She didn’t need to despise Alexander; he was doing that more than enough for them both.
The mirror continued its silent scrutiny as she allowed the night-rail to fall down about her legs and pulled the sleeves back up, the friction delicious on her sensitive, love-touched skin.
Straightening the table as best she could, she placed the damaged angel upon it, gathered her lock pick from the floor and meandered along the hallway to her own bedchamber, humming.
Humming and scheming.
Rakecombe dropped wearily onto the edge of his bed and slugged a full brandy to wash away the bitter taste of lies.
“I had to say it, Gwen,” he whispered to the miniature by his bedside, “to keep Aideen safe.”
His sister’s green eyes glared back, disapproving.
But he had done the right thing…had he not?
Chapter Eighteen
If food be the music of love…eat on.
Cosseting a duke proved more than a little difficult when he was absent.
Aideen knew perfectly well that after last night he’d be anticipating her fury, so of course she would do the exact opposite. She chewed her toast thoughtfully.
Purposely hurting others with nasty words was a cowardly action, but it was the “why” that interested Aideen.
Beastliness always had a reason.
One might not agree with it or even understand it, but it was still there, defining actions and clouding existences.
As such, she ruminated on how to overwhelm her husband with undue amiability and charm. Because this morning that is what she planned. She would bamboozle, confuse and generally befuddle him with syrupiness until he disgorged his past to her, revealed his emotions and told her why he felt the need to distance himself quite so completely.
But the bug had left the house at a quarter after six and however much she wanted to plague her husband, her own mood was not often amiable at daybreak, so she’d stayed in bed.
Perhaps she ought to search out his man of affairs and make an appointment to meet with the duke or leave a note by his bathing device requesting his esteemed appearance at dinner.
Dinner.
Without doubt, another possible reason for him eating at his club every night could be the cuisine in this household, as to be sure, the way to a man’s heart was not through deflated soufflé.
Aideen had quizzed the dowager duchess about Monsieur Pascale Dupont, but she’d looked coy and said the chef was highly trained, had seven children and needed the employment after fleeing his home country.
Stirring the watery jam, she wondered why the servants hadn’t complained. Normally the butler or footmen were the first to grumble if the food downstairs was inedible. She thought about meeting with Mrs Booth, the starchy housekeeper, but the woman had been very defensive about the kitchens.
Hmm.
Aideen stood, leaving her limp French toast, and marched to the servants’ stairs. If she couldn’t solve her marital problems today, the least she could do was eat well.
A maid dashed out of her way with a horrified expression, but she paid no heed. Duchesses, she expected, didn’t visit kitchens very often. But Irish ones did.
Halfway down the second set of narrow stairs to the basement, Aideen paused.
The scent of yeast and dried currants teased her nostrils to seventh heaven.
Without knocking, she opened the kitchen door a crack.
A maid stood by the large range, stirring a wholesome smelling vat of stew whilst a man sat at the scored table perusing a stained book. His head turned to the maid. “Those potatoes can go in now, Maisie.”
He buried his nose in the creased pages, muttering to himself and scribbling notes in the margins.
