Modiste: A fashionable dressmaker.
Water Closet: Room containing a toilet. Modern plumbing was still rather rare in this time period.
'You intend to stay here. In Hartley.' Minerva stared blankly at her husband- who was not, in fact, a nightmare conjured up during her nervous episode- from across the dressing room that was shared between the Duke and Duchess's bed chambers. She had gotten back from the clinic earlier that morning, still feeling a little shaken. After a day of taking care of neglected domestic matters, all she had wanted to do was to take a long warm bath and change into something more comfortable. Then, of course, who should she encounter in her dressing room except for Benedict? Had she heard him right? 'Come to think of it, why the devil are you here in the first place?'
He shot a speaking glance at his foot, which was bound with a white bandage, and the walking stick he was using to support his weight. In spite of the bandage, he had dressed well. His dark brown breeches hugged his legs flatteringly, his thighs powerful due to years of regular riding. He wore a plain white shirt beneath his coat and a cravat was tied artfully around his neck. The only splash of color was a tasteful emerald waistcoat that brought out the color of his eyes most becomingly. His hair was cut to the fashionable length, but it curled slightly at his ears and the nape of his neck. He was all dark magnificence and even as he stood tense, there was an unmistakable elegance that seemed to be threaded into the very essence of his being. Hades in all his glory, ruling over the underworld. Utterly conscious of his consequence and his power as much a fact of the world as the revolution of the earth.
'Ever since my boyhood, I have had an affliction of the lungs. Sometimes, I get very serious coughing fits that render me unable to breathe. I had two such breathing attacks after my accident in the Thames, the doctor insisted I retire to the country. Obviously, I did not know that you had returned.'
'You could have gone to Scotland.'
'Too far.'
'Rothbury Park?'
'My mother is in residence.'
'You couldn't have darkened her doorstep instead of mine? Lord knows she deserves a little misery.' She waited for him to reprimand her for her insensitive comments about his mother, instead, she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of amusement in his expression. It instantly lightened the harsh angles of his face, if even for a split second.
Damn him, he was beautiful. Even as his face was set in a mix between discomfort and irritation, his lips thinned into a grimace. No, not beautiful. Striking. His presence filled the spacious dressing room, reducing it to half its size, so magnetic that it dared her to look at anything else.
'Can you not go back? Silverton is vacated now, I have no wish to return.' She offered hopefully.
'Duchess.' He sighed as if she were infinitely trying his patience. She raised a defiant eyebrow at his insufferable tone. Irritating man! 'I am struggling enough as it is to walk to the water closet down the hall. I really cannot travel so soon. I do not wish to be here anymore than you want me here.'
She nodded in reluctant understanding.
'Why can't you return to Silverton?'
I was humiliated by my lover and have no wish to meet anyone, preferably for as long as I live.
'I have very important work to do here with the orphanage, and I intend on inviting some of the other benefactors to see the new orphanage building.' She said instead. It was not a lie, per se, but it was not the whole truth either. She had invented the idea of inviting some members of the Ladies Syndicate right there and then, just to appear busier than she actually was.
'It appears we have no choice but to bear each other's company for the foreseeable future. Though, it will be easy enough to avoid each other, given the sheer size of Hartley. We can dine separately, I am confined to my room for the time being in any case.'
This was an unmitigated disaster. She was supposed to spend the next several weeks in the company of the most arrogant, selfish, loathsome man in all of England. He was invading her spaces already. His clothes were hung in their shared dressing room, his spicy musk filled the hallways. His correspondence was being kept in her study. Astley was basically ready to worship the ground he walked on. His arrival on the heels of her embarrassment at Richard's hand? Untenable.
'But must you stay in the Master Bedroom? The bedroom that is adjoined to mine?' She made no attempt at hiding the mocking tone in her voice. 'My, my. It will be hard to pretend you don't have a wife that way, Your Grace.'
'I will not stay in the guest wing in my own home.' His dark eyes bored into hers, daring her to disagree. That, of course, made her want to disagree all the more.
'This isn't your home.'
'I think the law might disagree.' There was a glimpse of petty triumph glittered in his eyes. Her lips pinched with irritation.
'You may own this manor in the eyes of the law, but it isn't your home. However, I shouldn't have expected you to know that there is a difference between a place of residence and an actual home.'
'Ah, some more sentimental drivel from you, darling wife? How original.'
'And some more cynicism from you, dearest husband? How shocking. I know already that you are not in possession of a human heart, why bore me with the same conversation we had after our wedding?'
He didn't reply, opening and closing his mouth, seemingly at a loss for words. Surely he had expected to meet the hesitant and shy woman he had spent a week with six years ago. No such luck, this cat had discovered her claws and teeth long ago.
So, she thought with a small measure of her own triumph, she had won the first battle in what was likely going to be a long war of wills with this infuriating man. She gave him a little smile she knew would annoy him and rejoiced when his eyes sparked with unconcealed irritation. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it. He closed his eyes and let a long-suffering breath loose. Oh how delightful, he was holding on to his temper by a thread!
Oh, she shouldn't enjoy annoying him so much, but God help her, she did. She offered him an exaggerated curtsy and turned to return to her chambers. She wished she could see him hobble to the bathing room, but she did not trust herself not to laugh, and given the week he'd had she could spare him that particular embarrassment. He had taken her to the physician after all and made sure she was safe. She had just reached the door that connected the dressing room to her chambers when he called out.
'Duchess. Wait.' Uttered like a command, she was more than half tempted to ignore him. Deciding she had been petty enough for today, she turned and offered him an exhausted sigh of her own. God had better appreciate the amount of Christian goodwill she was showing here.
'Your Grace?'
'The man who assaulted you has been caught. He will likely spend the next ten years in prison, I have spoken to the local authorities myself.'
