by Tanya Wilde
Just like her husband’s black little heart.
“There’s not even a dash of butter,” she muttered.
“’Twas his lordship’s orders, Your Grace.”
Willow shot the footman a scathing look. She already knew that. The poor man looked ready to bolt through the door in response. She sighed. It wasn’t the footman’s fault that her husband was a browbeating beast. But she also knew that the servant would report her reaction to her husband as soon as she left the room.
If she wasn’t so hungry, which only succeeded in fueling her annoyance, she might have laughed. She’d give the man something to report then. It was high time some change came into her husband’s life. A rude awakening, if you will.
It was also time to make allies in this enemy territory. And her first ally clearly ought to be the cook. One did not fight battles on an empty belly.
“What is your name?” she asked the footman, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Wendell, Your Grace.”
“Well, Wendell, I am the lady of the house, am I not?” she asked him, this time infusing a softer tone into her voice.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Which means I am in charge of running this household, correct?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“That includes the menu, does it not?”
The footman paused, clearing his throat.
Willow arched a brow.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he murmured, shifting on his feet. “That is how things are usually run.”
Usually. Meaning not here.
Too bad, Willow thought. That, too, was about to change.
“Well, Wendell, it appears you have a choice to make.”
“Your Grace?”
“You can continue to follow the duke’s instructions, in which case I will consider you my enemy, or you can come over to the right side of it, and I shall consider you my friend. Of course, you will not lose your job, as I, the lady of the house, am also in charge of hiring servants and letting them go.”
The footman swallowed.
“You will not be relieved of your position if you choose my husband’s side, of course,” Willow reassured. She did not wish to make allies based on threats. “I’d understand if you did for reasons of loyalty and so forth, though I would kindly ask you to leave the room so as not to impede my next plan of action.”
He looked surprised by her words and Willow thought she saw a flash of admiration. She needed the servants on her side. It would show her husband she carried some weight.
“A change will be a good thing, Your Grace,” Wendell said after a brief moment of pause and Willow flashed him a blinding smile.
“My thoughts exactly. Now tell me, what other instructions has my husband handed out?”
“Your Grace is to be escorted at all times.”
“Even in the house?”
Wendell nodded. “I am to shadow your every move.”
Willow scowled. Last night, to her relief, when she had returned home, she had found no footman stationed outside her door. Poppy must not have heard correctly. Or the duke had changed his mind. Needless to say, she’d be watched from today.
“Are you to lurk outside my chambers at night, too?”
Wendell flushed. “That would be Thomas, Your Grace.”
“I see. And I take it you are to report my every step to the duke?”
Wendell nodded.
Willow had not underestimated her husband, he was a man with pride after all, but this seemed way beyond the pale. Hopefully, now that Wendell was on her side, she would not feel so alone in this cold house while she delved deeper towards the root of her husband’s need for control.
“Where is the dowager?” Willow asked.
“She retired to Bath this morning, Your Grace.”
Willow blinked in surprise. She had? Not that Willow was complaining, but she hadn’t expected her mother-in-law to leave at all.
“Did the duke send her away or did she decide to go on her own?”
“I believe the duke had a hand in the departure, Your Grace.”
So Ambrose had sent his mother away. She recalled how he said he’d begun to resolve matters. Sending the Dragon Duchess away must be part of his plan.
And with the dowager gone, they might just accomplish something.
“That is good,” Willow murmured, sparing another look of disgust at the toast. She was so ravenous, she felt tempted to snatch it up just to stave off her hunger. But she decided if she were to prove a point, the toast should remain lifeless on that plate.
Her belly protested as she turned away.
“Wendell, if you will lead me to the kitchen, I would like a word with the cook. And please inform my husband that the toast was left uneaten.” Let him believe she was starving.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The cook, much to Willow’s enjoyment, was adorable. A plump woman with kind eyes, she had been rightly shocked when Willow appeared in her kitchen. But after a few words of encouragement and the prospect of a better atmosphere, Cook was on her side as well.
They both agreed the time had come to liven up the dining room once more. And what better way to erase the gloom-ridden energy the breakfast of blazing stares had left behind than coming up with a menu fit for a king and queen?
“I suppose the duke will be quite put out with me tonight,” Willow said, taking a bite of buttered toast spread with raspberry jam and cream. She planned to dine tonight. With or without him.
“I suspect he will,” Wendell said, swallowing the last of his coffee.
Cook nodded. “It’s about time the dining room is put to good use again. It has been far too long since we heard laughter echoing off these walls.”
Willow nodded, understanding from Cook that Ambrose hadn’t always been this way. This made her more resolved to draw out the man beneath the mask. And more hopeful that their marriage could have a kinder, less warring future.
“Have you been with the family long?” she asked Cook.
“Since before the lad’s birth.”
“Then you know why the duke changed?”
Wendell suddenly looked uncomfortable. “That is also not our place to say.” He shot Cook a warning look.
