Page 34 of Duke of Myste
The glare Richard leveled her with should have been intimidating, but something in his expression—a hint of self-awareness, perhaps—only made the bubble of laughter in her chest expand dangerously.
She pressed her lips together, fighting to control her mirth.
“What would this expectation be?” he asked, his tone suggesting that he already regretted his offer.
Jane considered for a moment, her mirth fading as she recognized the opportunity before her. One expectation, freely granted. What could she ask for that might genuinely improve her situation? That might create some crack in the impenetrable wall of propriety and control that her husband had erected around himself?
“My expectation,” she said slowly, the idea forming as she spoke, “is that once a day, I can make a request of you and you must grant it.”
Richard’s expression shifted from wary consideration to outright alarm. “Absolutely not.”
“No?” Jane raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose we have nothing further to discuss. That is my one expectation, freely offered and summarily rejected. How disappointing but entirely predictable.”
She rose as if to leave, though it was her chamber they were in. The movement was pure theatre, but sometimes such gestures were necessary when dealing with men who believed themselves immovably correct in all things.
“Wait.” Richard’s voice stopped her, the single syllable carrying a note of reluctant reconsideration. “A request every day is excessive. There must be reasonable limitations.”
Jane turned back, unable to fully suppress the spark of triumph in her eyes. “I disagree. After all, your expectations of me—diligence, appropriate behavior, suitable pastimes—apply every day, do they not? Why should my single expectation be less constantly applied?”
Richard’s expression suggested that he was rapidly recalculating his approach, like a general who had suddenly discovered that his carefully planned flanking maneuver had led his troops into a bog.
“Once a month,” he countered, his tone shifting to that of a man engaged in negotiations rather than issuing orders.
“Once a month? That’s absurdly infrequent.” Jane moved back toward him, warming up to the unexpected pleasure of seeing the always-composed Duke of Myste forced to bargain. “Once a week would be far more reasonable.”
Richard considered this, his expression suggesting that he was mentally reviewing his calendar and calculating potential disruptions to his carefully ordered existence.
“Once a week,” he agreed finally, though with evident reluctance. “With the caveat that it cannot be anything ludicrous or inappropriate to our positions.”
“Define ‘ludicrous,’ Your Grace,” Jane challenged, enjoying the flash of exasperation that crossed his features. “After all, what seems perfectly reasonable to me might appear utterly outlandish to someone with such… structured sensibilities.”
“Nothing that would cause scandal,” Richard clarified, his tone suggesting this was non-negotiable. “Nothing that would endanger either of us physically or socially. Nothing that would bring disrepute to the Myste name or legacy.”
Jane considered the parameters, finding them less restrictive than she had anticipated. “Those seem like reasonable limitations,” she conceded. “Though I reserve the right to interpret ‘scandal’ more liberally than you.”
Richard nodded slightly, as if he had expected her reservation. “Is that a yes, then? Once a week, within the boundaries I’ve outlined?”
“It is,” Jane confirmed, offering her hand as if to seal their deal. “Though I cannot promise my requests won’t occasionally challenge your comfort, Your Grace. That, after all, is rather the point.”
Richard accepted her hand, his larger one enveloping it with unexpected warmth.
The brief contact sent an unwelcome tingle up Jane’s arm, a physical reaction she firmly attributed to the residual emotion from their negotiation rather than any genuine response to his touch.
“I shall endeavor to fulfill your reasonable requests,” Richard promised, releasing her hand. “Though I would appreciate prior notice when possible, to arrange my schedule accordingly.”
Jane smiled, knowing the expression carried more mischief than reassurance. “I shall try,” she allowed, the words deliberately echoing his conditional agreement.
For a moment, something almost resembling humor flickered in Richard’s eyes. But it was gone so quickly that Jane thought she might have imagined it. He inclined his head in a slight bow, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both concession and continued authority.
“Until dinner, then, Duchess,” he said, moving toward the door with the effortless grace that seemed to characterize his every movement.
“Until dinner, Your Grace,” Jane returned, watching his retreating back with a combination of complex emotions she had no desire to untangle at present.
As the door closed behind him, she returned to the window seat, her eyes running over the immaculate gardens below with new consideration.
One request per week. It was far less than equal partnership, yet far more than she had expected to achieve in their initial clash of wills. A small victory, perhaps, but significant in its implications.
Which meant, Jane realized with a slow-spreading sense of possibility, that beneath all that rigid propriety and formality might just exist a man capable of genuine change.
