She frowned. “That’s strange.”
“Do you think so?” he said.
“It’s very strange,” she said. “He simply came to you and said he wished to resign?”
“He tells me you asked to see all of the household records and—and I hardly know what else.”
“Inventories,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to review these records, to fully understand the management of this household.”
“You’ve impugned his integrity.”
“I think not,” she said. “I think this is about getting his way. You are the Duke of Marchmont. He’s your house steward. Where will he obtain a more prestigious position? If he leaves because of a small thing like this, then something is very wrong in this house.”
“Something is clearly wrong,” Marchmont said tightly. “We had peace here, and all running smoothly, and look what you’ve done.”
“I’ve done what is my responsibility,” she said.
“You don’t need to be responsible,” he said. “Harrison has been with this family for twenty years. He started as a footboy. If ever there were a trusted retainer, that is one—and you’ve implied he isn’t trustworthy.”
“Have I, really?” Zoe said. “Because I wished to do what every woman of my family does?”
“Every woman of your family is not the Duchess of Marchmont,” he said.
“Quite true. My responsibilities are greater than theirs.”
“Your responsibility is to bear my children,” he said. “And to spend my money. And to entertain yourself in the Beau Monde you were so determined to be part of.”
“That’s all?” she said. Her voice had grown dangerously quiet, and there was a light in her blue eyes that even he could read, whether he wished to or not. But he was too angry to heed the warning.
“It’s bourgeois,” he said, “to fuss about records and inventories, like a common shopkeeper.”
“Common?” she said.“Common?”
She snatched up a hairbrush and threw it at him.
He dodged instinctively, and the missile flew by him and struck the door frame.
He was not allowed to throw anything back.
He was not allowed to throttle her.
He stormed out of the dressing room and, soon, out of the house. He went to his club. He stayed there through the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening and drank steadily.
That night
The Duke of Marchmont was not carried into the house in the early hours of morning. He didn’t even stagger—not so one would notice. He’d drunk a great deal, but it wasn’t enough. Sobriety came and went, and when it came, it was too bright and cold, like a day of dead winter.
His bride had placed him in an impossible position.
There was Harrison saying the duchess was dissatisfied with his services and offering to resign if the duke so wished it.
What was Marchmont to say to that? What could he say but “Her Grace cannot be dissatisfied with your services. Clearly there’s a misunderstanding. I’ll look into it.”
Look into it!
Why must he look into it? Why must he be placed in the ridiculous position of negotiating between his house steward and his wife?
Zoe shouldn’t have put him in this position.
