Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

“ H ave the servants collect our bags.”

Alexander slowly pulled back, his eyes dark with lust, his hair messy. His lips were parted, his breathing labored. Madeleine ached for him but she shook her head.

Did she imagine the small nod he gave her in return?

He pulled back, opening the door of the carriage and hopping out.

Madeleine expected, with all his intimidation and dominance, for him to thunder on ahead and leave her to be escorted by a footman but he stayed by the door. He barely met her eyes as he held out his hand to lead her out of the carriage.

As she took his hand, the footman responded.

“Right away, Your Grace,” the footman said, rushing up to one of the servants, who was already waiting.

Alexander led Madeleine up the stairs of Silverton Hall, a beautiful white-faced building with sprawling, large wings sweeping either side, with expansive gardens that wound around the perimeter of the house and beyond where she could not see.

Behind Silverton Hall, the countryside rolled out for miles and miles. In the distance, the glimmer of water caught the light.

“Duchess,” Alexander’s voice brought her back, and she was faced with a line of servants that were aligned up the stairs. “These are my staff,” he told her, and she nodded at each servant she passed. “My valet, Rivers.” Rivers, a blonde man, bowed.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I hope you enjoy Silverton Hall.”

“I am sure I will, Mr. Rivers,” she said optimistically.

Alexander drew her on. “Daniel Fletcher, Silverton’s butler. And then we have Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper.”

“Your Grace.” Both the butler and housekeeper greeted her with a bow and a curtsy, respectively.

“Duchess, if you require anything, do not hesitate to call for me,” Mrs. Turner said.

Madeleine, taken aback by the open kindness in the woman’s face, only nodded.

“Mrs. Turner, ensure that the Duchess’s rooms are prepared to the utmost perfection. Did you see to it that her lady’s maid will be awaiting her in her chambers?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“Good. Have Cecil deposit our bags in my chambers for now. Both of ours,” he ordered the butler. “Also, have the curtains opened in the parlor and drawing room. Ensure that the dinner table is set ahead of our dining tonight.” Alexander cast a look back at Madeleine. “The Duchess and I shall dine together.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Mr. Fletcher nodded, bowing. “It shall all be done.”

“Also see that the Duchess has a bath drawn for her. It has been a long day.”

“I will take care of such a thing with her lady’s maid,” Mrs. Turner said.

“Good. Ensure my wife is comfortable. I shall see no less in my home. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to my own affairs.”

“It is good to have you return, Your Grace,” Mrs. Turner said a moment before Alexander nodded sharply and left, disappearing into the entrance of the manor.

“Shall we, Your Grace?” Mrs. Turner asked Madeleine, who was still reeling from being addressed as a duchess.

In truth, it was not so different to being Lady Kinsfeld, but the staff seemed to respect her so far, unlike her former housekeeper.

So, she gave a hesitant smile to the housekeeper and followed the woman inside.

“Your chambers adjoin His Grace’s, of course,” Mrs. Turner said. “Your lady’s maid, Emily, is waiting for you there. She will assist you with anything you require. His Grace has requested the dinner tonight but from here onwards you shall let me know what you wish for dinner each night.”

Madeleine nodded. That was not unknown to her.

Inside Silverton Hall, the floors gleamed, polished to a shine. The walls were high, bearing portraits of the countryside, and former masters of the house. Madeleine looked at them curiously as she walked alongside the housekeeper.

Up a staircase and to the right, then down a hallway, she came to her chambers. Mrs. Turner stopped at her door.

“I will be available whenever you should need me.” Mrs. Turner bowed her head to Madeleine before retreating.

Madeleine pushed open the door to her new chambers, finding an opulent room awaiting her. Her mouth parted.

She was accustomed to a large, lavish bedroom—though over the months of her marriage to Donald, she had watched it grow more and more sparse.

This was anything but sparse.

A vanity with a chair pulled out was against the far wall, adjacent to a large window that overlooked the beautiful gardens at the back. She spotted the roof of the carriage house, the stables, and the woodland behind Silverton Hall.

A large bed was against the right side of the room. Her eyes tracked over the pale sheets, and she imagined herself splayed back against them. Her blonde hair spilling around her on the pillow—and the Duke of Silverton over her, his mouth parted in that way she had seen earlier.

