Page 32 of Duke of Myste
“Of all the arrogant, controlling, insufferable men I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!” Jane slammed the door to her bedchamber shut behind her.
She paced the length of her room, each step punctuated by the sharp click of her heels against the polished floor.
Her hands gesticulated wildly as she continued her tirade. “He speaks of expectations and duties as if he is reciting them from some musty, old handbook on ‘How to Be a Proper Duchess’ while offering nothing—absolutely nothing—of himself in return!”
Annabelle, her newly assigned lady’s maid, watched with wide eyes as she folded freshly laundered handkerchiefs into perfect squares.
The girl was young but possessed a serenity that seemed incongruous with her age, her movements measured and precise even as her mistress stormed into the room like a tempest dressed in fashionable muslin.
“Ridiculous!” Jane spun toward the window, the morning light illuminating her scarlet cheeks. “Rules laid down as if I were a child to be governed by arbitrary restrictions. ‘Diligent in my duties’—which apparently includes smiling prettily and never expressing an opinion that hasn’t been thoroughly vetted for its potential to disrupt his precious order. ‘Appropriate hobbies’—needlework and watercolors.” She pulled a face. “No doubt nothing that might engage my mind or challenge conventional thinking. And ‘nothing scandalous’—which I strongly suspect encompasses anything from reading controversial literature to laughing too loudly at dinner!”
Annabelle carefully placed the last handkerchief in the drawer. “His Grace does seem rather… particular about how things are done, Your Grace,” she ventured.
“Particular?” Jane laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “The Thames is ‘particularly’ wet, Annabelle. The Duke of Myste is nothing but a tyrant disguised as a gentleman. An autocrat masquerading as a husband!”
She dropped onto the velvet-upholstered window seat, her skirts billowing around her like a storm cloud before settling. The fight seemed to suddenly drain the life out of her, her shoulders slumping in a way that would have horrified her mother.
“And theworstof it,” she continued, her voice dropping to its normal cadence, “is that he genuinely believes he’s being reasonable. As if offering me protection and financial security—things I’ve never asked for—somehow entitles him to dictate every aspect of my existence while givingnothingof himself in return.”
Annabelle watched her mistress with sympathetic eyes. She had served several great houses, but she had never witnessed the strange combination of circumstances that had brought the spirited daughter of the Viscount Drownshire to Myste House as a reluctant duchess.
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” she began carefully. “Perhaps what His Grace lacks is not a willing heart, but… understanding. Men, especially those of high rank, are often raised to believe that material provision is the sum total of their obligations to a wife.”
Jane looked up, mild surprise replacing some of the frustration in her expression. “That’s quite an insightful observation, Annabelle.”
The maid flushed slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. “My mother served the aristocracy for thirty years, Your Grace. She always said that half the troubles between lords and ladies came down to each expecting the other to read their thoughts.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Jane’s lips. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was, Your Grace.” Annabelle hesitated, then added, “If I might make a suggestion… perhaps writing to Miss Diana might lift your spirits. Sometimes sharing our troubles with those we love most can provide comfort, even when they cannot offer solutions.”
Jane straightened, her expression brightening instantly. “Annabelle, that’s brilliant! Diana always knows exactly what to say to make me feel better.
She moved to the small writing desk in the corner, pulling out a sheet of paper and a quill with renewed energy.
“I do so miss her company. Perhaps I could convince her to visit soon – I could use a familiar face around here.”
The maid smiled, pleased to have helped. “Shall I bring you tea while you write, Your Grace?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Jane was already dipping her quill into the inkwell, her handwriting flowing across the page with the distinctive hurried elegance that had always characterized her correspondence.
By the time Annabelle returned with the tea tray, Jane was folding the letter with decisive movements.
“There,” she said with satisfaction, dripping wax onto the seam and pressing her new seal—the Myste crest now merged withher own family’s emblem—into the cooling substance. “Would you be so kind as to see this delivered to my sister immediately? She’s still at Drownshire House, and I’d rather not entrust this to the regular post.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Annabelle took the letter and tucked it carefully into her apron pocket. “I’ll find a footman to deliver it straight?—”
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her, the sound carrying an authority that made both women turn toward it with startled expressions.
“Who would that be?” Jane murmured, automatically smoothing her hair and straightening her posture.
Annabelle moved to the door, opening it with the precise degree of deference her position required. Her eyes widened slightly.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping into a curtsy. Then, she turned to Jane. “The Duke wishes to speak with you.”
Jane’s heart flipped, irritation now mingling with something less easily defined.
