“I see. And his study is where?”
“The east wing, Your Grace. But His Grace prefers not to be disturb—”
“Thank you.” She smiled sweetly. “That will be all.”
She ate without tasting, the eggs and toast little more than habit. This was not how she had imagined her first morning as a wife. She had foolishly thought—what? That Adrian might wake her with a kiss? That they might take breakfast together, perhaps even feed each other berries like lovesick fools?
Apparently, she was the only fool in the arrangement.
After breakfast, she set out to find her husband. The east wing was a maze of corridors, each more imposing than the last. She passed servants who bobbed quick curtseys but offered no assistance, their faces carefully blank. Finally, she heard voices from behind a heavy oak door.
“—railroad investments are sound, Your Grace, but the canal proposal—”
“Is idiotic. Tell Harrison that if he wishes to throw money away, he can do it with someone else’s fortune.”
Adrian’s voice—measured and businesslike. Nothing like the rough whispers of last night.
She knocked.
The voices stopped.
“Enter.”
She opened the door to find Adrian behind a massive desk, dressed impeccably in dark wool, looking every inch the duke. An older man—his steward, presumably—stood before the desk with a ledger.
Adrian’s eyes flickered to her, something unreadable passing through them before his expression shuttered. “Your Grace. How may I assist you?”
Your Grace.As if she were a caller, not his wife.
“I wondered…” She cleared her throat, attempting a lightness she did not feel. “I thought perhaps we might spend the morning together. You could show me the estate.”
“I am afraid that is impossible. Hendricks and I have considerable work. Perhaps Mrs Brightley can arrange a tour.”
The dismissal was clear. The steward, Hendricks, shifted uncomfortably.
“I see.” She lifted her chin. “And when might you be available for your wife?”
Something flashed in his eyes—heat, maybe, or anger. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“How very romantic.”
“Romance,” he said evenly, “was never part of our arrangement.”
The words struck like a blow. Last night, he had worshipped her body; this morning, he was a stranger made of ice and titles.
“No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t. How foolish of me to forget.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“Marianne.”
She paused, hand on the door. “Your Grace?”
A long silence. Then: “Hendricks, leave us.”
The steward bowed himself out. When the door shut, silence settled heavy between them.
“Look at me,” Adrian said.
