Chapter 22 Semi-Porcine Transformation #2
I dip my head in silent acknowledgment of the reproof and swallow a full half-dozen witty, biting, or otherwise completely inappropriate remarks.
“So have you learned your lesson, wandering with that beggar?” He uses one fat finger to tip my chin up to face him. “I was going to humble you myself, but maybe it was better this way. Did he put you in your place? Do you feel revolting? Debased?” His gaze drops down my body.
I manage not to shiver. Debased by being married to Lem! Preposterous! But I can agree with part of his statement. “He put me in my place.” My words are clipped. I look past the duke at a faded painting on the wall.
Lem put me in my place, because my place was with him.
“I don’t believe it.” The duke narrows his eyes. “You’ve still got that feisty spirit in there. But I’ll break it yet.”
A pity that he’s not as stupid as he looks. He’ll probably be gratified if I tell him he’s right, so, with a gulp and a wan smile, I try to say something flattering. “You’re more perceptive than you appear, Your Grace.”
I’m actually quite pleased with this. It’s an insult disguised as a compliment, and I say it with relative ease. And the duke even sniffs in a way that indicates his vanity has been gratified.
But not enough, I fear, for his fingernail digs deeper into the soft flesh under my chin.
“You’ll do well not to forget it, Lady Agatha.
” He leans closer, and I let my lips part slightly so I can breathe through my mouth.
Another comparison to pigs rises to mind, but I shove it away. “Or should I say, wife.”
I deserve quite a lot of credit—or perhaps, Melusine deserves the credit—for not shuddering. While I’d like to point out that I can’t be his wife, as I’m already Lem’s, I won’t give him any reason to hunt Lem down.
“That’s all for now.” He releases me as roughly as he grabbed me. “When I’m satisfied that you’re properly humbled, we’ll have a party so everyone can meet the new duchess.”
“Shouldn’t there be a wedding first?” The words slip out without my permission. My tone is slightly more sardonic than desirable for the properly humbled act.
The duke’s laugh is, tragically, less melodious than his snorting. “Don’t you remember? Your father married us on your birthday.” He turns, flicking his fingers at the thug, who grabs me by the arm to march me away.
Ah, so that’s how he’s playing it. An idea forms in my mind as the thug steers me back through the lugubrious hallways.
If I can wait a few days, until I’m sure Lem is safely out of the country, and then get away from here—could I get back home and retrieve the marriage license to prove that my midnight groom was not Virgle Mansfield, but a mysterious, surname-less “Lem”?
Would Father give it to me? Would that be enough to save me from being tethered to this odious man?
That wouldn’t solve any of my other problems, but it would, perhaps, be a start in the right direction.
Humbling me, it turns out, means giving me a bucket and brush and making me clean the floors.
I have both under- and over-estimated the duke, it seems. He wasn’t quite so easily fooled by my pretense of humility, but he also thinks that all it will take to break me is a little scrubbing.
My mind replays the scenes of the previous week: I’ve sung for hours, climbed mountains, cleaned Lem’s blistered feet.
Getting on my hands and knees to brush my own muddy footprints out of the carpet is hardly the punishment the duke thinks it will be.
Mind, I’m not saying this is my ideal way to spend a day.
Before long, my knees are aching, my stomach growls, and the rough brush handle is raising a blister on my palm.
But compared to how he could have punished me …
I’m relieved that he isn’t more creative.
In fact, I’d whistle, but that might seem at odd with the humbled persona I’m trying to project.
I work my way down the halls, erasing muddy footprints one by one, until I’m nearly back to the front entrance, occupying my mind with all sorts of silly thoughts to distract myself from all my other, more depressing, feelings.
I think about how the duke’s main problem, obviously, is that he has nothing for visitors to wipe their feet on near the doorway.
(If he only provided some sort of rush mat, he could keep his home tidier and save on manpower.) I think about how much better he’d look if he stopped wearing his hair in that dreadful greased pompadour.
(I still wouldn’t be attracted to him, but perhaps someone less picky would come along?) I think about what Lem must be doing—
No. I blink that one away. No use stewing over him now.
Footsteps—heavy and slightly off-kilter—sound from the hallway behind me. I smooth my face into a pleasant, meek expression and turn to see the duke looming over me. He’s smug—good. He thinks this is working.
“Hello, wife. I hope you’re enjoying your first day home.
Or, dare I say, not enjoying it.” His dark eyes twinkle with malicious satisfaction and he chuckles as if he’s just said something clever.
He scuffs his shoe along a section of the runner that I’d already scrubbed, leaving a streak of dirt behind.
“Looks like you’ll have to redo that part. ”
I dip my head and keep my mouth closed. What a lout. Lem would never treat anyone like that. I miss his grumpy-but-not-evil face.
“When I speak to you,” the duke continues, “I want you to reply. Say, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’”
I swallow. I’m not sure what will pop out if I open my mouth, but the duke nudges me, not gently, with his toe. “Say it!”
“You’re a lout,” I whisper. I clench my teeth. I wasn’t focusing hard enough.
“What was that? Say it louder.”
Resigned, I lift my head to look at him. “You really don’t want me to.”
Surprise chases irritation across his face. “I’ll tell you what I want or not!” His voice grows louder and he stomps one of his feet.
Delightful! My captor-who’s-pretending-to-be-husband has the emotional reactions of a toddler!
“What?” the duke roars, and I realize belatedly that I said that thought out loud.
May as well commit. “My little brother stamps his foot just like that,” I say coolly. “I’ve been hoping he’ll grow out of it naturally, but it seems that not all men do.”
I’ve been here for less than three hours, and already I’ve managed to make my situation much, much worse. The duke’s face turns a mottled shade of orangey-green, which would be a fascinating thing to study artistically if it didn’t make me feel like vomiting.
No use in the humility pretense at this point, I’m afraid, so I push myself up to my feet and stand tall, holding the duke’s angry glare with a firm one of my own.
And for a moment, I feel like I might be able to overpower him. He very nearly wavers in the face of my Gifts. My beauty, elegance, and grace clash with his self-importance, and he almost steps back, admitting that I am a creature he cannot control, should not dare to suppress.
I see the moment his baser desires win out over his sense of awe, when he shoves away the instincts whispering that I deserve love, admiration, and honor. His face crumples into a snarl, betraying his true impulses: lust, not love. Dominance, not admiration. Control, not honor.
If ever I thought I might have a chance at happiness, or even a deadening sort of complacency, with Duke Mansfield, I am convinced otherwise now.
The marriage I’ve always desired is now revealed for what it truly would be: misery, oppression, subjection.
He’ll grind me down until there’s nothing left of me, then parade the empty husk around as a trophy.
If I let him.
Just a few hours ago, I thought I would. Thought I could go back to this sort of life and be comfortably miserable. But I can’t—I can’t.
I’ll escape this man or die trying.