Page 57 of Her Wily Duke

Benedict, whilst he annoyed her, and whilst she still knew very little about him, did not make her feel disturbed like that. Rather the opposite. Alarmingly, the less time she spent with him, the more appealing he seemed to her. He was handsome, and except when he tried to be dictatorial, he had treated her kindly, politely – when he had no need to. As her husband, he could do whatever he liked to her, and be within the law – no one would question him, as a Duke.

The last three weeks of barely seeing him had made her actually miss those moments when they had been together. Even an argument seemed preferable to this cold isolation, where she had no one but the disapproving staff and the mournful ghosts of this place for company.

Perhaps, when he returned from wherever he had gone today, she should actually try to talk to him?

***

James’ wife swung open the door to his cottage when Benedict knocked, and waved him inside.

“Good evening, Your Grace. James is in his workroom – the one his mother used to use. I’ll just show you through.”

“Thank you.”

He dropped his hat on the tiny table just inside the front door, and followed her through the house, to a door near the back, opposite the kitchen.

She tapped, and pushed it open, to reveal James seated at a small table, which was half-buried under a pile of books, journals, and bits of old parchment. At the back of the room stood a row of cabinets containing various bottles and vials of liquid, and overhead hung bunches of drying herbs and other plants.

“James, His Grace is here.”

James rose from his chair as Benedict stepped into the room. Mrs Fitzherbert closed the door behind him, leaving them there, and James took a small dark green glass bottle from the shelf behind him, and held it out without handing it to Benedict.

“I’m going to give this to you,” he said, “but before I do, I want to offer you something even more valuable.”

“What’s that?”

Benedict eyed him, annoyed, and feeling utterly awkward.

“My opinion, and some advice. You and the bride aren’t as far apart as you think. In fact, I’d even venture to say that you’re fighting on the same side in this. You’re not each the other’s enemy. You have another enemy, a mutual enemy.”

“Hazelworth, you mean, and his advice?”

“Fight him!” said James, his green eyes glittering fiercely. “Stand up to him together. She hates him as much as you do, maybe even more than you do. But from what you’ve told me I don’t know if she knows this.”

“Why would she hate her own father?”

“You’ve seen how he treated her – is that not cause enough? She thinks that he and you are working together, when nothing could be further from the truth. Talk to her. Let her know you aren’t going to allow his advice to pollute your marriage any longer. Right now she mostly sees you as the man your father foisted upon her. Your marriage was more of a business arrangement than a romantic arrangement and Ariana thinks of you first and foremost as her father’s business partner. Thus she feels that she has to protect herself from your evil alliance. If you were to stand up to him, it would go a long way towards healing the breach between you.”

Benedict hadn’t considered this, but he had tried seemingly everything else and nothing had worked.

“When did you get so perceptive?”

“I’ve been married for nearly three years now,” said James. “One doesn’t survive years of marriage without learning a thing or two.” Once again, he held out the bottle, but when Benedict tried to take it, he raised it just out of his reach. “Normally I would charge for this – not that the cost would concern you - but I’m going to give it to you for free because you’re my friend and I can tell that you really need it — but only on the condition that you really think about what I just said.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Benedict, who was eager to return home and test the potion’s effects. “Are you sure that you won’t accept something by way of compensation?”

Benedict was, in that moment, suddenly acutely aware of the disparity in their stations in life.

“If it manages to mend the rift in your marriage,” said James, “that will be compensation enough.”

Chapter Eight

The moon was high as Benedict rode up to the house, the small bottle tucked into his inner pocket, hard against his chest. Yet again, he had that sense of being watched, as if someone, or something, lurked in the shadows of the pines. He shook off the feeling, and dismounted in front of his stables. A sleepy groom took his horse, and he went in, expecting Ariana to already be abed. Perhaps that was for the best – he still needed time to consider James’ words. But to his surprise, he found Ariana, in her nightrail and a wrap, seated by the fire in their parlour, reading a Gothic novel. He realised that he had ceased trying to prevent her from losing her days in reading, quite some time ago – as he had ceased trying to control most things about her.

Trying to control her had only made things worse.

Now, it was obvious that she had been reading for so long that her eyes were tired from it. As she looked up at him, those hazel eyes were beginning to water, and she gave him a look almost of relief, then closed the book.

“Are you tired?” he asked, concerned. “Would you like some tea?”