Pinching her lips firmly together, Mara gave a tiny nod back. An acknowledgment that she hadn’t said anything. That shewouldn’tsay anything. Because even if she did marry Ambrose, there was always divorce. A nearly unthinkable sin, and a herculean act of Parliament, but if he were to prove fraud...
No, she’d keep her secrets.
Carry them to the grave, if she had to.
For death with a secret was better than divorce in a society that had the ability to slice a woman to the bone even without spilling a drop of blood.
Chapter Eight
With each minutethat passed and Mara did not appear, Ambrose’s impatience grew. What the devil was she doing? What could possibly be more important than the husband she hadn’t seen for the better part of twelve months?
His fault, he admitted.
He was the party that had stayed away, while Mara had remained right where he’d left her.
But he was here now, wasn’t he?
Waiting and watching the damned clock tick, andthatwasn’t a pleasant feeling. To know that he was falling second best to whatever person or activity was preventing his wife from answering his summons. But before he was able to dwell on the uncomfortable idea that what he was experiencing now was a one-thousandth of what Mara had felt over the past year, the solarium doors opened and his duchess, fresh as a daisy in a gown of flower yellow with her hair in a tumble of auburn curls, walked in, temporarily rendering Ambrose speechless.
He’d seen her yesterday in the rain. Last night in the shadows.
Pretty both times. Pretty enough to take him aback as he’d tried to pinpoint precisely what had changed between the wife he’d left and the one he’d returned to.
But this morning, drenched in sunlight... she was beauty personified. And he was the fucking fool who had offered to help find her a lover because he wasn’t about to be the first one in this broken farce of a union who confessed to a tangled web of emotions he’d never wanted and had absolutely no idea what to do with.
Bargains. Deals. Tit for tat.
Thathe understood.Thathe was good at.
As for the rest? As for the heart of a marriage?
He hadn’t a bloody clue.
“There’s breakfast on the sideboard,” he said curtly.
She glanced at the platters of food covered in shiny silver domes. “I am not hungry.”
Good, neither was he.
That meant they could get right down to business.
“Have you an answer for me?” he asked without preamble. When his chest felt tight, as if his valet had selected a waistcoat of a size too small, he drove the heel of his palm into the middle of his breastbone and scowled. “About what we discussed in the blue room.”
“I’m aware of what you’re referring to.” The solarium boasted half a dozen circular tables draped in ivory linens and set with sparkling crystal. Past the tables was a wall of windows offering a clear view of the orchards, where a small army of servants moved along the straight rows, expertly pruning the apple trees to prepare them for a hearty autumn harvest. Gliding past Ambrose as if he were of no more significance than a chair, Mara stopped at the windowsill and frowned. “I should be out there helping them.”
“Pruning is work for a servant, not a duchess.”
“And what workisthere here for a duchess?” She looked at him over her shoulder, and Ambrose was taken aback by the coolness in her stare and the rigidity of her spine.
The girl he’d married had been easily flustered, and he’d used to secretly enjoy making her stutter and blush. But the woman standing before him now was poised, collected, and prepared for battle, her defenses shored up while he’d slept... and dreamt only of her.
“From what I was told, a duchess is to manage a household,” she went on. “But Southwick Castle runs itself. A duchess is to plan and execute social events, but there hasn’t been so much as a dinner party here in years. A duchess is to sponsor a charity, but all of the charitable work is being done in London where you’ve made it clear that my appearance is most unwelcome. So do tell, Your Grace, what workshouldI be doing, if not lending an extra hand to those who could avail themselves of it?”
Your Grace, was it?
Last night, in the blue room, he’d been Ambrose. This morning, in the solarium, he was Your Grace. The difference was subtle but notable. A line being drawn in the imported French limestone under their feet.
“If you want to prune trees, then prune trees,” he said dismissively. “But if you want to seek companionship outside of our marital bed, there are terms we need to discuss first.”
