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He was not allowed to throttle her.
He stormed out of the dressing room and, soon, out of the house. He went to his club. He stayed there through the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening and drank steadily.
That night
The Duke of Marchmont was not carried into the house in the early hours of morning. He didn’t even stagger—not so one would notice. He’d drunk a great deal, but it wasn’t enough. Sobriety came and went, and when it came, it was too bright and cold, like a day of dead winter.
His bride had placed him in an impossible position.
There was Harrison saying the duchess was dissatisfied with his services and offering to resign if the duke so wished it.
What was Marchmont to say to that? What could he say but “Her Grace cannot be dissatisfied with your services. Clearly there’s a misunderstanding. I’ll look into it.”
Look into it!
Why must he look into it? Why must he be placed in the ridiculous position of negotiating between his house steward and his wife?
Zoe shouldn’t have put him in this position.
Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?
The arts of pleasing a man, indeed. Drive his house steward to resign. Drive her husband out of his own house. Oh, yes, how pleasing that was!
As pleasing as his house was at this dreary hour. Dark and quiet as death. All of them abed except the night porter…and Hoare waiting and no doubt whimpering upstairs…and the husband who’d been driven out of his own abode.
He strode more or less steadily across the entrance hall, through the main doorway and on to the great staircase. As he grasped the handrail, he glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, a glimmer of light to his left. He turned away from the stairs and crossed to the door of the anteroom. A fire still burned in the grate and a lone candle burned in the candelabrum standing on one of the tables. More light filled the doorway to the library.
He went to the library door.
She sat at the great table, her back to him. The candlelight shimmered in her hair, which was coming down. Dark blonde tendrils clung to the back of her neck.
The table was heaped with books and stacks of paper. As she dipped her pen into the inkwell, she must have become aware of him, because she turned and looked over her shoulder toward the doorway.
“You’re working very late,” he said.
“It’s most interesting, what I’m finding here,” she said. Her voice was cool.
He advanced into the room. She recommenced writing.
“It must be fascinating indeed, to keep you up so late,” he said.
“It is,” she said.
As he neared, he saw an ink smudge on her cheek and another at her temple. He was still angry with her, but the smudges were adorable, and she looked so weary and cross, like a child forced to do sums against her will.
She’d despised sums, he recalled. Yet she’d insisted on studying ledgers, column upon column of the numbers she’d hated.
“It’s too late for such work,” he said. “You’re all over ink. Come upstairs and let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.” He thought about washing her…everywhere…and his cock began to swell.
“I’m not quite done,” she said.
“Zoe,” he said.
“Marchmont,” she said crisply.
He supposed she wanted him to apologize. He was tempted. She really was adorable, all smudged with ink and cross. But she was cross with him, and she had no business to be, after very nearly driving his house steward out of the house.
Then what would become of them? England could manage well enough without a monarch. It had survived a mad king and his not-exactly-mentally-balanced son, even during wartime. Marchmont House could not manage without Harrison.
“The numbers will still be there in the morning,” he said. “You need sleep.”
And he did not want to get into his great, cold bed alone.
“I’ll be along in a little while,” she said. “As soon as I finish these calculations.”
She gave the slight, go-away wave of her hand.
Was she dismissing him?
“As you wish,” he said, and stormed out.
The Duke of Marchmont’s bedroom faced east. When he woke, the angle of the sun told him it was late morning. No one had to tell him he was alone in the bed.
No one had to tell him he was an idiot, either.
He’d figured that out the second time last night he’d woken after a bad dream. In it Zoe rode away on a black horse and disappeared, forever.
He winced, recalling what he’d said. Bourgeois. Common. What had possessed him?
He wasn’t sure. Panic, perhaps, because he’d found himself required, suddenly, to do what he’d never done before. He’d found himself required to pay attention and make a decision.
He’d decided wrong, unsurprisingly.
He heard a light tap at the door connecting his room to Zoe’s. His sinking heart cautiously lifted. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, come in.”
His heart lifted another degree when she spilled through the door in a delicious confection of a morning dress. Made of a cream-colored muslin trimmed in pink, it had long, loose sleeves and an abundance of lace. “You look like a sugar cake,” he said.
She looked tired, too. He saw shadows under her beautiful eyes. His conscience said, Your fault, your fault, you beast.
She beamed at him, just as though he wasn’t a beast.
His heart lightened further.
“Zoe,” he began.
But before he could embark on his apology, a train of footmen entered behind her, some bearing trays.
Those unencumbered set about moving a table and chairs in front of the fireplace. Then they set out the dishes. Then they went out via the room’s main door, which the last servant discreetly closed after himself.
“When I came up this morning, you were asleep,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Come here,” he said.
“Come eat your breakfast,” she said.
As he did every night, Hoare had laid out Marchmont’s dressing gown on the back of a chair, near at hand. She took it and held it up, playing valet.
More coals heaped upon the duke’s head.
He climbed out of bed, donned his slippers, and obediently thrust his arms into the sleeves. He tied the sash and said, “I must beg your pardon, Zoe. I behaved badly yesterday.”
“Oh, thank you.” She flung herself at him and threw her arms about him in her usual impulsive way.
He wrapped his arms about her and held her tightly. “I should never, never have taken Harrison’s side against you,” he said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Evidently, I wasn’t thinking at all. Please forgive me.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled the fragrance of her, clean and warm and summery.
He stood for a time, simply holding her.
She’d been lost for far too long. She’d returned. She was his. He’d made her his. No one had forced him to do this. Now it was his job to look after her and honor her, a job no one had forced him to accept. He’d given his word, of his own free will, in the moment he’d said, “I will.”
After a time, she drew away. “Thank you,” she said. “I wasn’t easy about coming to you this morning. But now that I’m forgiven—”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I asked you to forgive me. I haven’t decided whether to forgive you.” Her eyes widened, and he laughed. “A joke, Zoe. I couldn’t resist. Gad, what is there to forgive? I told you to do as you pleased, not as Harrison pleased.”
“Come, let’s eat breakfast,” she said. “I must talk about sums, and that isn’t something you can bear on an empty stomach.”
“Sums,” he said.
