Page 78 of Married to a Frozen Duke
The girl, whose name Ophelia learned was Susan, lit up at the praise. "My mum was in service at Chatsworth House, Your Grace. She learned from their head gardener and taught me."
"Chatsworth! No wonder they're so lovely. I've heard their gardens are spectacular."
Soon she was seated at their table, much to Mrs. Morrison's barely concealed horror, discussing flowers and gardens and household management with the staff. Cook, a formidable woman named Mrs. Bradley, was explaining the challenges of the kitchen gardens when Alexander appeared in the doorway.
The atmosphere changed instantly. Everyone scrambled to their feet, tea cups clattering, the easy conversation dying as surely as if someone had snuffed out a candle.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said, curtsying deeply. "We weren't expecting..."
"Evidently," Alexander said, his tone arctic. His gaze found Ophelia, still seated at the servants' table with a cup of tea halfway to her lips. "Duchess, a word, if you please."
She set down the cup carefully and rose, aware of every eye in the room following her movement. "Of course. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Bradley. Your recipes are delightful."
She followed Alexander out of the servants' hall, through the green door that separated their world from his, and into his study. He closed the door with deliberate control, then stood with his back to her for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts.
"That was inappropriate," he said finally, turning to face her.
"Having tea?"
"Having tea with the servants. Sitting in their hall as if you were one of them."
"I was lost and they were kind enough to..."
"You weren't lost. I've watched you learn this house systematically over the past two weeks. You know exactly where everything is."
He was right, of course. She hadn't been lost. She'd been lonely and heard friendly voices and followed them like a moth to flame, but she could not admit it even to herself.
"You're right," she admitted. "I wasn't lost. I was just... they were having tea and laughing, and it sounded so warm and normal that I wanted to be part of it for a moment."
His expression softened marginally, then hardened again. "Ophelia, you need to understand something. You're the Duchess of Montclaire now. You cannot simply join the servants for tea because you're lonely or because it feels warm and normal. There are boundaries that must be maintained."
"Why? What horrible thing will happen if I drink tea with people who work in my house?"
"Your house?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Our house, then. Though it doesn't feel like either, does it? It feels like a beautiful prison where everyone knows their place and no one steps outside the lines drawn centuries ago."
"Those lines exist for a reason. The servants need to respect you, and they won't if you're sitting at their table gossiping like a... like a..."
"Like a commoner? Like what I am, you mean?"
"Like what you were," he corrected, though not harshly. "You're a duchess now. My duchess. And duchesses don't take tea in the servants' hall."
"Then where do duchesses take tea? Alone in vast drawing rooms? Because that's what I've been doing for two weeks, and it's miserable."
He moved to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens. "You're being too familiar with them. I've noticed it—the way you chat with James about his mother, how you knowevery housemaid's name and their personal situations. You helped Mary with her mending yesterday."
"How is being kind to people who work hard to make our lives comfortable a bad thing?"
"It's not about kindness. You can be kind without being familiar. You can be compassionate while maintaining appropriate distance." He turned back to her. "They need to see you as above them, as someone to respect and perhaps slightly fear. Not as a friend who happens to have a title."
"Fear? You want people to fear me?"
"I want them to respect your position. There's a difference between being a good mistress and being their friend. You can't be both."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not how it is supposed to be." He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect arrangement, which was a sign of real agitation. "Do you think I enjoy being distant from people who have served this family for generations? Do you think I like eating silent meals and having conversations that never go deeper than the weather? But that's what's required of our position."
