Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

I t took three days for Caroline to break.

Anna had written back, apologizing profusely for not being able to visit. Apparently, she was in the midst of one of her matchmaking endeavors, and it had gone somewhat awry, keeping her in the north of the country for at least a fortnight. Matilda and Leah, however, had not yet written back.

Similar, but rather harsher, news had come from Westyork. A brief letter from her brother, stating that he had made the difficult decision to just leave her to her own devices.

I have made Mother, Phoebe, Olivia, and Evan promise that they will not visit until the month of your honeymoon is over. I feel it would be in everyone's best interests, especially yours and your husband's. You must get to know one another and having us there will be a diversion from that. I am sorry if that seems unkind, but I see no other way. Nor do I want you to see whatever may be written about your marriage.

Which was another point of frustration for Caroline—Max had the newspapers taken directly to his study each day, not bothering to ask if she might like to read them.

Whether or not there were scandal sheets tucked away in the newspapers, and he was trying to spare her, she did not know. But she did know that three days of near absolute solitude were about to push her over the edge into a strange kind of madness.

"Would you like to walk in the gardens today, Your Grace?" Mrs. Whitlock asked after Caroline had endured another luncheon alone. Eating simply for the sake of having something to do. "It is a beautiful afternoon for it."

Caroline wandered to the sun room windows and peered out at the corner of the wildflower garden that could be seen from that angle. With autumn on the way, everything was dying or dead already, while the winter gardens had not yet bloomed.

"If I walk in the gardens again," she said thickly, "I shall lose my mind. In three days, I have walked in those gardens more than I have walked through the Westyork gardens in my entire life."

Mrs. Whitlock sighed uneasily. "Some embroidery, perhaps? Or some drawing or painting?" She paused. "The library? Failing that, I could ask His Grace if I could escort you into town?"

"What does he do up there all day?" Caroline wondered aloud, blowing a breath onto the windowpane. It fogged and in the condensation, she dotted two eyes and streaked a downturned mouth.

"Pardon?"

Caroline did not turn but pointed upward. "My husband." The word still felt clumsy on her tongue. "What does he do in his study from dawn until dusk? He is a duke, is he not? What could he possibly have to occupy himself with? It is not as if he is a… cleric or a bookkeeper."

"He is both and more, Your Grace," Mrs. Whitlock corrected. "Unlike many dukes, he has business ventures that occupy him. Alongside those, he has the estate to tend to—rents, ledgers, expenses, etcetera. And he still runs his brother's estate too, albeit from a distance. His brother had not yet taken on every responsibility, you see, so His Grace was assisting to make the transition smoother. I can only assume he is still doing so."

Caroline finally turned, raising an eyebrow. "So, he is not merely avoiding me?"

"I have no doubt that he is very busy," the housekeeper replied evasively. She was a clever woman; Caroline admired her for that.

Taking an anchoring breath, Caroline put on a smile. "Then, I shall offer my assistance to him. I used to help my brother all the time, and even he has admitted that my grasp of arithmetic is better than his."

"Well now, I think that would be a fine gesture." The housekeeper visibly relaxed, the burden of trying to keep the new duchess company sloughing off her shoulders. "Unusual, certainly, but that seems to be the nature of things at present."

Caroline had to laugh. "That is quite the understatement."

"Indeed, Your Grace." The housekeeper picked up the luncheon plate. "Shall I escort you to the study?"

"No need." Caroline straightened up, pulling her shoulders back. "I know the way."

Heading up the stairs to the mysterious study that she was, ordinarily, prohibited from entering, she asked fate for a sign.

If the door is even slightly open, then things will improve this week.

Turning left on the landing, making slow progress down the hallway, she squinted into the gloom. But it was not until she was almost nose to wood with the study door that she saw her answer—it was firmly closed.

It was too vague. It means nothing, she told herself, knocking lightly.

"You can leave it outside," Max's voice replied.

Caroline opened the door, anyway, echoing Max's intrusion on their wedding night. He looked equally shocked, raising his wide-eyed gaze from an enormous ledger.

"Oh…" He closed the ledger and set it down with a thump . "I did not realize it was you. I should have known by the knock. Mrs. Whitlock likes to really pound on the door."

"Judging by your expression, I would not be surprised if you had forgotten I was even in your house," Caroline replied, forcing what she hoped was an affable smile.

He frowned a little, perhaps confused by that smile. "I confess, I have been distracted." He gestured to an upsettingly tall stack of correspondence, ledgers, dossiers, and papers. "Now, was there something you wanted? I really must be getting back to it."

"I suppose you would have had time to manage all of this beforehand if you had known you were to be married," Caroline said, confidently striding across the room and sitting herself down in the chair opposite her husband.

