Page 14 of Destined to be a Duchess
“Thank you,” he said once he had her attention. He glanced sideways at his mother, who was still chatting energetically with Patrick across the table. “I don’t doubt you were partly telling the truth, but I still saw what you did. You’re an observant little thing, aren’t you?”
Marianne wasn’t sure how she felt being called a ‘little thing’, though she imagined he meant it nicely. A compliment from a duke was worth taking, she supposed. “Of course. An unobservant shopkeeper is a penniless shopkeeper. I can read a shop floor like you can read Shakespeare.” She smiled when he did, finally handing her the tureen. “Which reminds me. I’m still waiting forHamlet, Your Grace.”
“There’s no need to wait. As a guest at the house, you have my full permission to explore the library at your leisure.” He picked up a set of serving tongs and served himself some meat. Marianne blushed as she watched his long fingers flex around the utensil. “But I’ll see Hamlet delivered to your room this evening. Though perhaps you’d rather read a comedy what with … well …”
“… what with the fact that I’m currently living a tragedy?” Marianne considered his offer, trying not to think too hard about the duke paying her a personal visit after dark. “I’ll trust you to make that decision for me. As I said, I don’t know anything about his work.”
“Do you not read?” His blue eyes flashed with horror at his mistake. Marianne was unruffled. She preferred it when he spoke to her without a filter. “Do not misunderstand. Of course, I know that youcanread. I was only curious as to whether you read often. That is to say, whether you frequented libraries,” he choked on his words, “or had any genres you prefer.”
She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to fluster a duke without witnessing it first-hand. He was cold more often than not, seeming older than his years. The panic on his face made him look almost boyish and suited him perfectly. Marianne grinned, prolonging his torment by feigning offence so she could admire him a little longer.
“We had a very small collection of books,” she explained eventually, holding back from laughing as the duke poured himself a glass of wine—then served her without asking. It was like no wine she had ever seen, fizzing with small bubbles.
“The first thing I ever read was a tailoring manual. And if you think that’s bad, the second was a book on good housekeeping. On my eighth birthday, my mother bought me a spelling book, and you’d be surprised at the level of vocabulary included in such a thing. I learned how to spellasceticismbefore I learned how to spell my own last name, despite not knowing what it meant.”
The duke laughed, furrowing his brow. If ascetics didn’t make for polite dinner conversation, he was kind enough not to show it. “I had a similar book when I was young but preferred the illustrations over the exercises. I would copy the drawings I saw instead of writing my lines. It’s no wonder I learned how to draw before I could write.”
He looked wistfully into the space between them, sipping his wine. Marianne watched his neck bob as the drink traced a path down his throat, her cheeks flushing in response. He was somehow more handsome when he was speaking freely about himself. She quickly turned away, taking a sip of her own wine. It was stronger than she was used to, but the fine bubbles danced on her tongue, tasting fresh and light.
“What, erm …” She hoped he didn’t notice her blush, her glass clinking against the table as she set it down. “What drew you to art in the first place? It’s been mentioned a few times that you left England to study art.”
“It was a highly educational trip, but I didn’t spend much time studying art, per se. I was drawing, certainly, but not practicing under a teacher of any sort.” He relaxed in his seat, forcing Marianne to try and act relaxed, too, as she continued serving herself.
“To actually answer your question, I’m not entirely sure. My father has—had—a friend who’s an exceptional artist. I spent agreat deal of time with him as a child, and he encouraged me to pursue art when he noticed that I had a knack for drawing. As for determining the source of my interest …”
He clicked his tongue, looking skyward. “I’m not convinced anything inspired me in particular. Some things in life simply must be done, skills that come to us naturally, people that we have a natural affinity for, and so forth.”
Marianne glanced up, wondering whether he believedtheyhad a natural affinity. It was a frivolous thought. She didn’t need the duke to like her, only to tolerate her presence.
“Do you have nothing like this in your own life?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “A passion or a pastime outside of your work?”
She set down the platter of sweetbreads, thinking. “I love dressmaking. I love everything about it. I know that doesn’t answer your question because it is how—it was how—I made my living … It fills me with so much joy to create something from a simple idea and tailor it perfectly to a person’s needs and shape.
It’s not the dress that becomes the final piece but the person as they wear it.” She was rambling, and she stopped herself. “There are much more important things a person could do with their time, I know, but—”
“Why do you say that?”
Marianne froze. The duke was usually neutral about everything. He must have felt strongly to have interrupted her with a tone that could only have been described as scolding. Maybe it was the wine influencing him. She took another sip of her own wine before she replied, praying for it to imbue her with courage.
“Why do I say what?”
His gaze softened. “You should not trivialize your passion. In fact …” He paused, perhaps wondering whether it was right to say more. “I find that you have a habit of unfairly disparaging yourself. Earlier, before dinner, you said that it could not have been usual for a man in my position to accept a person like you into my home.” He scoffed gently. “You said that, and since then, I’ve been thinking: ‘Like her? Whatever does she mean by that?’”
“Oh …” Marianne was flustered now. “I only meant, well … It can’t be every day that a seamstress from Lambeth finds herself as a guest in a house as grand as this.” She thought that had been the case at the time, but now the duke had made her doubt herself. “Isn’t it only natural to feel insignificant in the face of all this grandeur?” She waved towards their spread, grateful that Patrick was still entertaining Catherine, none the wiser. “A place like this, people like you, would make anyone feel nervous.”
“I agree that some nerves are inevitable. Anxiety is a symptom of experiencing something new. That does not explain yourprevious comment …” He paused, scanning her face. She wished he would stop.
“It’s none of my business. We will agree to disagree. I simply think that lives are measured by how useful we are to others. For example, I would wager that you have helped more people with your dressmaking talent than I have for simply being born the son of a duke.”
“Now you are unfairly disparaging yourself,” Marianne deflected.
“I …” She had him there, and the duke knew it. “Perhaps you are makingmenervous.”
She laughed. “Because I’m new?”
“Yes,” the duke said through a smile. He tried to conceal it behind his wine glass. “And because you’re too observant, as I said.”
The conversation between Catherine and Patrick was coming to an end, and he leaned in closer.
