Page 54 of Duke of Myste
“Naturally not,” Jane agreed solemnly. “Heaven forbid we should prioritize enjoyment over social mathematics.”
This time, Richard definitely caught the mockery in her voice, and something shifted in his expression—a loosening of the rigid control he had maintained since yesterday’s debacle.
“Are you quite finished undermining my attempts to prepare you for your duties as a duchess, Duchess?” he asked.
Jane was surprised to detect a hint of amusement beneath his apparent exasperation.
“That depends,” she replied, relaxing slightly at this first sign of the man rather than the Duke. “Areyouquite finished treating me like a particularly slow student rather than your wife?”
She saw his throat bob as he swallowed whatever response had first come to him.
“I am endeavoring to provide you with the tools necessary for success,” he said finally.
“And I am endeavoring to understand why you have suddenly decided that providing such tools requires maintaining the distance afforded to a complete stranger,” she shot back, her patience finally fraying under the strain of his continued formality.
They stared at one another across the morning room, and Jane realized that despite her frustration, this was the most genuine exchange they had had since Harriet’s arrival.
“Perhaps,” Richard said carefully, “we might focus on the matter at hand rather than dissecting motivations that are perfectly straightforward.”
“Oh, perfectly straightforward,” Jane scoffed, before letting out a mirthless chuckle. “How foolish of me to imagine there might be complexity beneath such transparent simplicity.”
“Jane—” Richard began, but she cut him off with a hand gesture.
“No, please. Do continue with your lesson. I am eager to learn how one calculates the precise degree of warmth appropriate for a duchess to display to her guests without crossing into dangerous territory.”
Something flickered in Richard’s eyes—recognition, perhaps, of the double meaning in her words. He set aside his notes and moved closer, close enough that she could now detect the scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothes.
“The lady wishes to know about warmth?” he asked, his voice dropping to a register that made her pulse quicken despite her irritation. “Very well. A duchess must be gracious without being familiar, welcoming without being intimate. She must make each guest feel valued while maintaining the dignity of her station at all times.”
“And how does one accomplish such a feat?” she asked, acutely aware of how his proximity affected her. “Through careful measurement of smiles? Or the precise calculation of topics?”
Richard moved around her chair as he spoke, his movements fluid and purposeful. “Through understanding that every gesture conveys meaning, that each word carries weight beyond its immediate intention.”
Jane turned her head to follow him, noting the strong line of his jaw and the way his hands moved as he illustrated his points. “And what meaningshouldmy gestures convey, Your Grace?”
“That you are a woman of refinement and intelligence,” he replied, coming to stand behind her chair. “That you understand your new position and responsibilities. That you can be trusted to represent the Riverstone family with dignity and grace.”
His voice had grown softer while he spoke, and she could feel the warmth of his presence like a physical force against her back. When his hands settled lightly on her shoulders—ostensibly to demonstrate proper posture for receiving guests—she could not help the sharp intake of breath that betrayed her awareness of his touch.
“Like this?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Exactly like this,” Richard murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Poised. Elegant. Completely in command of yourself and the situation.”
Jane closed her eyes, overwhelmed by his nearness and the complexity of emotions it was stirring within her.
This was what she had missed during his retreat to formality—not just his physical presence, but the sense of connection that seemed to spark between them whenever they dared to drop their guard.
“Richard,” she said softly, turning in her chair to face him.
The moment their eyes met, something tantalizing crackled between them—recognition, desire, and something deeper that neither dared name. For a heartbeat, Richard remained perfectly still, his hands warm on her shoulders, his gaze locked onto hers.
Then, as if a spell had been broken, he stepped back abruptly, putting several feet between them. The loss of contact felt like a physical blow, and Jane had to grip the arms of her chair to prevent herself from reaching for him.
“I believe,” he said, his voice carefully neutral once more, “that covers the principles of hostess deportment. You may apply these concepts as you see fit when planning the Christmas assembly.”
The return to formal instruction felt like vinegar after fine wine, leaving Jane dizzy.
“That’s it?” she asked, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “That’s the extent of your… guidance on the matter?”
