The sound of voices drifted up from the courtyard below. Cressida leaned closer to the glass and saw Molly conversing with one of the footmen, their heads bent together in obvious conspiracy. Even the servants had formed stronger connections with one another than she’d managed with the man whose name she now bore.
“Your Grace?”
She turned to find Molly in the doorway, slightly breathless as though she’d run up the stairs.
“Molly. I thought I just saw you in the courtyard.”
The maid had the grace to look abashed. “Mrs. Agnes sent me up, Your Grace. She wondered if you might like a tour of the village today? The weather’s fine, and the tenants have been asking after you. They’re ever so curious about the new Duchess.”
Another distraction. Another attempt by the well-meaning servants to keep her occupied while Theodore fled to London rather than share a roof with her for more than the minimum duration propriety demanded.
Yet, Cressida found herself nodding. “A tour would be lovely. Thank you, Molly.”
Because what else was there to do? Sit alone in beautiful rooms, counting the hours until her husband returned, only for him to avoid her with renewed dedication?
At least the villagers might wish to see her.
Theodore urged his mount faster along the road, though he knew perfectly well that speed wouldn’t outrun what pursued him.
Two weeks of carefully maintained distance, of rising before dawn and retiring after midnight, of fleeing to London whenever the walls of Ashmere Castle seemed to shrink around him.
Still, he remembered the way she had looked descending the stairs on their wedding day.
“Bloody fool,” he muttered to his horse, who flicked an ear in what Theodore chose to interpret as agreement.
John had sent word requesting a meeting, but Theodore harbored no illusions about his friend’s motives. Whitebrook possessed an unfortunate talent for perceiving truths Theodore preferred to keep buried, and the summons had arrived with suspicious timing—barely a fortnight into a marriage that existed in name only.
The coaching inn appeared around the bend, and Theodore felt his shoulders tighten with pre-emptive defensiveness. Whatever lecture John intended to deliver, Theodore had already catalogued every failure himself during sleepless nights spent staring at the connecting door that separated his chambers from Cressida’s.
“Ashmere!” John’s voice carried across the yard as Theodore dismounted. “Punctual as always. I was beginning to think matrimony might have softened you.”
Theodore handed his reins to an ostler and turned to face his friend’s too-knowing smile. “Some of us take our responsibilities seriously, Whitebrook.”
“Responsibilities, yes.” John fell into step beside him as they moved toward the inn. “Such as fleeing to London every few days to avoid one’s wife?”
“I’m not fleeing. I’m managing estate business that requires?—”
“Save it.” John pushed open the door to a private parlor he’d apparently secured in advance. “Harriet’s been correspondingwith your Duchess. My wife is concerned. When Harriet’s concerned, I hear about it.Extensively.”
Theodore entered the room and moved immediately to pour whiskey from the decanter waiting on the sideboard. “Lady Whitebrook should focus on her own household.”
“Lady Whitebrook considers your Duchess a dear friend, and the said Duchess has apparently spent the past two weeks wandering your castle like a particularly elegant ghost while you perfect the art of avoidance.” John accepted the glass Theodore thrust at him. “So, care to explain what the devil you’re playing at?”
“I’m maintaining appropriate boundaries in a marriage we only chose out of necessity.”
“Appropriate boundaries.” John’s face scrunched up, as though testing wine gone sour. “Is that what you call eating alone in your study? Rising before dawn to fence yourself into exhaustion? Riding to London every time you might actually have to exchange more than three words with your wife?”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand the situation.”
“Then enlighten me. Use small words if you must, as I’m apparently too dim to comprehend why a man married to an intelligent, beautiful woman is acting as though she carries the plague.”
The whiskey burned Theodore’s throat, though not enough to erase the memory of Cressida’s hurt expression when he’d announced their marriage would be a formality only. “She makes me lose control.”
“And this is problematic because…?”
“Because control is all that stands between order and chaos.” Theodore set down his glass carefully. His uncle would have hurled it at the wall. “Between a functioning existence and the kind of destruction I watched consume my family.”
John’s expression sobered. “Theodore?—”