The study was a far cry from the one that had gotten her and Dickie into such a mess. Where that had been steeped in elegant academia, giving the impression of a headmaster's domain, this study was airy and decidedly sparse.

Max sat in a white-and-gold brocade chair at a modest writing desk. A solitary bookcase nudged up against one wall, filled with more of those hefty, leatherbound ledgers. Aside from the chair where Caroline sat, a threadbare rug on the floor by the fireplace, and a charming portrait of a spaniel, there was nothing else in the room.

"Indeed," Max said tightly.

She pointed to the portrait. "Is that your dog?"

"No, I believe it belonged to the former duke, but I thought he looked rather handsome and sweet, so I keep him within my sight for encouragement," Max replied.

She squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was teasing. But he seemed to be entirely serious… and the tiniest corner of her frosted-over being began to thaw. For such an imposing, dutiful, masculine man, she had not expected him to have any sense of whimsy.

"Do you like dogs?" she continued.

His demeanor warmed as if he had just reached home after a lengthy, difficult journey. "I adore them."

"I always wanted one, but I was never allowed," Caroline said, folding her hands in her lap. "Have you ever had one?"

"When I was a boy, I begged my father and the kennel master to let me have one of the old hounds. Bessie, her name was. I adored that darling girl though she was half-deaf, had not a single speck of brains between her floppy ears, and barked at the slightest thing. She passed shortly before I was due to leave for Eton." He cleared his throat as if he had said too much. "So, I never had another."

Caroline arched an eyebrow. "You were well-paired then."

"Some might say so," he replied, with the ghost of a smirk. "And you? Did you ever have a dog?"

"I just said that I did not."

"Yes, of course. See, you were right—Bessie and I were well-paired. Half-deaf, you see." He shifted awkwardly in his seat. "With respect, Caroline, was there something you needed? These letters and ledgers will not wait."

She could have kicked herself for pointing out his error instead of asking him more about Bessie, enjoying some banter. Indeed, she would have loved to hear more about Bessie, observing Max's face when he talked about something he liked. It was peculiar how a smile and some warmth could make him impossibly handsome, to the point where she could forget her unrest about their marriage and just admire the Lord's most perfect handiwork.

But she could not turn back the clock or steer the conversation back to Bessie.

"Actually, I thought I might offer my assistance," she said, sitting straighter in her chair. "You have a lot to do. I am excellent with arithmetic and organization, and I am not inexperienced in the running of an estate. So, let us do it together."

Max stared at her blankly for a moment… and then burst out laughing, the rich sound turning icy as it reached Caroline, bristling down her spine. All of her goodwill drained out of her as her eyes narrowed into a glare, irritation burning across her skin like a rash.

"I do not see that there is any reason for laughter," she said, offended. "Would you laugh at my brother if he had offered the same thing? Would you laugh at your brother? Would you laugh at Anna if she was in my place, trying to lighten your burden?"

Max's laughter ebbed, though mirth still gleamed in his eyes. "I am sorry, Caroline. You surprised me, that is all."

"You did not sound surprised; you sounded… disrespectful," she retorted. "You sounded as if I had made the most hilarious jest you had ever heard. You seem to forget, Your Grace, that I have spent much of my womanhood around the most courageous, intelligent, remarkable women, who do not tolerate gentlemen laughing at their capability."

He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I meant nothing by it. I was not insulting your intelligence or your capability. It was just not what I was expecting, when you have not shown any desire to assist me, much less be in the same room as me." He paused. "And please, cease referring to me as ‘Your Grace.' It is too formal."

"Formality is necessary, it seems," Caroline replied, her pride wounded. "As for being in the same room as you—it is difficult to know if I can tolerate it when you seem so intent on avoiding me."

"I have been busy."

"I am aware, which is why I was asking if I might help!" she shot back, frustrated by the circling of their conversation.

Max sighed, sitting back in his chair. He had undone his collar and wore no cravat, the two sides falling further apart to reveal a triangle of sun-browned skin. Hypocritical in its informality, and so annoyingly distracting. How had he gained such a bronzed color if he spent so much time cooped up in his study?

"I apologize," he said quietly.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For upsetting you, for laughing—whatever might make this quarrel end. I do not want to keep arguing with you." He set his hand on the top of the stack of correspondence. "That being said, it would take me longer to explain everything to you, which would rather undo the purpose of your assistance. Another time, perhaps."

"I think not," Caroline replied, scraping back her chair. "But fear not, Your Grace , I shall find something to occupy myself."

Marching out of the study, resisting the urge to slam the door, she smiled to herself.

And when I do, you will beg me to sit quietly at this desk, wishing you had accepted my help in the first place.