His hands traveling?—

A creak on the floorboards had her whirling around, finding herself face-to-face with a smaller girl, her dark hair perfectly pinned away from her face.

“Your Grace.” The girl dropped into a curtesy. “I am Emily, your lady’s maid. I have been told to have a bath drawn for you.”

“Yes,” Madeleine confirmed. “It is lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise, Your Grace. Come, let me prepare you.”

Emily’s hands were fast and efficient as she helped Madeleine out of her wedding dress, and Madeleine strode to the bathtub in the room set off from her main chamber.

She sank into the hot water, sighing as the ache from the carriage ride eased with each moment.

Emily began to scrub Madeleine clean. Inch by inch of skin, she felt renewed, refreshed from the journey.

She felt like she was washed of this whole ordeal with her late husband at last. With each swipe, the week sluiced off of her.

“Pardon my directness, Your Grace, but I did not think His Grace would ever take a wife,” Emily said, almost absent-mindedly, as she washed Madeleine’s hair.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He is… well, he is very private, you see. He’s strict at times. Very private.”

“What about?”

“Mostly his business affairs,” Emily told her. “But he barely speaks. Whenever Mrs. Turner or Mr. Fletcher need to ask anything, he’s brief with his answers. He does not linger. I know the master, but in another sense, I do not know him at all.” Her face flushed. “If that is not nonsensical.”

Madeleine hummed. “I see.”

“The staff whisper about him. He is kind, the people of Silverton say. I have heard Mrs. Turner say he can be very sacrificial for others’ benefit.”

Madeleine swallowed, her stomach tightening. “And do you… do you think he did not wish to marry or he had not met anyone worthy?”

Something in her gnawed unpleasantly at the thought of Alexander marrying her against his will—of their marriage simply being a sacrifice, and now she would become a burden to him.

Something unsettled her about that. She refused to be a burden.

“I don’t wish to speculate, Your Grace,” Emily said quietly, glancing at the doorway.

“You must tell me if there is anything of import to be known,” Madeleine told her, eyeing her lady’s maid sternly. “I do not like secrets.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Emily could not help but have loyalty to Alexander as a natural line of employment but Madeleine could sway a little loyalty for herself. Smiling to herself, Madeleine finished her bath before dressing for dinner.

“I am told you ordered the dinner specifically tonight,” Madeleine said, her voice light and teasing, as she took her seat opposite Alexander in the dining hall.

Candles were lit around them, casting them in a warm glow. In this light, Alexander’s dark gaze on her was even more intense as he looked her over.

“I did,” he said, taking a sip of his wine as he gestured for a servant to fill Madeleine’s glass with a fruity wine. “Venison seasoned with juniper, yes? That is your preference, if I am not mistaken.”

He sat back in his seat, simply watching her with a smug brow raised.

“You… you are not mistaken.”

“And for the wine,” he began, beckoning her to sip. She did, closing her eyes briefly. “Something that will dance over your tongue.”

There was something about the way he drank at the same time as she did that had heat curling through her stomach. She set her glass down, finding his gaze already waiting for her.

Madeleine steadied herself.

My husband died less than a week ago.

“You know, I have always thought the dinner table is a perfect place for discovery,” Alexander told her, his word slow and calculated. “It is a chance to learn of one’s true nature. What does your taste in food say about you, I wonder?”

The candlelight flickered, sharpening the planes of his face, and her mouth was positively dry. As soon as he asked, Madeleine was served her dinner: venison seasoned with juniper, as the Duke had suggested.

She was not used to so much attention like Alexander was giving her, and she busied herself staring at her plate for a few moments more.

“It does not say much, I imagine,” she finally responded.

Alexander leaned forward, his elbow propped on the arm of his dining chair, utterly casual and relaxed.

“Oh, I would not be so sure, Duchess. I have always believed that a woman’s choices—no matter how small—speak volumes about her. Do you not agree? For example, returning to your choice of wine. You could prefer a richer wine, but you do not. Is that your way of showing restraint?”

“Perhaps,” Madeleine answered, a small smile playing on her lips. “Or perhaps I am simply not in the mood for such indulgence.”

Alexander laughed quietly, sipping his wine as he watched her.

He had chosen the dinner—according to her own tastes, and that had something flushing in her.

He did not let up with his eyes, even when he lowered his wine. That look pierced her, pinning her to her chair.

