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Beatrice dragged the curtains closed with such vigor they tore from the rope they were swagged upon and fell atop her in a bombardment of dust. Glynis squeaked and hurried over as Beatrice thrashed about beneath the oppressive fabric.
“Oh, ma’am, oh, ma’am,” the maid fussed until Beatrice wrestled herself out of the heavy damask.
“I am well, Glynis.” She gasped for air and allowed the maid to help her up to standing. “A bath would be welcome, but I suspect the work I have before me will only add to my dishevelment.” She coughed as she brushed at her dressing gown. “Do choose what you think best for a day’s investigation of the house, and I shall wipe away this grime.”
If only she could wipe her mind clean of what she’d seen.
***
He’d handled that poorly, yesternight. He knew when he acted the churl. He wasn’t entirely uncivilized.
Arthur sat in his shirtsleeves at table and yet knew better than to sit at table in his shirtsleeves. He knew better than to run out on a lady who was his wife even if she was never to be hiswife. He had learned how to comport himself; somewhere in the mists of time, he had been schooled in beautiful manners.
Well, if not beautiful, they were at least polished. He could do the pretty with the best of them, but given his oath, which he would not foreswear, what was the point of acting the gentleman when it would lead nowhere?
His oath, which no one knew of but himself. And Ben. And Charlotte. Who would both attempt to talk him round it if they knew he was married, which they would never know. His heart pinched at that, and he pushed aside the kippers he’d vowed to abstain from. Mrs. Porter had laid on a breakfast suitable for a creature of his size, which was well and good, but Freya knew the females of the human species had not the sort of appetites he boasted, and they’d have to work out where they’d put Madam to take her meals.
Such details were the sort he would leave to his Second to organize, but he did not have one and never would. Speaking of never, there would be none of this taking her morning meal in bed like a Mayfair dowager. She would subscribe to their ways, rough and ready as they may be, and therefore—
“We shall break our fast in here going forward,” he pronounced as he speared up another rasher of bacon directly from the platter.
“Not our new duchess!” Conlon dropped his serving forks in dismay.
“We’ve not the staff for to-ing and fro-ing between here and the morning room or whatever it’s called.” He knew very well it was called the morning room. He would not ask his aged staff to traverse the tangle of halls to get to said room, nor would he countenance cold food. Madam would like it or lump it.
“If she’s that high in the instep she’ll find it hard going indeed,” he grumbled as the staff took to their feet upon Madam’s entrance. She raised her brows at the sight of the rasher on his fork; he stuffed it into his mouth. Conlon pulled out her chair, and she sat with the decorum of a queen on her throne.
Arthur sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, for which he received a lingering gaze on his forearms. This was so unexpected he looked down to see what had caught her eye. It was not his coat, for he wore none; her gaze was likely a subtle dig at his disheveled state.
“I have always thought it a pity that more time was not spent around the chief hearth,” Madam said as Ciara set a cup down at her place; she then thanked Conlon for the plate of toast and eggs he had, against expectation, dished up with speed. “Although we would not like to interfere with Mrs. Porter’s domain.”
“It’s her domain under your sufferance,” Morag began.
Arthur cut her off. “Mind your tongue, woman.”
“Your Grace,” said Madam, as she spread jam on her toast. There was a world of censure in the invocation of his title. The things the woman could do with her tone and an eyebrow. If he was being honest, it was quite intriguing. An unfamiliar shudder ran through his being, his bear stirring, perhaps.
“Madam?” He stabbed another rasher with his fork and watched her watch him take a bite, like a heathen.
“We shall address one another with respect, if you please.” Morag made a face. “All of us, Morag.”
“Fair enough, ma’am.” The scaldy hen beamed. She always enjoyed being set down after having pushed her luck.
“I for one look forward to taking my meals here, with the appropriate manners exhibited by each and every one of us.” Madam took a bite of her toast and hummed with pleasure.
Arthur set his skewered rasher down on his plate. “As I was only saying myself, Madam, it is for the best. I think only of your comfort.”
“Do you?” She took a bite of eggs, and Arthur sensed he’d put his leg in a trap. “That is wonderful. For comfort is at the forefront of my mind this morning.”
“Do tell.” He braced himself for a litany of complaints.
“I am so impressed with the bedding.” Oh dear, did Madam want to go down that route? Arthur leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms on the table. A wash of pink appeared at the very top of her cheeks, as delicate as the first blush of dawn as her gaze fell once more to his arms, but she soldiered on. “It is apparent that this house has been maintained with immaculate care.” She took another sip of her tea, cool as a breeze, and yet her little finger trembled. Arthur reached out for the teapot and warmed up her brew. The urge to grin at her was almost too much to fight. He hadn’t grinned in an age.
“I suggest we dine as a household as well,” she said as she added a drop of cream to her cup.
Arthur scoffed. “There is a perfectly good dining room set aside for the evening meal.”
“Set aside it is, on the other side of the hall.” Morag held low opinions about the layout of the place and never failed to voice them.
