Page 58 of Duke of Myste
“Enter,” he called, expecting the butler.
Instead, Harriet appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of exasperation and concern that he remembered from their childhood when she had caught him in some particularly stubborn bit of foolishness.
“You look awful,” she remarked without preamble, lowering herself into the chair across from his desk with the easy familiarity of someone immune to ducal authority.
“How flattering. Was there something you required, or have you simply come to catalog my failings?”
Harriet ignored his sarcasm. “I’ve come to tell you that your wife is every bit as miserable as you are, though she’s handling it with more grace.”
The words hit their mark with devastating accuracy.
Richard set down his coffee cup with careful precision, not trusting his hands to remain steady. “Jane’s emotional state is her own concern.”
“Is it?” Harriet leaned forward, her voice gentle but implacable. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like two people who care deeply for each other are making themselves thoroughly wretched out of sheer, stubborn pride.”
“You oversimplify the situation.”
“Do I? Then perhaps you could explain to me exactly what crime Jane committed that warranted this theatrical display of wounded dignity?”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “She made her wishes clear. I am merely honoring them.”
“Her wishes,” Harriet repeated with obvious skepticism. “Richard, the woman demanded distance because you hurt her feelings, not because shewantsyou to stay away forever. Heavens! For someone so intelligent, you can be remarkably obtuse about human nature.”
“Harriet—”
“No, let me finish.” She held up a hand to stall his objection. “You’ve spent seven days sulking in this study like a wounded bear. Jane, in turn, has spent seven days pretending she doesn’t care while watching every doorway in the hope of catching aglimpse of you. This is not the behavior of two people who genuinely wish to avoid each other.”
The observation settled in Richard’s stomach like a stone, forcing him to confront truths he had been desperately trying to ignore.
He had noticed the way Jane’s eyes sought his during the brief moments when their paths crossed in the corridors. He had seen how she lingered near doorways where she might encounter him. But acknowledging such signs would require admitting that his careful adherence to her demand might be causing more harm than good.
“What would you have me do?” he asked finally, the words emerging with difficulty. “She has made her position quite clear.”
“Apologize,” Harriet said simply. “Admit that you were wrong to treat her like a child instead of a partner. And for heaven’s sake, stop hiding in here like you’re afraid of your own wife.”
After her departure, Richard found himself unable to concentrate on anything resembling productive work. Her words echoed in his mind with uncomfortable persistence, forcing him to examine his behavior through a less flattering lens than he preferred.
Perhaps his sister was right. Perhaps his careful observance of Jane’s demand was less about respect for her wishes and moreabout his cowardice in facing the conversation required to heal the rift between them.
Jane stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror, noting with clinical detachment how seven days of careful composure had carved hollows beneath her eyes and sharp angles along her cheekbones.
Annabelle bustled about the chamber with determined cheerfulness, but even her unfailingly optimistic nature seemed dimmed by the persistent tension that had settled over the household.
“Shall I lay out the blue morning dress, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice carrying the particular brightness people employed when trying to lift spirits through sheer force of will.
“The blue one will be fine, thank you,” Jane replied, though she felt little enthusiasm for the prospect of another day spent maintaining a polite distance from the man whose presence had become as essential to her well-being as breathing.
It had been a whole week since she had demanded that Richard stay away from her, a week during which she had discovered that getting what one asked for could be far more painful than the original problem.
She had expected relief from his overwhelming concern, perhaps even a sense of liberation from his attempts to manage her every movement. Instead, she felt hollowed out, as though some vital part of her had been excised and locked away.
The worst part was catching glimpses of him—the way his steps faltered when he caught sight of her in the corridors, the way his eyes followed her progress through windows when she walked through the gardens.
He was certainly honoring her demand with the same meticulous attention he applied to all his ducal duties, but she could see the cost in the new lines around his eyes, the careful way he held himself as though the slightest movement might cause pain.
“Your Grace?” Annabelle’s gentle voice broke through her reverie. “Begging your pardon, but you’ve been sitting there for quite some time. Shall I help you dress?”
Jane blinked, realizing she had been staring at her reflection unseeingly. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Annabelle. I fear I’m rather distracted this morning.”
