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“It’s daytime, husband.”

“I know that!” His coughs fill the room, and I ignore them while I take my time staring at the rows of books. I already know which one I will select, but I’m in no hurry to step within reaching distance once again. Not until Kyros is back in the room.

Pholios may be a foul creature, but he likes to keep up appearances in front of his staff. Either he knows what he’s doing is wrong and wants to maintain some sort of reputation or he thinks matters of the bedroom should be kept private. Either way, when others are around, he keeps his hands to himself, though Kyros has walked in on plenty of untoward occurrences. I’ve been grabbed, pinched, slapped, and pawed at more times than I can count in the last two months of my life, which also happens to be the length of my marriage.

But it will all be worth it as soon as Pholios is dead. The duke has no children of his own, no relatives to inherit his title, which means that upon his death, all of this will be mine. The manor, the dukedom, the servants, themoney. All mine to do with as I please, and no manwill ever be able to decide my fate again. I will be a dowager duchess forevermore.

Forever free.

That future is so close I can taste it. Just a few more weeks. A month at most. Pholios can’t have much longer left.

And then I won’t have to hide who I really am anymore.

When I hear the soft steps of Kyros returning, I select the book of poetry from the shelf. The footman looks relieved to find me on the other side of the room. His sympathy is unnecessary—I can handle the old man—but it is kind, nonetheless. I return to my chair as Kyros finishes assisting the duke in taking a drink. Pholios nearly chokes when he reads the title on the tome I hold.

“No,” he says. “I hate poetry.”

Which is precisely why I chose it. “It will clear your head, Your Grace. Poetry livens the soul.”

He grumbles some more but quiets as I start reading. I think he likes the sound of my voice, though he mostly stares at my chest while I read, so I raise the book a little higher. After about ten minutes of this, Pholios’s snores fill the room once more.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Kyros asks me, his tone a gentle murmur so as not to wake the duke.

“Well enough, Kyros, and you?” I close the book and turn in my chair to properly observe the man. Even in his livery, he is quite handsome. He wears the traditional white shirt and stockings with gloves and boots. He’s always clean and pristine, with the best posture. His strong chin bears the most adorable dimple in the center, and his green eyes always seem bright. Combed-back, sun-kissed hair hangs past his ears, and his strong form puts many footmen to shame.

Day after day, it’s just me and Kyros stuck in this suite, seeing to the duke and his every need. On occasion, Kyros’s young son makes an appearance, desperate to show us frogs he’s caught in the property’spond or the rocks he’s found in the woods. The boy knows to be quiet in case the duke is sleeping, careful to catch our attention and drag us from the room for brief moments to see his prizes.

I always relish the opportunity.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Kyros politely does not speak of my marriage with the duke and what I’m subjected to. He has the common sense to know that I have no wish to talk of such humiliation. “Nico learned a new word this morning,” he says instead, to bring the conversation to brighter topics.

I smile at that. “And what is the word?”

“Indignant.”

“Such a big word for a four-year-old.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that. He’s four and a half, and not a day less.”

In the time we’ve spent together in this room, I’ve learned quite a bit about Kyros and his past. He had a son at seventeen. He and the child’s mother weren’t married, and when she became pregnant, she made it very clear that she had no interest in raising a child. Though the law makes no such demands of single men, Kyros took up the role of father alone.

“Where is Nico now?” I ask.

“In the kitchens, helping Cook. You know how he has a sweet tooth.”

“I shall have to track him down later. I look forward to hearing him try to workindignantinto a sentence.”

Doran, another footman, enters the room, brandishing a salver with a single letter upon it.

“A letter for you, Duchess,” he says in a loud voice, waking Pholios once more. I wish to chide the man, but I keep a wan smile in place.

“Thank you, Doran,” I say as I stand and retrieve the folded parchment.

“I’ll have breakfast now, Kyros. Go fetch it,” the duke says, alert once more.

Though I’m sure both servants leave the room, I don’t notice. I’m too busy staring at the handwriting on the letter.

It’s my sister’s.