“Oh posh, it’s high time for some change to come about this place.” Cook glanced at Willow with sad eyes. “If it helps your cause, child, you must know that His Grace was never the same after his sister, Lady Celia, passed away.”
He’d lost a sister? How had she not known? “How did Lady Celia die?”
“An ailment of the heart, the doctor claimed,” Cook answered.
How sad, Willow thought as her chest tightened. She could not imagine losing any one of her sisters. “How long ago was this?”
“Ten years,” Wendell said.
Ten years! It seemed an insurmountable amount of time. Enough time for any one’s ways to become engraved in stone. “Let us hope I can find a way to win the duke over,” Willow murmured. And find a way to heal him. “And my mother-in-law,” she muttered as an afterthought.
“Do not worry too much over her, dearie. As soon as you win the Duke, the Dowager will follow suit,” Cook said.
“That will be hard to do with her crying about the disgrace and shame I brought to the family,” Willow said, sipping on her tea.
“Oh, she will come around, you just wait and see, dear.”
“Let us hope that is true.”
A part of Willow still wondered if her husband had more motives for sending his mother away—like say, to clear the battlefield. A brazen assumption, yes, but not one she’d put past her husband. He was, after all, a master puppeteer, pulling the strings of people in a most clever, if not unscrupulous, way.
This knowledge that he was once a carefree man made the situation so much more bittersweet. Her heart practically bled that he may still be deeply hurt by the loss of his sister. It changed everything.
Well, almost everything.
Willow recognized the flutters in her stomach with some alarm. Interest. Curiosity. It sparked to life. She wanted to discover that man—the carefree man with the impassioned heart.
“If it hadn’t been for the late duke’s will. . .” Cook was saying.
“What?” Willow’s eyes snapped back to the woman. “What about the late duke’s will?
“It is rumored there was a clause in the will.”
Wendell groaned. Willow and Cook both ignored him.
“A clause?” Willow asked, intrigued. “What type of clause?”
Cook leaned forward, lowering her voice. It was positively gratifying. “A clause that commanded the duke to wed within twelve months of his father’s death.”
“Or what?” Willow asked, curious as to how a man with so much power could be commanded to wed.
“Or the duke would forfeit his entire inheritance.”
“No,” Willow said, shaking her head.
“Yes,” Cook said, both she and Wendell nodding now.
Dear lord.
It explained so much. Why he married in haste. His dubious methods in doing so. His clear distaste for the marriage. How would it feel to have one’s entire world placed in jeopardy by a dead relative? To have no choice on the timing of such a significant matter as marriage? All while he was seemingly still grieving a sister. And, Willow assumed, the clause aside, a father.
She, at least, had entered the marriage of her own free will. It’d been a drastic and somewhat crazed decision, but it’d been her decision nonetheless. No one had forced her.
Willow made a decision there and then. Ambrose might not know this yet, but Willow intended to restore brightness to his life. She had a feeling that a little light in his world might go a long way towards bringing back the man he once was—the man she’d like to become acquainted with.
Filled with renewed determination, she turned to her new allies. “About tonight. . .”
Chapter 10
“My wife has declared war, Benson,” Ambrose told his valet, who had been with him for the past twelve years. The man had never been afraid to voice his opinion, and over the years, Ambrose had come to value it.
“War, Your Grace?”
“Would you perhaps have a better word for what has transpired in this house?”
And perhaps the term war was a bit overdramatic, but it certainly felt like he had marched straight into a battlefield.
For Christ’s sake, he had expected that when he set eyes on her this morning, all the pent-up anger over the wedding and his fury over her midnight rendezvous would tumble forth in an avalanche of rage.
But had that happened?
No. Instead, she had bloody floored him with her big, blue, innocent eyes and her rumpled hair. Most of his anger had fled at the sight of her beneath the crumpled sheets and was replaced by hot burning desire. The temptation to take her into his arms right then and there had been so great, his heart had nearly exploded from his chest.
The marriage was not going the way he had thought at all.
It was damned disturbing.
“She is new to your ways, Your Grace,” Benson agreed. “But I have every confidence in your lordship’s ability to court the duchess.”
Court? If Ambrose had ever learned to splutter, he’d be doing that now. “I have no reason to court my wife, Benson, hence the word wife.”
“It is my understanding, Your Grace, that all women wish to be courted, one way or another.”
“And it is my understanding that wives ought to do wifely things and not act out,” Ambrose muttered.
Why the hell had this happened to him? He should never have given Holly those rules before their wedding. But he had foolishly suffered a moment of guilt and had not wanted her to wed him without knowing who she was marrying. If only he had held his conscience in check for a few more days.
He thought he’d be gaining a wife that would be easy to protect, easy to ensure her health and safety. Instead, he’d gotten one that would fight him at every step he took to enforce that protection. Willow was strong, resistant, and, though Ambrose hadn’t thought it possible, just as stubborn as he.
More disturbing even, as he had looked down on her sleeping, waiting for her to awaken, he recalled every soft sigh she’d given at his touch, and a single question had popped into his mind: Did he even want to master his wife?
