attention to the documents.
Eleanor studied him for a moment, then decided to strike at what she suspected was the heart of the matter. “Your brother’s scandal was part of why you sought funds abroad and entered our arrangement in the first place. Is his situation the cause of your sudden return to London?”
A flicker of wariness crossed his features before his expression settled back into practiced nonchalance. “My brother is recovering quite well,” he said, his tone measured as the next course was laid before them. “His welfare no longer requires my constant supervision.”
“Is that so?” Eleanor’s gaze was steady, probing. “How remarkable. I’ve seen through my charitable work how rare and difficult such recoveries can be, particularly in cases of…” she paused delicately, “particular vices.”
The duke’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He cut a small piece of pheasant, his movements controlled and precise. “The Westmores have always possessed a certain determination of character,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “In both our virtues and our indiscretions.”
He set the papers aside. “However, I find myself more interested in an alternative arrangement.”
Eleanor focused on cutting a precise piece of her meat, using the moment to gather her thoughts. “Which is?”
“A true marriage, rather than the fiction we’ve maintained these past months.”
Her knife slipped, the blade scraping across the fine china with a jarring sound. “That was never part of our agreement.”
“Consider the advantages,” he said, leaning closer.
“Your position is secured not by a distant title but by a present duke. Your Mr. Abram would find it considerably more difficult to continue his thievery with a husband in residence—one who conducts Parliamentary business with powerful men who would take a dim view of the solicitor’s activities.
Your charities continue under your direction, with the financial support they require. ”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he added more softly, “And you need not dine alone.”
Something in his tone—a hint of genuine understanding—caught her attention. She studied him with new scrutiny. “And what do you gain from this arrangement?”
“A home in London. A respectable establishment from which to conduct my affairs.”
“Affairs you’ve yet to specify,” she pointed out. “But more importantly, you haven’t addressed the matter of financial control.”
The duke’s expression cooled slightly. “Ah, yes. The central concern behind your original arrangement.”
“Under our marriage contract, all my properties and funds legally transferred to your control,” Eleanor said. “The Black Widow’s solicitors created documents you signed delegating financial management back to me. I require similar assurances now.”
“You wish me to sign over complete financial control while I remain in residence,” he stated, his tone flat.
“Precisely.” Eleanor met his gaze steadily. “Just as you did for our proxy arrangement.”
A shadow crossed his features. “That would leave me without resources, entirely dependent on your goodwill. Not a position I can accept.”
“Yet you expect me to accept dependence on yours?” Her voice held a thread of outrage. “What I’m requesting is no different from what you’ve already agreed to. The only change is your presence in England.”
“There’s a significant difference,” he countered. “I’ve given you my word that I won’t interfere with your financial independence. You’re asking me to legally handicap myself.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “The law already grants you every protection and advantage, while I have none. What I’m asking for is but a fraction of the security you enjoy simply by virtue of your sex and title.”