Page 42 of Her Beast of a Duke
Together, the two of them took a seat on the settee that faced the door, so Oscar was able to see the exact moment Lord and Lady Wickleby swanned into the drawing room, their heads held high as if they owned the place.
He gave them a disdainful look, cocking his head questioningly. “Lord and Lady Wickleby,” he greeted. “Welcome to Rochdale Castle.”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Lady Wickleby purred, and Oscar fought back his bristling at the faux tone. “What a much warmer greeting than the first time we met you.”
He smiled, with no warmth or feeling behind it. “Likewise, Lady Wickleby.”
Her own fake smile faltered. In the silence, where she seemed not to know what to do with herself, Isabella was quick to jump in.
“Mama, Papa, do take a seat. We have sent for tea.”
“As a duchess should when she receives guests,” Lady Wickleby sniffed, sweeping her skirts around her as she took a seat next to her husband.
“Well, had I known you were due to arrive, I would have had it already prepared and served.” Oscar watched as she looked toward the door. “Why did you not bring my sisters? I know Sibyl would have loved?—”
“We do not plan to stay long,” Lord Wickleby interrupted. Oscar swore he drew blood from how hard he bit his tongue. “It is merely a passing visit while we depart for your mother’s brother’s residence.”
“Ah.” A tinge of disappointment colored Isabella’s tone.
What strangeness it must be, to want the love a parent should give, yet also dread to see them, Oscar thought.
Isabella was granted a moment to compose herself as the tea was brought in, a maid setting out the cups in front of each of them. Oscar didn’t care to pour himself a cup, nor touch the scones that were provided, but Lady Wickleby wasted no time at all.
Neither did Isabella.
Even Lord Wickleby merely watched the two of them with a hard stare, not reaching for a cup, either.
“Besides,” Lady Wickleby continued, ignoring Isabella’s disappointment, “your sisters have duties, as do you. We cannot drag them along everywhere. You understand, surely? You were granted time to meet suitors while Hermia lived in Branmere Hall, so we have extended the same grace to your sisters. Do not be needy, Isabella.”
“Needy?” she echoed. “Needy? I only wish to see my sisters.”
“And you will.” Her mother flicked her hand at her before stirring sugar into her tea. A flash of color came from the door, and Oscar looked to where Morris trotted in, coming to sit at his feet. He butted up against Oscar’s boot, his muzzle pulling back to growl at the Wicklebys.
Lady Wickleby turned up her nose. “Oh, what a bad temper he has,” she sneered. “He must have learned itsomewhere.”
“Mama!” Isabella chided.
“Oh, it is only a hound; it cannot understand me. Besides, we came to check on your progress, darling. I simply cannot help it if you are now living with two animals.”
Oscar went to stand up and demand they leave, but Lord Wickleby looked at him, his head tilted.
“Your Grace, my wife means no offense,” he said. “She is… sensitive to dogs and has been from a young age. I will kindly request that you keep your hound away from her.”
“Indeed,” Lady Wickleby sighed. “It was a terrible day, anawfulday.”
“You have never mentioned such an ailment.” Isabella’s dry tone was enough to make Oscar feel a flutter of victory. She was strong, collected, and he knew the Wicklebys would not push her down, not in his home. “Morris shall stay.”
“Morris,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Give a beast a name, but it is still just that.”
Isabella tensed at Oscar’s side, and he wondered how much more she would make herself endure for the sake of appearances, but the Wicklebys hid their true, cruel words beneath comparisons, never outright insulting him.
“Lady Wickleby,” Oscar spoke up. “If you, as you say, have come to check on my wife’s progress, then I will report that she is doing excellently. The castle’s staff has taken well to her, and she is most friendly to all. She has taken to her role with every expectation I imagine you have had and has greatly exceeded all of them. I could not have asked for a better duchess.”
Isabella’s head whipped around to him, her surprise not covered up as quickly as it likely needed to be. Oscar didn’t look at her, only watched her out of his periphery. Instead, he dared Lady Wickleby to counter his words, to deny her daughter’s behavior.
He’d heard about her warning at their wedding, to behave, to be a refined wife and Duchess, and Oscar thought Isabella was. It was all she let herself be. He could see the shell she lived within, forged by duty, as he had been.
Except he imagined that, even when she was alone, she still did not let herself emerge from that shell.
