“Convert me? Was I a nun before marrying you?” He still did not look up.
“No, but you know as well as I do that you showed no interest in any other lady, and no overt interest in me before we married. Do you not see why, especially with our failed engagement in our past, people are especially keen to talk about us? If this ball is not marvelous?—”
“It will be absolutely fine,” Maxwell interrupted, his usual patience distinctly lacking today. “And if it isn’t, let them talk. When something new happens, as it inevitably will, we will be superseded. Until then, there’s no harm in enduring a few whispers.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?”
“You’re a duke.”
“And you’re a duchess,” he said indifferently. “The difference is minimal, I assure you.”
It felt as though there was a gulf opening between them, and if she attempted to step any closer to him, physically or emotionally, it would swallow her. The thought made a pit open in her stomach, though she tried to reason herself out of the feeling.
They were still married. They lived in the same house. There was nothing he could do to get rid of her, even if he had begun sleeping in another room and dismissing her when he saw her.
How much could a lady hope for from her husband?
“I see you are busy,” she said lightly. “And have little interest in the guest list for our ball. I will send out invitations tomorrow.”
“Very good.”
She couldn’t help but notice he looked relieved that she was about to leave, and her heart squeezed yet again.
“Have I done anything?” she asked. “To offend you, I mean. Or to convince you that you made a mistake in marrying me?”
“What could you have done?” Finally, he looked up at her, but his eyes were flat and hard, no emotion to be seen in them. “You have done excellently as a duchess, and I expect you will continue to behave in an exemplary fashion. I have no complaints about your conduct.”
“But your happiness?” she tried.
“I had need of a wife, and now I have a wife. A wife, moreover, who can behave in a way that befits her position. Don’t let me down, Thalia, and I will have no reason to regret the match.”
Was he lying? His voice did not sound as though he thought particularly highly of his decision to marry her, whatever his words pronounced. And he didn’t meet her gaze, choosing instead to focus his attention on her hands and the papers she held there.
“Well,” she said, though anger flared at his dismissive treatment. “Then I suppose you will have no issues with me working more with Elliot.”
His brows rose, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. His gaze turned cold. “Is that supposed to be different from anything you have been doing?”
“Well, if you wanted me to stay around, or if you had plans for us, that would take precedent.” She waited, but he merely continued to stare at her, and the disappointment cramping her stomach made her head feel tight and stuffy.
Tears she never usually indulged in pressed against the backs of her eyes.
This was not the Maxwell she had grown accustomed to. The one he had teased her with over the course of the beginning of their marriage.
When he said nothing, she held the papers closer to her chest. “I will determine the guest list without you, then, and afterward, I will go to see Elliot,” she said. “I hope you are successful in your work, Maxwell.”
He looked back down at his work, and she left the room, practically colliding with Lydia, who carried a book under her arm.
“Oh!” Thalia said, endeavoring to keep her misery from her face.
Whatever she had done to offend Maxwell, she would not make it Lydia’s problem. The younger girl seemed delighted with their marriage and that they were seemingly happy; for as long as it would be possible, Thalia resolved to keep the truth from her.
“Hello,” Lydia said, beaming. “What were you doing?”
“I thought I might ask your help in deciding who to invite to our ball,” Thalia said. “Maxwell is indifferent, so long as we invite all the right people. You know.”
“I do know,” Lydia said seriously. “Of course I will help; I would be delighted.”
