Page 74 of The Wedding-Crashing Duchess

Ronan was silent for a moment. “You must dislike that.”

“No,” she admitted. “I do not always like it. There are moments when I think half the rules exist simply so everyone has something to criticize. But they are still the rules, and I know how to follow them. It is easier than being the woman everyone whispers about, and it is better for everyone if I avoid it.”

“You are already the woman everyone whispers about.”

Augusta stared at him.

A reluctant smile appeared on her face. “That is true, I suppose. Calling a duke a murderer in the middle of his wedding did rather destroy my reputation for predictable behavior.”

“And then marrying him did little to help.”

Her smile grew. “At least now the scandal sheets cannot decide whether I am mad or romantic.”

“Mad.”

She laughed. “Thank you.”

Another silence settled between them, although this one felt easier. Augusta traced one finger absently along the edge of her glass.

“In any case, I need a gown suitable for the ball. Perhaps gloves. Temperance will probably convince me I need another dozen things by the time we are finished.”

“Then buy them.”

Augusta looked at him. “That could become very expensive.”

“I do not care.”

She blinked. Ronan frowned, uncertain why she looked surprised.

“You are the Duchess of Ravenhill,” he said. “If you require something, purchase it.”

Augusta hesitated before replying. “I suppose I am still getting accustomed to that. Charity never made me feel dependent upon her or Duncan, but I knew what everything cost. I knew I was living in their household. It was different.”

“This is your household. You do not need my permission every time you want a gown, Augusta. Or shoes. Or anything else. If there is something you want for the ball, purchase it. If there are ten things you want, purchase ten. I am not going to examine bills.”

Augusta smiled. “You may regret saying that.”

“I doubt it.”

She laughed again, and this time Ronan found he did not mind the sound at all. Perhaps because Gregory was gone.

Ronan noticed her glance away from him. Her fingers moved over her napkin, smoothing an invisible crease before folding it more carefully than necessary.

He remembered the previous evening.

“Are you still feeling unwell?” Ronan asked, before he had entirely decided to ask it. “You were pale earlier.”

Augusta looked up, faintly startled. “I am perfectly well. I told you, it was nothing. A moment’s tiredness.”

“You are certain?”

“I am certain,” she said, and there was the ghost of a smile in it now. “Though I am beginning to think you enjoy asking me that question more than you enjoy hearing the answer.”

“I simply prefer facts to guesses.”

“Then here is a fact. I am fine, Your Grace. You may stop examining me as though I am about to faint into the soup.”

Something in his chest eased slightly at that, though he could not have said why her wellbeing should matter to him so particularly. He told himself it was only that Sarah had grown fond of her, that the household ran more smoothly with a duchess in good health at the head of it. Reasonable explanations. Sensible ones.