“There was an accident.” How his wife managed to sound so composed, so in control, when everything about her appeared so tumultuous, he didn’t know. But her voice was steady, imperious, and determined.
But it hadn’t been an accident. Not really.
He’d known she had no idea what to do in a kitchen when he’d given her the bloody schedule. He’d wanted a disaster—for her to fail completely. He just hadn’t expected she’d get hurt doing it.
He should have known better. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’resorry? I didn’t realize that you owned my actions as well as my person, Mr. Asterly. Pray, do let me know when I have some sort of autonomy, even if it is just over my mistakes.”
He let go of her hand and stepped back. “I apologize.”
She arched an eyebrow. If he hadn’t seen the tear tracks, if his sister hadn’t been shaking her head in warning in the background, he might not have realized that the woman in front of him was, in fact, presenting an exceptional façade.
One that he would let her keep, since he’d managed to take everything else from her.
“Cassandra, go ask Daisy for a salve,” he said. “I’ll cook tonight.”
Standing at the sideboard, Benedict layered a thick spread of jam over his burnt toast, followed by an equally thick layer of marmalade.
An enjoyable breakfast had become a science since Mrs. Greenhill had become too blind to cook. Enough jam to mask the taste of burnt bread. Enough bitter marmalade to mask all the sugar in jam.
He stuffed a piece in his mouth before he’d even turned away. It was best eaten quickly and without thinking.
Turning back to the center of the room, the sight of Lady Amelia in the doorway set him coughing. She had never come down for breakfast before. And he’d never seen that dress with its slimmer fit skimming over her curves. An absurd number of trunks had arrived the day before. At the time, all he’d thought of was the incredible waste of one person owning so many things. Now he wondered how many of those things were going to set his heart racing.
“Good morning, Mr. Asterly. Have we moved away from using a table? Shall I have it turned into firewood so we can eat like cavemen on the floor?”
Ah, his wife. Never short of an opinion.
“Lady Amelia. You are aware that it is seven a.m.? Are you unwell?” He took his seat at the head of the table, where the tea and chocolate were laid out. There was a small, dark stain marring the white linen. Damn her for highlighting every fault just by being in the room.
“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” she said, crossing the room to the sideboard. She wrinkled her nose at the options in front of her and, after exaggerated consideration, put an orange on her plate. “Clearly I’m stuck here in Abingdale so I might as well get on with life.”
“Really?” He couldn’t mask his surprise. Despite his throwing open her curtains each morning, she’d stubbornly remained in her room until past ten every day. The mornings had become a battle of wills as she flat-out refused to do whatever was on her list, and he refused to let her off chore-free. Yesterday, they’d compromised. She had chosen mending over beating the carpets. Today he’d gone into his dressing room to discover the rips in his shirts had been patched with elaborately embroidered flowers.
“I have much to do today, according to your absurd list. If I’m to wash all the bedding, dust the cobwebs, and polish the silver, I’m going to need an early start.” She took a seat to his left, neatened the place settings, unfolded her napkin, and set his pulse off-kilter. Time had not diminished the physical impact she had on him—if anything it had intensified.
He shifted in his seat. “And you’re actually going to do all those things?” he asked, trying to focus on the conversation.
She looked at him in a you-must-be-kidding manner. “Of course not. I’m going to visit the tenants.”
“All two of them?”
“Precisely.” She picked up the knife and looked at her orange, perturbed as though she had no idea what to do next. For a woman who made condescension an art form, she lacked a significant number of basic life skills.
“Pass it here.” He cut into the fruit and began to peel. “What brought about this sudden urge to visit the tenants?”
“Isn’t that what we, the country gentry, do? Visit those less fortunate than ourselves?” Her words had a dark bitterness to them.
“And the great Lady Amelia wants to sit in a one-room farmhouse with five children climbing the walls, making chitchat with a woman who’s never set foot in London, let alone strolled down Bond Street?”
He pushed too hard on the last bit of peel, and the blade caught his thumb, nicking the skin just enough for the citrus juice to set it afire.
She took the orange from him. “I may have lived my entire life in London, but as Duchess of Wildeforde, it would have been my responsibility to call on Edward’s many, many tenants, and although you and I have but two, visiting them is still my duty.”
She sliced the orange in half with ferocity. “Regardless of what you think of those of my station, the vast majority of us take our responsibilities very seriously.”
“You do?” In his experience, those of her ilk were more interested in their clubs and brandy and cards than caring for the people that relied on them. That he was forced to help rethatch roofs and fix fences on properties that weren’t his was example enough.
