Page 58 of Her Wily Duke

He still hadn’t decided whether or not he was actually going to use the potion, and hadn’t expected to have to face that choice until tomorrow – after all, was he mad to even consider believing in such things? Perhaps he would make that decision once he had reached the kitchen – for he had to admit that this would be the perfect time to slip some potion into Ariana’s tea. Tea which would normally have been prepared by one of the servants - but by now it was late enough that they had all gone to bed, apart from the sleepy footman on duty who had greeted him at the door.

In front of him, Ariana hesitated, and he assumed that she was torn between her desire for tea and her reluctance to accept anything from Benedict.

“Not from you,” she said finally. “Dukes do not prepare tea in their own homes. Save your energy. You can offer me all the little gifts you want, but it isn’t going to change things between us.”

Her tone was defensive, full of a frustration which he shared, a frustration for which, he thought, he had only himself to blame. When he had been so dictatorial, why would she want anything to do with him? Especially as she had not chosen any of this to start with.

“Well, if that’s how you feel…” Benedict rose from the chair with a hurt look and turned towards his bedroom door, the hard shape of the little bottle in his pocket reminding him that he still had a choice to make. “I suppose I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Wait.” He froze with his fingers on the door handle. Ariana turned around in her chair, looking almost penitent. “Aren’t you even going to reprimand me?”

“No, why would I?” He knew that, in that moment, he had allowed his feelings to show on his face, that he had the defeated look of a man who had realised he was fighting a battle he could never win. She regarded him with wide eyes, a strange flicker of expression crossing her face as he went on. “Like you said, it’s not going to change anything.”

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” There was a strained look on her face, as if speaking each word took a great effort. “You surprised me, that is all. At home, Mother or Father ordered tea and the like, and I was given no choice. I’m not used to being offered things. I didn’t know how to react.”

Suspecting some trick, Benedict hesitated in the doorway. But Ariana’s eyes betrayed her sincerity.

“I feel like I’ve been too harsh to you,” he said finally, “and I’m sorry. That’s no way for a man to treat his wife, no matter what your father may believe. No way to treat anyone, really. Do you still want the tea?”

“Only if you’ll drink it with me,” said Ariana. “I’m tired and I don’t want to stay up by myself.”

But it wasn’t tiredness that Benedict heard in her voice. Perhaps it was his imagination, but to him it sounded more like desperation. She needed him to sit with her. They hadn’t spoken in several days and he wondered how long it had been since she’d had any human company, beyond passing interactions with the servants. In Darkmire Abbey, too much time spent alone had you talking to the ghosts – he knew that from personal experience.

“Wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Ariana returned to her book while he went to get the tea. For some reason, it looked to him as if her hands were shaking.

***

That night, as Ariana fell asleep, she couldn’t help but wonder about what Benedict had been thinking, when she’d seen that look on his face, just before she had asked him to get the tea, and sit with her. He had looked… lost… almost despairing, defeated.

It was not a look she wanted to see on his face.

She wanted to see him look happy, to see the strength which she knew he had, focused on something positive, rather than on argument.

It shocked her to realise just how much she wanted that, wanted them not to be at odds with each other.

He had been kind to her – plainly and undemandingly kind – both in offering the tea, and in simply sitting with her for the few minutes it had taken to drink it. They had not said much, but, for the first time, what they had said had not been cold, had not been hurtful, and had not been argumentative.

She liked him when he was kind…

It had felt far better than any other moment with him since the first time that they had spoken, a week before their marriage. And that had shown her what life might be like, if they could find a way past everything which had happened, and actually begin to like each other. Maybe… even… love each other?

Sleep took her, and she dreamed of what might happen between them, if liking replaced fear and anger.

***

Benedict began, slowly, to believe that there was hope. And to believe that potions worked.

Autumn had become winter, and as the crisp cold days flowed by them, there were more quiet moments with Ariana, more simple conversations over tea, more walks through their gardens and the surrounding countryside. It was as if they were both different people.

They were still cautious, still occasionally prone to becoming annoyed with each other, but there were no outright arguments. Ariana still chose to sleep in her own bedchamber, and Benedict did not push her on the matter, content for now to simply have her company in a more pleasant manner than before.

He essayed one serious conversation, on the matter of Lord Hazelworth’s advice, late one evening when they retired to their parlour after dinner. Once they were settled by the fire, instead of dealing with correspondence whilst Ariana read her novels, Benedict gently reached out to touch her hand. She started, and her eyes came to his.

“Ariana, my dear, there is… something that I wish to say.”

Caution and uncertainty filled her face.