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It might be possible to rehabilitate him, she thought later that night as she tried to puzzle it all together. If she could convince everyone that the scandal was left far behind in France, then maybe she had a chance. It would mean that Hawthorne would need togive up his lover. He couldn’t risk being seen with Sir Phineas if he wanted her to convince High Society of his newly respectable ways.
But she suspected that he would never agree to end his liaison, so why should she put herself and her reputation in jeopardy because he wanted the impossible? Reputations were fragile. If Hawthorne refused to change his ways, and if he insisted on seeking her out in ballrooms and soirees, then soon the rumors would damn her as well and soon she would wield no social currency whatsoever.
Anne lay down in the bed and stared at the gold glinting at her from every angle. She hadn’t liked the attitude of the people at the ball tonight. She didn’t like their judgmental sneers, or their condescension toward Hawthorne. But wasn’t that what the dukedom itself represented? Prestige, virtue, and superiority?
Tonight, those ideals didn’t sit well with her. She might be opposed to the duke, but her reasons were personal.
It was going to feel so good to rip out every board from the ducal bedroom. Maybe she could cast every stick of furniture into a bonfire, for good measure, and throw away the hypocrisy of the dukedom along with it.
She wondered how soon Miss Barrow would start to arrange things, and for the first time all evening, she felt the tension in her neck lessen. She relaxed into the mattress.
She was so tired of being used in some way or another by Hawthorne’s plans for himself, always acting in reaction to his scandals.
She wanted something for herself.
A lover.
Someone of her own class, someone discreet. Someone who understood the rules and the risks. Someone who could maybe hold her, so she didn’t feel quite so alone. The more Anne thought about it, the better it sounded. She didn’t want to stand at the outskirts of the ballroom any longer. She wanted to be in someone’s arms.
Once she thought she had found the perfect partner in Hawthorne, but it had all proved to be a web of lies.
She wanted someone she could rely on.
For once.
* * *
Anne gazed down at the piles of letters that required her attention. It was the same routine every day, whether she was in London or in the country. The letters were in stacks of dyed leather portfolios related to subject matter, which had been the first improvement that she had made after taking the role. Crimson red leather encased urgent matters, navy blue surrounded business deals and queries, and leaf green was for daily affairs.
The steaming coffeepot was always the same, too. Silver, with an illustration of Hawthorne Towers etched into it. A teacup sat to the right, the handle pointed at a precise ninety-degree angle. Two biscuits fanned across a plate with a white linen napkin tucked beside them.
Predictable.
Like herself.
Feelings didn’t matter much when managing a complex network of estates and the villages associated with them, and all of the business dealings that underpinned it all. Anne cleared her mind, poured a cup of coffee, and set herself to work.
As she made a notation about the thatched roofs scheduled for repair in the village bordering Hawthorne Towers, she thought about all the ideas she had raised over the years that had been blocked by estate managers, the dowager duchess, or the bankers. Investing in railroads and coal mines. Removing enclosures from the estates. Purchasing different breeds of sheep and cows to introduce better quality wool and meat.
Anne had spent enough time perusing the papers and listening to lectures over the years that it frustrated her not to make the changes that could improve things drastically for the people in the dukedom. But even though the Hawthorne seal beckoned at her from the desktop and she yearned to press it into her own service, it couldn’t grant her the one thing that the estate insisted on for any major change—the mark of the Duke of Hawthorne’s signet ring.
By noon, she had finished the most pressing paperwork, and held a meeting with her secretary. She closed the portfolios andrestacked them on the desk. For all Hawthorne’s talk last night at the ball about ruling together, he had shown no interest yet in handling anything himself. She wondered how long her luck would hold out.
Being a duchess meant being the chair of many a charitable organization, and today a committee dedicated to helping the orphans of London were soon due to arrive for their quarterly meeting. On a whim, Anne decided to check with the housekeeper if they had any of the cake from the previous day to serve with tea.
The housekeeper, however, was already deep in discussion with Miss Barrow in her sitting room. Anne paused in the doorway, watching them pore over sketches and notes that were spread out on the table. Her fingers twitched as she thought of picking them up and looking over what Miss Barrow had envisioned.
“Mrs. MacInnes, I do apologize for interrupting.”
She sprang to her feet into a curtsy. “Your Grace, I did not see you enter. Are the bell pulls in order?”
It wasn’t usual behavior for Anne to seek out the servants in their quarters, and she felt a twinge of embarrassment that she hadn’t stuck to convention. “Everything is in fine working condition. I thought to stretch my legs before the committee arrives, and to enquire on a point of pure indulgence—whether or not there was any lemon cake to have with tea.”
Anne inclined her head at Miss Barrow to acknowledge her presence. She was wearing a green and black plaid gown, snugly encasing her full waist and hips before flaring into a bias-cut skirt. Her dress was short enough to show her narrow-heeled black boots with their thin line of buttons that disappeared beneath the ruffles of her crisp linen petticoat. Her snowy cravat was tucked into the bodice of her dress, and most distressingly it drew Anne’s gaze to the swell of her bosom. She flicked her eyes back up to the safer territory of Miss Barrow’s smiling face. Her hair was as haphazard as ever—a nest of chestnut braids piled on the crown of her head, brilliant silver streaks racing from her temples.
When Miss Barrow straightened from her curtsy, she could have sworn that she winked at her. Did she dare to be so familiar?Her legs trembled, and she swallowed. Such insolence had no right to be so appealing.
“We do have lemon cake, Your Grace. I will instruct the maid to serve it with tea, at the usual time.” Mrs. MacInnes nodded.