Her face heated up.

She was not used to it—she was rather used to Donald either being absent or simply looking through her. She could have danced around Kinsfeld House, her body completely bare, and he would not have looked in even a second’s worth of interest.

“As much as I like it when you speak back, your tendency to blush is quite intoxicating.”

Alexander had her startling for a minute.

Madeleine found her footing, finally. Sarcasm slipped into her voice. “Ah. Is that not what you expect from now on? Most women would be falling all over themselves by now, would they not?”

Alexander gazed back at Madeleine across the dinner table. The wine was already staining her lips, and there was a faintly sarcastic note to her voice that he enjoyed.

Speak back always, he thought. Let me see how fierce you might become .

He smirked at her little retort. She thought she was winning their dinner game. He could not help but study her, liking it when she squirmed. Oh, she was clever, but he knew how to strip a woman back to find what made that pretty blush cover her cheeks.

Her blonde hair spiraled down over her shoulder, brushing the neckline of her deep blue dress. It framed her chest beautifully in a way his gaze fought not to stray to.

Her eyes, so intelligent, gazed back at him.

He was right about the wine choice—and he did believe it reflected her. It was bold yet with something reserved to it, as if the wine could have been more, but had been made lighter by the hand which crafted it.

The dinner table was entirely too long, separating them. Still, he leaned closer.

“Tell me, Duchess,” he purred, “what was it like for you on your wedding night? Surely your husband showed you what a marriage can be like.” He paused, watching her reaction—she bit her lip. “Passion… Desire… It can wreath a marriage, wreak havoc in a bedchamber.”

His wife— his now, he reminded himself indulgently—paled, freezing.

He stopped, surprised. He had thought she would laugh off his words, or perhaps blush at them. He had thought even a clever retort might spill from those full lips.

Yet she was visibly uncomfortable, and he fought back a frown as she lost her grip on her wine glass, almost. She regained her composure, clearing her throat. A smile was fixed back in place but he did not look at it directly.

That pretense made him think.

Was his wife… a virgin?

That could not make sense.

She was not a debutante. She’d had a husband. Surely Lord Kinsfeld, as awful as he was, had indulged his wife in a fine wedding night to consummate their marriage? He had been serviced by plenty of women in London—why not his own wife, if Alexander’s assumption was true?

“Are you all right?” His question wasn’t one he planned to ask.

He had thought they would continue their teasing but that discomfort, that new rigidness to her shoulders…

It threw him off.

Madeleine nodded quickly, sipping her wine. “Yes. I believe you already know plenty about my previous marriage, Your Grace. Do we truly need to keep circling back to it?”

He scanned her face. He was not convinced that her reasoning was that at all.

“Of course,” he said, playing along. “It is none of my business, wife. But it is still interesting, do you not think?”

His tone was still teasing, hoping to ease that stiffness in her. Madeleine swallowed.

“Well, I would disagree.”

Hmm , he thought. He raised a brow but said nothing further. He could not push her away.

“Well, in that case,” he said after a few moments, “please enjoy your first dinner at Silverton Hall.”

Madeleine blinked at him, as if surprised at his sincerity. He cut his meat, eating it indulgently.

The taste burst over his tongue. Fresh and fruity, something new for him, yet there was a hint of spiciness to it, bringing him back to the full taste of the venison.

He could not help wondering: did this choice reflect his wife, too?

They ate in relative silence, and Alexander found himself unexpectedly stumped. His wife had quickly become a mystery, and he wanted to unravel it immediately.

But things like this took time—and he would enjoy slowly unraveling her, finding what made her fall apart into him.

When they finished eating, Madeleine set down her cutlery and stood. She hovered, and Alexander watched her, finishing his own meal.

She hesitated, as if unsure of what to say. There was a strange fidgeting to her as she toyed with a bracelet around her wrist. She lowered it when she saw his attention stray there. It was one from a collection he had prepared for her, and she played with it as if unfamiliar with its adornment.

A flare of anger went through him. Just how much had Lord Kinsfeld deprived her of?

“Yes?” he asked.

“About tonight?—”

Ah .

He quickly held up a hand. “There is nothing to say. I am not coming to your chambers tonight, Duchess.” He set down his cutlery and stood as well. “Rest. That is all I ask.”

He saw the flicker of surprise pass over her face as he left with a nod of his head.