Her only consolation was that Lady Pennington was far away…out of sight and—hopefully—out of mind. She jabbed a fork into her meat, shoveled a morsel into her mouth, and forced herself to chew. The sausage was flavorful, but bitterness lingered on her tongue.
Vivianne, as he’d called her.
Viv.
“Is the meat overcooked?” he asked.
She forced herself to swallow.
“No.” Her expression, she supposed, must be as readable as his. She brightened with forced cheer and recentered the conversation on an ever-shrinking parcel of safe ground. “Quite good, actually. I should like to compliment the cook.”
*
Though his wifewas still present at the breakfast table, the suddenness of Cassandra’s emotional retreat left Harbury reeling. They’d come close, so close, to an understanding.
This time, she pulled away.
He wanted to ask her what had caused her open expression to shutter with a clap, but some battles, like the one for her genuine esteem, had to be won by the inch. Cassandra, he was coming to understand, was not someone who responded to stark demands. She could be silenced but never coerced. She would only engage when made to feel welcome and at ease.
He shifted in his chair. He could, and would, encourage her to keep talking. He wasn’t that small boy who couldn’t converse any longer.
What had she just expressed?
Ah, yes—a desire to compliment the cook. “Cook, I’m sure, would appreciate any compliment, especially if delivered directly by the duchess.”
A strange expression passed over her features.
What could it mean?
His mind wandered back over his internal catalog of their interactions. Every time he had called her by her station, she’d gotten the same, wary look, like a rabbit sensing a predator. If just the word “duchess” set her on uneven mental terrain, what was being the duchess causing her to feel? And if the experience was as painful as he feared, perhaps he could do something to help?
“Have you been getting on with the servants?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered far too quickly, then glanced warily at the footman. “…for the most part.”
Of course.She would not want to speak in front of Tull.
He’d entirely forgotten the footman’s presence. Strange, too, given the earlier admission he’d made concerning his failure to propose.
His father never would have been so indiscreet. Nor would he ever have been so wrapped up in his duchess, he forgot his surrounds.
Thoughtless.
By afternoon, the whole staff, half the estate, and likely beyond would know Cassandra had taken the unusual step of proposing tohim. He didn’t care about his own reputation, but he did not wish to tarnish hers. Ridicule, brought on by his actions, had hurt her before.
He’d be damned if he’d make the same mistake again.
He set down his napkin. “Tull?”
The footman turned toward Harbury.
“Needless to say,” Harbury instructed, “anything you may have heard will not leave this room.”
“Your Grace?” Tull blinked as if to imply he hadn’t heard anything at all.
Harbury leveled his gaze. “Should I hear any gossip concerning myself and the duchess, there will be consequences. Serious consequences.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the young man replied.
