Page 34 of His Mad Duchess
She let out one thin breath through her nose. So be it.
And with careful steps, she turned from the lonely table and walked back into the cavernous space of her new house, willing her spine to stay straight all the way to the door.
CHAPTER 11
“You’ll crease the paper if you keep gripping it like that,” Margaret said, reaching for her tea.
Across the long table, the Duke glanced over the edge of the Times, one brow faintly arched. “Do you always comment on a man’s breakfast habits?”
“Only when they are alarming.”
He made a quiet sound, not quite a laugh but not far from it, and returned to his reading.
It had been several mornings like this now, the two of them taking breakfast together without strain. In the beginning, his silences had been the sort that felt like walls—tall, cold, unassailable. Now, they seemed more like pauses, spaces in which a person might answer if they wished.
The morning sun spilled across the long table in bright gold, catching the silverware and making the steam from her tea curl like ribbons in the air.
Margaret spread marmalade on her toast. “So? What catastrophe merits such a grip this morning?”
“Grain tariffs,” he said, setting the paper aside. “Tedious and overcomplicated.”
“Ah,” she said, with mock gravity. “A matter of life and death.”
He took a sip of coffee, and she was almost sure his mouth twitched. “You mock, but the wrong decision could cost the county a great deal.”
“And you will make the right decision, naturally.” She bit into her toast. “You strike me as the sort of man who always does.”
“That sounds suspiciously like flattery.”
“Observation,” she corrected, taking another bite and chewing slowly.
They fell into a quiet stretch, the clink of cutlery and the soft tick of the clock filling the air.
“You’ve been staring at that cup for an awfully long time,” Margaret said after a while, her voice mild as she reached for the butter dish.
Across the table, the Duke looked up from his coffee. “I was thinking.”
“About?” She poured another cup, not looking at him but entirely aware of his attention.
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to answer. “Whether the estate should lease the east fields this year.”
“Ah.” She took a small bite. “Grave matters for before eight o’clock.”
“One must start somewhere.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “And you start with land management. Most people start with bread.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, though he said nothing.
They fell quiet for a few moments, the clink of cutlery and the faint crackle of the fire filling the space between them.
Margaret grimaced at the heat of the tea. “And what conclusion have you reached about the fields?”
“That it may be better to plant barley.” He sipped his coffee then added, “The soil there holds moisture better than I remembered.”
“I’m impressed. Most men remember birthdays or the price of a good hat. You remember the moisture of a field’s soil.”
“It’s my business to remember.” His tone was even, but there was an undertone as if he were amused despite himself.
