Page 23 of Duke in Darkness

“Thank you, sir! That would be greatly appreciated. It is a bit harder nowadays to make ends meet.”

“Fine. Come back tomorrow…two o’clock…and we’ll discuss further. I should like you…to meet Her Grace. My wife. She has a special interest…in soils and planting. Might want to ask…a few questions.”

Rather than looking dismayed or outraged at the prospect of a woman involved, Fairlie nodded approvingly. “Of course. I should be glad to meet the duchess, and go over the ledgers with you both. Good day to you, sir.”

The steward bowed and took his leave, and for the first time since he’d inherited the bloody dukedom, Gabriel felt a sliver of confidence. His body might be a mess, his speech a joke, his marriage doomed to failure, and most of his staff loyal to a dead man, but there could, in fact, be something to take control of.

And maybe, just maybe, give him something to while away the hours that he didn’t sleep.

THE WINE WAS EXCELLENT, the supper reasonably well cooked although the chef had been a little heavy handed with the sauces, yet Lilian found herself pushing the food around her plate rather than eating it. Exton hadn’t spoken to her all day, and now he sat at the other end of the dining table, silently and rather distractedly picking at his own food.

She couldn’t bear his remoteness. Surely they were too early in their marriage for such coolness; from what she had observed of ton marriages, usually couples were wed many years, and had several children in the nursery, before active dislike set in. It robbed her of conversation. Something else causing her anxiety, because if she couldn’t be the perfect ton wife and duchess, what good would she be for Exton, whose injury affected his speech so much?

Clearing her throat, she tilted her head around the overlarge table centerpiece of dried flowers and wooden fruit so she could see her husband. “How is your supper, Exton?”

“Fine. Thank you. Although…”

“Yes?” she replied, far too eagerly, because it could possibly start a discussion.

He glanced at the three footmen standing at attention by the wall, and sighed. “Never mind.”

Lilian’s heart plummeted, but she stumbled on. “Do tell me. If there is something that is not to your taste, I would be more than happy to speak to the chef. This is your household. Your preferences are paramount. Not…former preferences.”

There was a long pause, and she bit her lip, afraid she’d been too bold. And then, miracle of miracles, he nodded.

“I like plainer fare. Not drowned in sauces.”

“I see,” she said, almost wanting to get up and twirl at the minor victory. “In fact, I think the chef is a little heavy handed with the spices. I know you enjoy beef…chicken and pork and fish?”

“Not pork. Had enough salted pork in the army…to last a lifetime. Don’t even like bacon.”

“Of course. What about vegetables?”

Exton tapped his fingers on the table as he considered. “Most are fine. But not leeks. Or turnips. Can’t stand them.”

“Consider them gone,” said Lilian.

He stared at her for a long time. Then he added gruffly, “Get rid of this centerpiece. Don’t like it. I can’t see you.”

A blush swept her cheeks. “Very well.”

“And this table. It’s fine for a dinner party. But for us…” Exton’s voice trailed off, and he absently rubbed his jaw.

Lilian stifled a gasp. She had to raise her voice to ensure she could be heard down the ridiculous length of polished oak. But with Exton’s injury, having to do the same probably made speaking even more painful for him.

“If you wish,” Lilian said tentatively, “I could, ah, sit down there next to you.”

He didn’t answer, and she wanted to sink through the floorboards for making such an impulsive offer. But then he turned to the footmen and said, “Move Her Grace. In future, set her place to my left.”

All three footmen scrambled to obey his clipped order, one assisting her with her chair, another scooping up her plate, and the third taking care of her cutlery, napkin, and half-full wine glass. Soon she sat adjacent to him, and it felt shockingly intimate. If they both leaned in they could touch foreheads; from here his cologne teased her senses, and the dining room seemed smaller due to his sheer size.

“Now,” she said, wanting to start another conversation before an awkward silence ruined the moment. Or he caught her gazing at his broad shoulders. “What about sweets? Do you enjoy them?”

“I do. Too much, perhaps. Tarts, apple or berry. Vanilla custard. Marzipan. Candied fruit. Ices. Lemon cream. Syllabub. Rice or plum pudding.”

Lilian blinked. “Oh my.”

Exton actually grinned, looking so much like a naughty schoolboy, she giggled.