Chapter 3 #2
The Duke stood in the nursery’s doorway while Mary stepped inside.
The room had been transformed in five days. Pale blue curtains hung at the windows. A sturdy oak crib stood against the far wall, dressed in white linens. A rocking chair sat beside it, and in that chair, a woman of perhaps forty rose to her feet and curtsied.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Bridwell had kind eyes and capable hands, and Mary liked her before she spoke another word.
Mary crossed to the crib. Tommy lay on his back, one fist curled against his cheek, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. Less than a week living in this new world, and already the most consequential person in London.
“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” Mary said.
Mrs. Bridwell curtsied again. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”
Mary wanted to lift him. She wanted to hold him the way she had five days ago, when his cries had stopped in her arms and the whole room had gone still. She did not. This was her first hour in this house as its mistress, and she would not begin her life here by overstepping.
The Duke cleared his throat behind her. “Come. I will introduce you to the household.”
In the corridor, Mrs. Cahill waited with her hands clasped. She curtsied when they emerged.
“Mrs. Cahill,” the Duke said. “You met the Duchess under unusual circumstances last week. I trust you will ensure she is comfortable in her new rooms.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Cahill turned to Mary with the practiced warmth of a woman who understood that a new bride in an unfamiliar house needed kindness more than ceremony. “If you’ll follow me, Your Grace.”
Mary followed Mrs. Cahill down the corridor, and the Duke remained in the doorway, watching them go.
Her chambers were at the end of the east corridor. The rooms were large and well-appointed, with pale green wallpaper and heavy curtains drawn back to let in the afternoon light. A young woman stood beside the dressing table, her cap straight and her posture perfect.
“This is Hattie,” Mrs. Cahill said. “Your lady’s maid. She’ll see to anything you need.”
Mrs. Cahill withdrew. Hattie unfastened the buttons along Mary’s spine, working her way down with practiced fingers.
“It’s a lovely gown, Your Grace. Finer than the last one, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“You saw the last one?”
“The whole house saw it, Your Grace. Mrs. Cahill had us at the windows.” Hattie eased the silk from Mary’s shoulders. “This one suits you better.”
Mary stepped out of the skirts and stood in her shift while Hattie hung the gown. She caught her own reflection in the mirror and paused.
She was a duchess. She was married to a man whose first name she had yet to use. Somewhere in this house, a baby who was not hers slept in a crib, and somewhere beyond London, her sister and his brother hid from consequences that had landed on everyone but them.
Mary pressed her palm flat against the cool glass of the mirror and closed her eyes.
Five days ago, she had been Lady Mary Gillies, standing in a vestibule, waiting to walk toward a man she did not love. Now she was the Duchess of Blackholm, standing in a stranger’s bedroom.
She opened her eyes. The woman in the mirror looked back at her, pale and composed, and Mary decided that composure would have to do until something better came along.
“The pheasant is excellent.”
The Duke cut a precise square of meat without looking up. “It is.”
Mary set down her fork. They sat at opposite ends of a dining table long enough to seat twenty, and the distance between them felt intentional.
Candelabras lined the center, their flames throwing restless shadows across the Duke’s face.
He ate with the same controlled precision he applied to everything else, and he had spoken eleven words since the soup course.
She had counted.
“How long have you lived in this house?” she asked.
“Since inheriting the title.”
“Which was?”
“Seven years ago.”
“And before that?”
The Duke raised his eyes. “Is this an interrogation?”
“It is a conversation.” Mary held his gaze across the candles. “We are married. I am attempting to learn something about my husband beyond his preference for silence.”
The Duke returned his attention to the pheasant. “There is nothing to learn that applies to our arrangement.”
“Our arrangement.” Mary turned the words over. “Is that what this is?”
“It is what we agreed to.”
“We agreed to a marriage.”
“Which is an arrangement.” He set his knife down. “Your Grace—”
“I am your wife. You might use my name.”
Something flickered across his face. He recovered before she could read it.
“We married because your sister’s choices left both our families exposed.
That is the sum of it. I do not require a dinner companion.
I require a duchess who can manage this household and care for Tommy while I locate our siblings. Anything beyond that is unnecessary.”
The words sat between them like a wall. Mary stared at him across the candles and felt something shift in her chest. Not hurt. Something harder.
“Charlotte’s choices,” she repeated. “You speak of my sister as though she acted alone. As though your brother played no part in any of this.”
“My brother is a fool. I have never denied that.”
“Yet you blame Charlotte.”
“I blame the situation.”
“You blame her.” Mary’s voice sharpened. “Every time you mention the scandal, it is Charlotte’s irresponsibility. Charlotte’s recklessness. As though your brother was dragged into this against his will. He was the elder. He was the man. If anyone should have known better—”
“Enough,” The Duke’s voice dropped. “Your sister seduced my brother into abandoning his responsibilities, his family, and his name. If you cannot accept that, I suggest you tolerate it in silence, because I will not spend every dinner re-litigating a scandal that has already cost me more than you can imagine.”
Mary’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood. The sound rang through the dining room. She placed her napkin beside her plate with a steadiness that cost her everything.
“Goodnight, Your Grace.”
She turned and walked toward the door. Her heels struck the marble in the corridor, and she kept her spine straight and her eyes forward, and she did not look back.
“Mary.”
His footsteps followed hers. She walked faster. He walked faster.
“Stop.” His hand closed around her arm in the corridor, firm but not rough, and Mary spun to face him.
They stood between two wall sconces, the candlelight catching the hard lines of his jaw and the darkness in his eyes.
“You cannot walk away from the table in the middle of dinner,” he said. His voice was low. “You are the Duchess of Blackholm. This house has staff. They talk. You must—”
“I must what?” Mary stepped closer. She could feel the heat of him, and it infuriated her. “Sit and smile while you insult my sister? You want a duchess, Your Grace? Then treat me like one.”
His grip on her arm loosened, but he did not release her. His breath came faster. She watched his eyes drop to her mouth and snap back up, and her own pulse kicked hard against her throat.
The corridor shrank. The candlelight shifted. He was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and the tension in the muscle of his jaw. Close enough that if either of them moved, if either of them breathed wrong, the distance between them would vanish entirely.
A cry broke through the silence above them. Rising in its urgency.
Tommy.
Mary pulled her arm free. The Duke released her. They stood apart, the spell broken, the corridor wide again.
“I will see to the baby,” Mary said.
Mary turned and climbed the staircase without waiting for his permission. Tommy’s cries pulled her upward, and she followed the sound, grateful for a reason to leave, grateful for something that needed her more than her pride did.