Page 33 of Duke of Myste
She took a steadying breath, schooling her features into what she hoped was an expression of dignified indifference. “Thank you, Annabelle. You may go now.”
The maid bobbed another curtsy and slipped past the imposing figure in the doorway, the letter safely concealed in her pocket.
Jane watched her go with a twinge of envy—at least Annabelle could escape Richard’s overwhelming presence when necessary.
Richard stood at the threshold, seemingly reluctant to enter what was now technically his wife’s private domain without explicit invitation.
Despite her lingering anger, Jane found herself admiring the curve of his throat, the way the morning light caught the deep chestnut tones in his dark hair. It was monstrously unfair that a man with such objectionable views should be blessed with such pleasant looks.
“May I come in?” he asked, his deep voice carrying that particular note of carefully controlled civility that suggested he was making a conscious effort to moderate his approach.
Jane gestured vaguely toward the sitting area near the window. “It seems you already have,” she pointed out, though her voice lacked the sharp edge it had carried during breakfast.
Something about the uncertainty in his posture—so at odds with his usually commanding presence—made outright hostility feel excessive.
Richard entered, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. He moved to stand near the window, his tall figuresilhouetted against the morning light in a way that might have been intimidating had it not been for the unmistakable tension in his shoulders.
“I fear our earlier conversation did not end as I had hoped,” he said after a moment, his tone suggesting that this was as close to an apology as he was willing to offer.
Jane raised an eyebrow, seating herself on the window seat with careful composure. “Indeed? I thought it was most illuminating. I now understand precisely where I stand in your estimation—somewhere between a convenient social accessory and a broodmare with an acceptable lineage.”
Richard’s jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing visibly beneath the perfectly shaved skin. “That is not a fair characterization of what I said.”
“Perhaps not,” Jane conceded, surprising herself with the admission. “But it is a fair characterization of how your words made me feel.”
Something flickered in Richard’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or the realization that emotional responses might be as valid a consideration as logical arguments.
He moved a step closer, though still maintaining a distance that respected the boundaries of propriety.
“I did not mean to offend you,” he said carefully, the words emerging with evident difficulty.
“And yet,” Jane countered, “your expectations were entirely for me, with no corresponding obligations on your part. That hardly seems equitable. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Richard was silent for a long moment, his expression suggesting he was engaged in some internal debate. When he spoke again, his voice carried a note of reluctant concession. “You make a valid point.”
Jane blinked, genuine surprise momentarily cracking her carefully maintained composure. Of all the responses she had anticipated, this calm acknowledgment had not been among them.
“I do?” The words emerged before she could catch them, betraying her astonishment.
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched in what might have almost been a smile. “You sound surprised, Duchess.”
“I am,” Jane admitted. “I rather expected another lecture on my duties and obligations.”
Richard moved to the window, his gaze fixed on the gardens below, as if they might offer some guidance on navigating this unfamiliar territory.
“I have given our conversation considerable thought,” he said, each word measured and precise. “While I maintain that certain standards of behavior are necessary given our positions, I acknowledge that mutual accommodation may be… fair and beneficial.”
Jane studied him, trying to discern the meaning behind this unexpected shift in his stance. “Mutual accommodation,” she repeated, testing out the words. “What precisely does that entail, Your Grace?”
Richard turned to face her fully, his expression serious but less rigid than it had been during breakfast. “It means that you should be permitted to set one expectation upon me—to make things fair.”
Jane stared at him, convinced for a moment that she had misheard. “One expectation,” she said carefully, “against yourthree.”
Richard’s eyebrows drew together into a slight frown. “I hardly think?—”
“One against three is not exactly fair,” Jane argued, a laugh threatening to escape her lips despite her best efforts to remain serious.
The absurdity of his attempt at compromise—so logical in its imbalance, so perfectly reflective of his character—struck her with unexpected force.
