Page 28 of Duke of Myste
“The soup is excellent,” she praised, then immediately felt foolish for resorting to such a mundane topic.
“Chef Laurent was trained in Paris,” Richard replied. “He takes particular pride in his consommés.”
The footmen returned, removing the soup bowls with silent efficiency and presenting the next course—roasted pheasant with seasonal vegetables arranged in an artistic display that seemed almost too beautiful to disturb.
“I understand you enjoy reading,” Richard said after serving her a portion. “The library is at your disposal, of course. If there are particular volumes you wish to acquire, you need only make a list.”
Jane looked up, momentarily startled by this unexpected opening. “I do read extensively. Do you also enjoy books, Your Grace?”
Something flickered in Richard’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, that she had asked about his interests. “I do, though primarily biographies and political treatises rather than novels.”
“No poetry then?” Jane asked, finding herself genuinely curious about what might capture the attention of her husband.
“Some,” Richard admitted. “Donne, occasionally. Milton.”
“Interesting choices,” Jane noted. “Both concerned with order and structure, yet writing about the most chaotic of human experiences.”
Richard’s gaze met hers with unexpected directness. “Perhaps structure provides the necessary framework to contain chaos.”
The comment settled between them, laden with meaning that extended far beyond literary preferences. Jane felt the weight of it, aware that they were suddenly discussing something much more personal than poetry.
“And does it succeed?” she asked softly. “Does the structure truly contain the chaos or merely disguise it?”
Richard’s hand paused briefly, his knife hovering above his plate. “That,” he said after a moment, “would depend entirely on the strength of the structure.”
The remainder of the meal passed in a similar fashion—moments of surprisingly thoughtful conversation interspersed with lengthy silences charged with unspoken thoughts.
By the time dessert arrived—a delicate lemon tart that Jane barely tasted—she found herself exhausted by the constant navigation of emotional currents neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.
When the final course had been cleared, Richard finally addressed the tension that had been simmering beneath their polite exchange.
“This is… unfamiliar territory for us both,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of the same uncertainty she felt. “I would not have chosen these circumstances for either of us.”
“Nor I,” Jane allowed, grateful for the momentary honesty. “Yet here we are.”
“Indeed.” Richard nodded. “Here we are.”
When they finally retired to the drawing room for coffee, Jane found herself watching the clock with increasing anxiety. As the hour grew late, the question she had been avoiding all day loomed ever larger.
Would Richard expect her to fulfill her wifely duties tonight? And if so, how did she feel about that?
By ten o’clock, Richard had not made any move to suggest they retire together. Instead, he rose with formal correctness. “You must be tired after such a demanding day. I shall bid you good night, Jane.”
“Good night… Richard,” she replied, his given name still unfamiliar on her tongue.
She watched him leave with mingled relief and confusion.
Was this consideration for her feelings, or an indication that he found the prospect of consummating their marriage as distasteful as she had initially assumed it would be?
Back in her chambers, Annabelle helped her prepare for bed with quiet efficiency, brushing out her hair and laying out a nightgown of fine linen trimmed with delicate lace.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” she asked.
“No, thank you, Annabelle. You’ve been most helpful today.”
Left alone, Jane paced the confines of her bedchamber, too restless for sleep despite her exhaustion. The enormity of what had happened today—the permanent change in her circumstances—seemed to press in on her from all sides.
She had bound herself to Richard for life, yet she still knew so little about him.
