Page 23 of Wedded to the Forbidden Duke
Mr. Ainsworth laughed kindly, tilting his head. “Oh, I would not worry about it, Your Grace. Just look at your husband. When I first met him, he was a raucous young boy, and now he keeps this estate in as fine condition as one could imagine.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot you knew the duke when he was young,” Cecilia said, trying not to stumble over the still-unfamiliar rhythm of her husband’s given name. “You must have many interesting stories of his childhood then, I am certain?”
“Certainly not,” Ian said sharply.
“Interesting?” Mr. Ainsworth, patting his mouth with his napkin, leaned back in his chair and guffawed. “Oh, Your Grace.Interestingdoes not even begin to cover it.”
“You exaggerate, Mr. Ainsworth,” Ian said, rolling his eyes, though there was a good-natured lilt to his voice.
Mr. Ainsworth cleared his throat. “First of all,” he began, “the first several times I met the young duke, he would not say a single word to me! I was certain he was either mute or hated me, or both.”
“I suppose you and I have something in common then, Mr. Ainsworth,” Cecilia joked.
It felt dangerous, joking in a way that so nearly alluded to the truth of her and Ian’s contentious relationship. But it was also a relief. With Mr. Ainsworth here, she felt none of the loneliness she had felt on her first night. And, she had to admit, however begrudgingly, that Ian seemed to lighten up around the old man, as well.
“Well, that is no surprise. I have heard worse stories of men unable to properly handle themselves around the objects of their affections.” Cecilia concealed a laugh in her wine glass at that. “Of course, in the end, it came out that he was just shy. I had no way of knowing; I have no children of my own, you see.”
“I hardly think this an interesting story, Mr. Ainsworth.”
“But when he finally did speak to me—oh, goodness, he could hardly stop! Began debating me about the nature of some law or other.” Mr. Ainsworth said this with pride, as though he were talking about a son of his own. Cecilia looked over at Ian, again, who, though he was slightly red, did not protest at all. “So young, too. He did get his facts somewhat jumbled up, but even then, he was able to hold his own in an argument.”
“Ah,” Cecilia said before she could help herself. “I see some things never change.”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Mr. Ainsworth said, smiling over at the younger man, “have you not yet realized it is futile to try and win an argument against the lady of the house? Happy wife, happy life, after all, Your Grace; happy wife, happy life.”
“Yes, well.” Ian cleared his throat, picking up his wine glass. “At least now when I go tete a tete with someone, I am certain to have all of my facts in order.” He took a hearty swig of wine.
“Most of the time,” Cecilia said, smiling sweetly at him. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, though he did not respond, merely taking another, deeper sip of wine.
“Oh, goodness,” Mr. Ainsworth continued, clapping his hands together as though he had not heard Cecilia’s low-pitched comment at all. “Has he ever told you the story of where his dislike of apple tarts originated from?”
“I did not even know he had a dislike of apples,” Cecilia said, looking back and forth between them. “Why, when you were having dinner at my house not so long ago, I recall you eating our baked apple dessert with no hesitation.”
Ian winced, as though remembering. “Yes, well. It would have been rude to refuse it. I could hardly risk offending your mother.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened as she realized he was not entirely joking. “You really did not like it?” she cried. “But it is our cook’s best recipe!”
Ian held up his hands. “I do not deny the skill of your family’s cook, La—Cecilia. It is a matter of personal taste, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunate indeed! Especially given that you were always so fond of that particular fruit,” Mr. Ainsworth said, clucking his tongue.
Ian shrugged. “I suppose I got my fill of them.”
“You could certainly say that again.” Mr. Ainsworth turned back to address Cecilia. “You see, Your Grace, when your husband was seven, he could not get enough of them! Then, the night before his eighth birthday, the cook had made an extra batch, especially for the young master, and left them out overnight in the kitchen to cool. But when she came downstairs the next morning, all of the apple tarts were gone! Nothing but crumbs on the plate.”
“Ah. I wonder where they could have gone,” Cecilia said with a laugh.
“As did all of us,” Mr. Ainsworth agreed. “But not for very long, for it was only an hour or so later when the birthday boy would not get out of bed, complaining of a most terrible stomachache.”
“It was dreadful!” Ian protested though Cecilia saw how a small smile played at his lips. “I could hardly bear the sight of apples for months. Even now, I barely acknowledge the dreadful things.”
“But you know,” Mr. Ainsworth added, “before that incident, he would turn his nose up at any and all other desserts. So perhaps it was a happy occasion, after all. You would never know it to look at him now, Your Grace, but your husband was quite the picky eater as a child. Very particular.”
“I had…high standards,” Ian admitted, swirling his wine around in his glass. “I always have.”
“Have you really?” Cecilia asked, a slight edge to her voice. “In all your endeavors?”
“Yes,” Ian said, locking her in his gaze. “In food, in travel, in company. In women.” He raised his glass to her, smirking slightly. “As is evidenced by my lovely wife,” he continued smoothly, the sarcasm in his voice only barely detectable.
