Jerking to a stop, Ariadne felt a rush of shock jolt up the back of her spine. It vanished when she understood the situation. Calmly, she undid her coat and handed it to the footman, “I took Emily to see her friend.”
“Without my permission,” he seethed.
“You were not here,” she said exasperatedly. “There was no way to get your permission. Besides, was it not on her schedule that you so love to follow?”
“Am I in trouble?” Emily’s small, scared voice made her heart twist.
Shaking her head, Ariadne replied, “No, you’re not.” Nodding to a nearby maid, “Please, take Lady Emily to her room and have a late luncheon sent up for her.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl curtsied and softly shepherded Emily from the room.
Ariadne pretended not to see when Emily looked over her shoulder, worry painted on her tender face. Cedric’s face had the rigidity of stone, “My study. Now.”
With that, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving her with no choice but to follow.
The study was exactly as remembered: a citadel of masculine order and rigidity. Towering shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, smelling of aged paper and polish, all of them in perfect order, she knew.
A fire burned low in the grate, casting a somber glow on the dark, leather furniture and a desk large enough to serve as a battlefield map.
He spun, “You are never to do that again.”
Ariadne calmly replied, “Do you not know Lady Clara and her family?”
“I do, but?—”
“And do you not have her on a schedule for her to go?”
His eyes narrowed, “Yes, but there is an?—"
“And when she does, do you not send her with her governess or a maid and an army of footmen with her?” Ariadne pressed, her tone as calm as still water. “Who do you think garners more respect, your maids, who are perfectly fine by the by, or a duchess?”
She could see that he realized she was chipping his argument to pieces. His jaw worked while the apple in his throat bobbed, and she wondered what he was going to do to refute her claims. He opened his mouth, but nothing came up except for a frustrated grunt.
Spinning on his heel, he went directly to a shelf, took down a decanter and filled a glass, his hand perfectly steady. By the color of the liquor, she assumed it was brandy, and he threw it back in one gulp; Ariadne winced; the fire of that had to be an ungodly burn down his throat.
“Are you going to ban me from taking her to see her friend then?” Ariadne asked, knowing that he had no reason to deny her.
“No,” he said gruffly.
“Do you want me to stop going with her?”
“No.”
Ariadne cocked her head. “Then why did you shout?”
He ignored her and instead plucked a sheet of paper from his desk and handed her a single sheet of crisp, white paper. “This is your overall schedule,” he stated. “I have taken the liberty of outlining my expectations for your role as duchess. You will adhere to them. Without deviation.”
She looked over the paper; the handwriting was sharp and black, as severe as the man who had written it. It was not so much a list of instructions as a set of royal decrees.
Regulations
Wake at 6:00 a.m., daily ambitions are expected.
7:00 a.m. Have a light breakfast.
8:15 a.m. Attend to letter, invitations, correspondence with important executors of the dukedom under your purview; keep up to date with the latest developments in society. No need to speak with the housekeeper about the menus. Those are set.
10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Payday visits to those requested in the letters, the girls' homes, the orphanage, and et cetera.