'I see. My thanks, Your Grace.'
'I wish to speak to you about something. Will you step into my chambers for a moment?'
'I would much rather not.'
'Are you saying that just to be contrary?'
'Why I would never. I am the picture of wifely docility, really.' The sarcasm was so thick, a child could have picked up on it.
'I cannot stand for long periods of time, wife.' It seemed to rankle his pride to admit such a weakness.
Do it for God. She muttered to herself as she nodded her head and made for his chambers. Ever the gentleman, even on an injured foot, he held the door open and allowed her to go first. Once they were inside, he settled into a chair by the hearth and began.
'Your dress' He pointed to her current ensemble of gold and cream with a modest neckline. Small pastel flowers were embroidered across the hem of her skirts. 'Does not comply with current fashions, but it is very fine. It becomes you very much. The silk is of the finest quality; the stitching, although nothing glorious, is adequate.'
She gaped at him in shock, her jaw remained closed only by sheer pride. Was that meant to be a compliment? Surely not. She was definitely missing something.
'I-Uhm. Thank you, husband?' She said carefully. 'One of the girls at the orphanage has a passion for dressmaking, it is her design. The seamstress in Marshall Glen made it according to Prudence's sketches. She is no London modiste, obviously.'
'I see.'
'I try to encourage her talent. In a few years, maybe a dressmaker will take her as an apprentice.' She supplied in an effort to diffuse the sudden awkwardness that had permeated between them, then felt annoyed at herself for feeling like she owed him an explanation.
'What I meant to say was.' He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. 'It would appear that you do know how to dress according to your station.'
'What is that supposed to mean?'
'It means, why would you deliberately try to embarrass me by traipsing around town dressed as a pauper?' He retorted.
There was no mistaking it. This was a brawl in the making. His broad shoulders were stiff with tension, his hand gripping his walking stick so hard that his knuckles were white. Her posture was rigid, her face red with fury.
'Traipse? Pauper?!' She exclaimed in outrage. 'Can you even hear yourself, you arrogant clod?! They took people like you to the guillotine in France!'
Why, the sheer audacity of this man! What an insufferable wretch!
'Don't act like a petulant child. You are a Duchess.' He said evenly. Her higher ground from earlier completely gone, it was he who was now calm and she who was enraged. 'This isn't your backwater American village. You have to have a care about your reputation. About my reputation!'
'There is no one of consequence here to judge! That is precisely why I like it here! And how is it any of your business how I go about my day?'
'Because if someone were to learn of the way you carry on, it would reflect badly on me! They would all think that the Duke of Rothbury doesn't even provide his wife the funds to wear proper clothing! Hell, they would think I don't pay for you to have footmen to accompany you! It isn't proper, a Duchess running hither dither without a proper escort!'
'Oh, how I loathe English society! You and your propriety, why not suffocate a woman with all these rules and regulations!'
Never mind that she usually traveled with footmen whenever she left the estate. Who the hell did her husband think he was?
'Reputation and respectability are the very currency that this society runs on. Like it or not, you cannot pick and choose which parts of society you embrace. Don't be immature. The only rank above yours and mine belong to royalty, don't you have any esteem for the station you occupy?'
'If you had bothered to ask, Your Grace, you would have known that I have a reason for dressing as I do. But I doubt you have felt the need to ask for anything, what with the whole world falling at your feet to please you! Not me, sir!'
'Yes, you like to scoff in the face of High Society and break rules, regardless of how it affects others! Mind you, madam, that it was you who wanted the title in the first place. Give it the respect it deserves.'
'Ah, any more insights about my character, Your Grace?' She had been hot with anger just a moment ago, all of that was replaced with cold, lethal hatred in the space of one sentence. 'You do not know me, you do not know what motivates me. I gave up fighting the prejudices of you and your society long ago. Think what you will, I will offer no justifications for my actions. If I wish to go traipsing through town, running hither dither without a singular escort, I will do so! Oh, how you tempt me to sully my tongue with swears, you vile, despicable man!'
Had it never occurred to him that she'd had about as much choice as him in this union? Had it ever occurred to him that she was a living, breathing person with hopes and aspirations that went beyond inconveniencing him? Selfish, repugnant son of a bit-
'No, you may not. I forbid it.'
'What did you just say?!' It came out of her mouth deceptively soft, but there was no mistaking the venom that dripped from each syllable.
'I. For. Bid. It.' His reply was full of his ducal entitlement as if he could not fathom being anything but obeyed. Her eyes narrowed into slits. If looks could kill, Benedict William Montgomery would have been dead several times over. And then she began to laugh, hard and loud. There was no merriment in the sound, the huffs of her breath were cold and harsh. The Duke stared at her, thoroughly bewildered by her sudden change in attitude.
'A little late, isn't it, dear Benedict? To play the role of the protective husband? You cannot forbid me anything, but it was a nice bluff. You almost had me, you truly did.' She gave him a mocking smile, wiping a tear from her eye. 'What will you do if I disobey? Divorce me? What will a scandal of that magnitude do to your precious respectability and reputation? Your name will forever be sullied as a man not strong enough to withstand a turbulent marriage. Even with all the resources at your disposal. I am no servant, ready to put myself at your feet, and you would do well to remember it.'
She walked away in purposeful strides, reveling in the feeling of her victory.
'This conversation is not finished, goddamn you!'
She paused to level a glare at him.
'You gave no thought to my wishes and my reputation when you abandoned me six years ago, you filthy hypocrite. What is it you think your precious society says about the woman whose husband is so repulsed by her that he would rather remain without an heir than share her bed? I will be damned if I care a whit about what you want or expect. Go to hell, Rothbury.' And with that, she let the door close behind her.