Page 82 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
“She doesn’t understand the nature of our arrangement,” Kenneth grumbled. “One minute of perceived slight and she’s off in a tizzy.”
Whitcombe leaned in, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Do tell, Your Grace. What’s this arrangement you speak of?”
Kenneth, his inhibitions lowered by the ale, revealed their secret. “We agreed to a marriage of convenience, you see. Both of us free to pursue our own interests as long as we maintain appearances.”
“A most modern arrangement,” Whitcombe commented, raising his tankard in approval. “But I take it the Duchess is not holding up her end of the bargain?”
Kenneth’s face darkened. “She accuses me of impropriety with other women, yet she spends countless hours alone with Lord Eastfold. The hypocrisy of it all!”
“Women,” Whitcombe scoffed, shaking his head. “They demand freedom for themselves but seek to chain us down. You’re absolutely right to be upset, Your Grace.”
Kenneth nodded vigorously, spilling some ale in his enthusiasm. “Exactly! And now she’s locked herself away, painting of all things. As if that’s a proper occupation for a duchess.”
“Painting?” Whitcombe raised an eyebrow. “How… quaint. Surely she should be focusing on more important matters, like running your household or preparing for social engagements.”
“One would think,” Kenneth agreed bitterly. “But no, she’s obsessed with her art. And don’t get me started on her friendship with Eastfold. The way they look at each other…”
Whitcombe patted Kenneth’s arm sympathetically. “Your Grace, you have every right to be aggrieved. A wife should know her place, especially one who agreed to such an arrangement. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Kenneth felt a surge of vindication at the Baron’s words. “You understand perfectly, Whitcombe. If only Beatrice could see reason like you do.”
As they continued to drink, Kenneth’s grievances poured out in a torrent. Whitcombe listened attentively, offering sympathetic nods and murmurs of agreement. With each tankard, Kenneth’s sense of righteousness grew, along with his resentment towards Beatrice.
A flash of caramel-blonde hair caught his eye, and for a moment, his heart stopped. “Beatrice?” he mumbled, half-rising from his seat.
The woman turned, and Kenneth’s hope crashed. It wasn’t Beatrice, but Martha, the tavern owner’s wife. She gave him a concerned look before bustling off to the kitchen.
“You still pine for her even after the way she’s treated you?” Whitcombe asked.
Kenneth slumped back in his seat, his momentary hope replaced by a fresh wave of bitterness. “Weakness on my part,” he muttered. “She’s bewitched me, Whitcombe. Made me forget myself.”
“Then it’s high time you remembered who you are,” Whitcombe declared, raising his tankard. “To the Duke of Dunford, a man of honor and standing. Don’t let her manipulations sway you from your path.”
Kenneth clinked his tankard against Whitcombe’s, a grim smile on his face. “To remembering who I am,” he echoed, downing the rest of his ale in one long gulp.
As the night wore on, Kenneth’s resolve hardened. Bolstered by Whitcombe’s unwavering support and the numbing effects of the ale, he convinced himself that he was entirely in the right. Beatrice was the one who needed to change, to remember her place and the terms of their arrangement.
By the time the tavern began to empty, Kenneth was barely able to stand.
Whitcombe, seemingly less affected, helped him to his feet. “Come, Your Grace. Let’s get you home. Remember what we discussed. Stand firm in your convictions.”
Kenneth nodded unsteadily, his mind a haze of alcohol and righteous indignation. As he stumbled out into the cool night air, one thought remained clear: he would not be the one to bend. Beatrice would have to come to her senses and accept things as they were.
After all, he was the Duke of Dunford, and he answered to no one.
The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains, assaulting Kenneth’s eyes as he groaned and rolled over in bed. His head throbbed mercilessly, a stark reminder of the previous night’s excesses. As he slowly sat up, clutching his temples, the events of the past week came rushing back.
Beatrice. Their argument. His foolish declaration that they should reconsider their arrangement.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, wincing at the sound of his own voice. “What a fool I’ve been.”
As the fog of sleep and alcohol slowly lifted, fragments of the previous night’s conversation with Baron Whitcombe driftedback to him. He remembered ranting about Beatrice, about her painting…
His stomach clenched. Had he revealed her secret? The thought of betraying her trust, even in his drunken state, filled him with a sickening guilt.
A gentle knock at the door made him flinch.
“Enter,” he growled, immediately regretting his harsh tone.