All he could damn well think about was whether forcing his rules on her would make her touches become less eager. Would her soft moans disappear altogether? Would she still respond to him with unbridled passion or would the fire in her eyes die along with her freedom of spirit?
The answer had set his heart leaping in his chest.
What the devil was wrong with him? He never reacted this way. He never second-guessed himself.
Control meant safety.
Safety meant life.
Safety meant never feeling that loss again.
Then why did he fear a different kind of loss if he succeeded? Why did he feel so conflicted?
Because Celia might still be alive had she taken care of her health.
“It ought to be easy enough,” his valet was saying, tugging at his jacket, “to win the duchess over.”
“Win over my wife? Have you not heard a word I said? She has declared war. Battle lines have been drawn.”
“And how does a man win a battle with one’s wife,” Benson ventured, “if not by winning her over?”
“My wife is rebelling against me, Benson. She believes me a tyrant,” Ambrose pressed on. “Winning her over with hearts and roses is out of the question.”
“No need to trouble Your Grace with hearts and roses. Just let the duchess see your lordship in a different light. A softer one, perhaps. Less tyrannical.” He gave Ambrose a once over. “Though that may take some work.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Be nice to your wife, Your Grace, listen to her wishes. Take her to the theatre.”
“Let me tell you something, Benson. Women are like bloodhounds. Once they sense any form of weakness, they’ll go straight for your throat. If I suddenly court my wife, she will smell blood in the water.”
And what did Benson know about being nice, anyway? Most of the time the man was as sour as an old bottle of wine. Besides, Willow knew she was not his chosen bride. She’d smell the insincerity of the action.
Therefore, he could not be nice to his wife.
Ten curses upon his father’s soul! He’d never be in this mess if it weren’t for his old man’s machinations.
There had been a moment, after he’d done everything in his power to contest the will, where he decided to hell with it, he did not need any of the unentailed land. He would restore the family coffers on his own.
But his father had been a clever bastard.
While Ambrose did not mind losing all that wealth and lands, he still had to think of his mother and brother. And in the event that Ambrose failed to marry, all that lands and wealth would be donated to a distant relative Ambrose had never even heard about. Meaning he’d have no funds to support his family. Meaning they’d suffer as he worked to build his wealth back up.
Ambrose would never allow that.
Yes, his father had been a clever bastard.
“Damn my father and his rotten hide,” he muttered, his words imbued with bitterness.
“The late duke meant well,” Benson said, though his words lacked conviction.
“You are still hanging on to that fairytale, Benson? The bastard meant to control me from his bloody grave.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He, Ambrose Brandon Jonathan Griffin, who sought to control all things, was controlled by a ghost.
“He controls you no longer, Your Grace. The requirement of the will was met. The late duke has no hold over you anymore.”
“But he won. He got what he wanted.”
“He only wins if you are miserable for the rest of your life, Your Grace. Your resentment towards him is what’s kee
ping his hold,” Benson reasoned. “Let go of that, find happiness and you win.”
“Only you would think that makes a wit of sense,” Ambrose muttered. Unfortunately, he suspected his valet might be right. His father hadn’t taken well to his announcement that Ambrose, his heir, planned to remain unwed and let the title pass on to the spare. Because the spare had no spare. And according to his father, he hadn’t spent Ambrose’s entire life preparing him for the ducal responsibilities just so he could toss it aside.
Their relationship had been strained ever since.
And since he’d caved to his father’s dictate, he’d been deserted at the altar, married the wrong woman, and was now at war with his wife.
“Your Grace has already taken the first step, even if your lordship doesn’t realize it yet.”
“And how is that?”
“You sent your mother to retire to the warm waters of Bath.”
“That hardly signifies anything, except to alleviate the strain on my nerves.”
“If Your Grace says so,” his valet murmured, a smile curving his lips.
“I do say so,” Ambrose growled, glaring at the man.
Impetuous valet. And damn outspoken. And an utter nuisance. Because now Ambrose was calling into question the reason he sent his mother away. No, Ambrose told himself. He was not. He sent his mother away to give them all the chance to adjust and for the dust to settle on any scandal.
“Then perhaps I may offer some advice, Your Grace?”
“Don’t let me hold you back.” Ambrose gnashed his teeth. “You never do.”
“Reconsider wooing the duchess.”
“Out of the question,” Ambrose pronounced. Then, after a small pause, “Why the hell would I do that? More importantly, what would it accomplish?”
“To keep the peace, Your Grace.” Benson smoothed out Ambrose’s coat. “A woman in love is a woman without willfulness.”
Or more of it, Ambrose thought darkly. Look where that had gotten him with Holly Middleton. She’d fancied herself in love with him and abandoned him the moment she realized the feeling wasn’t mutual.
As if reading his thoughts, Benson said, “It seems to me, Your Grace, that the duchess does not hold the same romantic ideals as your former betrothed. There is no risk. She is already your wife.”