Page 17 of Duke of Myste
“High praise, indeed, from a woman who has cataloged my philosophical failings with such thoroughness.”
Their spirited debate earned approving nods from passing acquaintances, and Jane found herself genuinely enjoying theirperformance, particularly when Richard’s eyes betrayed flashes of genuine wit beneath his usual gravity.
Jane felt an unexpected flutter of something almost like pride at their successful navigation of what had initially seemed an impossible social situation.
As they approached the park gates, where Jane’s carriage awaited, Richard slowed their pace slightly, his expression sobering.
“Miss Brandon,” he began, his voice pitched low for her ears only, “while I cannot pretend that our afternoon progressed entirely as anticipated, I believe we have reached a more… practical understanding.”
Jane considered his assessment, finding herself in reluctant agreement. “A mutual recognition of a sustainable approach to our public appearances.”
“Indeed.” Richard hesitated, then added with surprising candor, “I find I prefer honest opposition to artificial accord.”
“As do I,” Jane admitted.
The shared sentiment created another of those unexpected moments of connection that had begun to punctuate their otherwise contentious relationship.
They reached the carriage in companionable silence, each privately adjusting to this subtle shift in their dynamic. Not a resolution of their fundamental differences, but perhaps a more sustainable way of navigating them within the constraints of their unusual situation.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Brandon,” Richard said, handing her into the carriage with practiced courtesy. “I believe we had discussed visiting the British Museum?”
“Yes, the new classical acquisitions,” Jane confirmed, smoothing her skirts as she took her seat. “Though I warn you, Your Grace, my opinions on proper restoration techniques for ancient artifacts are likely to prove every bit as contentious as my views on female education.”
A ghost of a smile touched Richard’s lips. “I would expect nothing less. Until tomorrow, then.”
After all, a man who preferred honest disagreement to false harmony might possess other qualities worth discovering—a possibility that would have seemed utterly implausible to her when their courtship had begun.
The carriage turned into the street leading to Drownshire House, and Jane steeled herself for the inevitable interrogation from her mother regarding the afternoon’s events.
Whatever confusion might be swirling within her heart regarding the Duke of Myste, she would relay a measured and rational account to her family.
And yet, as she gathered her thoughts, she couldn’t quite suppress the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth—a smile that spoke of genuine enjoyment rather than mere social obligation.
It was a most unexpected development in a courtship that had begun under such difficult circumstances—and one she was not yet prepared to share with anyone, least of all the stern, proper Duke who had somehow managed to evolve from antagonist to something considerably more complex in the space of a single afternoon.
Then, Jane suddenly found herself wondering what Richard Riverstone might be like when no one was watching. Would that rigid posture finally relax? Would his hazel eyes eventually lose their careful calculation? The thought made her pulse flutter in a way that had nothing to do with matrimonial duty.
CHAPTER 7
“Isimply cannot agree on this design for a future duchess,” Madame Du Preez declared, her French accent growing more pronounced with each passing moment. “The lady has shoulders—magnificent shoulders!—that must be properly displayed, not hidden beneath these… outdated ruffles!”
Jane stood on the platform, surrounded by mirrors that reflected her figure from every possible angle—a disconcerting experience made worse by the small audience gathered to witness her transformation into a suitable bride for the Duke of Myste.
Her mother, seated in a velvet chair with the air of a general overseeing critical battle preparations, nodded thoughtfully at the modiste’s assessment. Diana perched on a nearby ottoman, her expression caught between sympathy and fascination, while Lydia and Marian—summoned expressly for this occasion—completed the circle of feminine observation.
“Perhaps,” Lady Drownshire suggested, tapping her closed fan against her palm, “a compromise might be reached? Something that acknowledges the current fashions without appearing too…avant-garde?”
Madame Du Preez’s expressive face conveyed profound artistic suffering. “Compromise! Always this word from the English ladies. Fashion is not diplomacy, Lady Drownshire. It is art—it is a statement!”
She tugged at the offending fabric draped across Jane’s shoulders, her nimble fingers rearranging it into a more revealing cut that made Jane’s eyes widen in alarm.
“I believe,” Jane interjected, attempting to reclaim some control over her future wardrobe, “that the Duke would prefer something more… traditional.”
“The Duke is not wearing the gown,” Madame Du Preez countered with impeccable logic. “And a man who appreciates beauty will appreciate it more when properly presented.”
Marian, who had been unusually quiet during the proceedings, smiled in a way that suggested private amusement. “Based on my observations of the Duke, he seems to appreciate Jane’s mind more than her appearance. Perhaps the gown’s design is less important than we think?”
Jane shot her a grateful look, relieved to have at least one ally in this satirical battlefield.
