“It appears that Her Grace left the modiste’s early because she had been insulted by Madame Renard.”
Henry muttered a chain of profanity under his breath.
The older woman stood calmly then hesitated. “While you dress down these merchants, you might wish to reflect on your own conduct, Your Grace.”
Henry spun around mid-pacing. “What could you mean by that?”
“Her Grace has been residing here for over two weeks.”
“I am aware.”
“And yet you have not once invited her to dine with you. Or spent any time with her.”
He opened his mouth then spread his hands out in front of him in a gesture of helplessness. “I am known for my temper, not my charm, Greer. I would only make things worse.”
“Then I suggest Your Grace say as little as possible and lead Her Grace through the steps. You have one week to learn how to stand beside your wife without the whole of London seeing that you cannot bear to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a ball to attend in one week. Her Grace might be in need of practice.”
Henry said nothing, which Mrs Greer took, correctly, as agreement. Following his housekeeper out into the corridor, Henry bellowed for his secretary.
Chapter fifteen
Breakfast
Henry
He had sent word through Mrs Greer the evening before. A note, brief and practical: he would take his breakfast in the private parlour at eight o’clock and would be glad of the duchess’s company. He told himself the arrangement was strategic. A meal taken together, poured from the same pot, served under his eye, was the simplest form of protection available to him. It was also, if he was honest, the thinnest excuse he had ever constructed for the purpose of sitting across from his wife.
He was there at half past seven in his riding gear. He dismissed the footman and the kitchen maid who had brought the things up, and when Mrs Greer came to ask if anything further was needed, he told her nothing was needed, that the door was to remain closed, and that no one except the housekeeper herself was to enter the parlour.
Mrs Greer absorbed this with the expression she had been wearing since he was nine years old when doing something she did not understand but was not prepared to question.
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The door closed. He was alone with the fire and the table and the tea service and the knowledge that the last time he had been in a room with his wife, he had taken her on a workbench, and he had left her without a kind word. His body stirred with remorse and desire.
She came in at ten past eight with her shawl over her morning dress. He stood and remained standing. Her hair was pinned but loosely, and there was a crease on her cheek from the pillow that she had not seen or had not cared to remedy. She did not quite look at him. She looked at the table, at the fire, at the window, everywhere but at him.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning. Sit down.”
She sat. He sat. Neither reached for anything. The tea cooled between them.
“Mrs Greer suggested,” he began and found the sentence more difficult than anticipated, “that we take breakfast together.” He paused. “To familiarise ourselves with each other. If you do not have any objections, of course. If you do, we could return to the way things were. I have no wish to impose.”
He sounded, even to his own ears, like a boy reading aloud from a letter. He had commanded a cavalry charge with less difficulty. He poured tea for his duchess then himself.
“My liking of this arrangement wholly depends on you, Your Grace.”
“Me? How so?” he asked as he picked up his teacup.
“It depends on how much of an ass you intend to be.”
Henry choked on his tea and coughed. When his throat settled, he managed in a hoarse voice, “I shall endeavour not to behave like that particular animal.”
