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Chapter Nineteen

“ G ood morning, Your Grace,” she greeted.

Marianne was nervous. She stood a few feet from the breakfast table with proper posture and an impassive face.

On the outside, she was a calm and composed duchess. However, the real her trembled and shivered, focused on behaving as she was supposed to.

For the sake of their deal.

Frankly, she hadn’t had any trouble bargaining with her husband. He would not force her to go to bed with him. Not all husbands were that humane, she reminded herself.

This time, the Duke was already seated at the table. He was the epitome of relaxation, his legs crossed and a cup of tea in one hand. Achilles and Beowulf lay on either side of him, lifting their heads only when she approached.

He looked up. “Good morning,” he replied coolly.

Marianne took the seat opposite him. A servant poured her a cup of tea and offered her slices of toast and some eggs, which she gratefully dug into.

She did everything with care, as she promised to be well-mannered, just like a duchess was expected to be. Still, the silence between them was suffocating. She almost craved her husband’s arrogance and the annoying way he liked to call her little doe .

She cleared her throat and looked at him pointedly. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” he replied, returning his attention to his breakfast as if nothing else would ever interest him.

“Do you, uh, have plans for the day?” she asked, struggling with questions to ask.

“Administrative tasks, mostly.”

She paused so she could swallow her food. She chewed properly, suddenly missing her little hooligan of a sister, Victoria, whom she always had to remind to slow down. The girl was always in a rush so she could have more time to play outside, soil her clothes, and get into a lot of trouble.

“Did you?—”

“You don’t need to make small talk with me, Duchess,” the Duke interrupted, arching an eyebrow at her.

“What am I supposed to do, then? Isn’t this what wives do at the breakfast table?” she asked, her butter knife hovering over another slice of toast.

“I believe you are clever enough to think of more interesting subjects to discuss.”

“My word,” she sputtered. “You are particularly brazen for someone who has forced a lady to marry you.”

He looked at her. Again, it was as if he was assessing her very carefully. He opened his mouth but quickly closed it, giving her a smirk.

Marianne straightened up and sighed. It didn’t seem like she had a way to get through to him. None at all.

“When will my belongings arrive?”

Until now, she had worn only the clothes he had provided, each one a perfect fit, to her surprise.

Everything she needed for her toilette was already in place.

But she still longed for her own things.

They would give her something essential: a sense of balance.

A way to feel—if not at home, then at least like herself.

“Today. Mrs. Alderwick will inform you of their arrival.”

Without another word, he rose from the table. His dogs immediately followed him, like canine soldiers.

“Enjoy your toast,” he said and left her on her own.

Though Mrs. Alderwick carried an air of stern efficiency, she was proving to be Marianne’s guide—both to Oakmere Hall and to her new life. She was a consummate professional, polite but distant, never straying from the bounds of propriety.

The tour revealed much about the Carlyles: old money, refinement, tradition. Marianne’s heart sank. She knew what it was like to grow up under the thumb of a cold parent. This place bore the same chill—only, it was cloaked in polish and grandeur.

The corridors were wide and quiet, lined with rich paneling stained dark as molasses. Brass sconces held candles that had long been replaced with oil lamps, their flickering light casting gentle glows across portraits of stern ancestors and muted landscapes.

The drawing room, with its high ceiling and tall windows, was dressed in pale sage and cream, the upholstery perfectly matched to the drapes. Delicate gold filigree adorned the cornices, and the scent of beeswax polish hung in the air.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing felt warm.

“As you can see, Your Grace, many of the rooms are at your disposal—the library, the drawing room, the music room, among others. The maids maintain them regularly. Guest chambers, of course, are readied in advance of any grand event the Duke might host.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Alderwick. I’ll do my best to remember?—”

“You may consult me at any time, Your Grace.”

“Of course. But—what is that?” Marianne asked, pausing before a heavy door in the west wing.

It was bolted shut.

Mrs. Alderwick hesitated. “The Duke prefers it locked and undisturbed,” she said carefully. For the first time, her composure wavered.

Before Marianne could press her further, the housekeeper turned briskly and descended the stairs, her pace quickening.

Outside, sunlight softened the formality between them.

“Would you care to see the gardens next, Your Grace?” Mrs. Alderwick called, her poise seemingly restored. “You may redesign them as you please.”

“Oh, certainly. Is there a head gardener overseeing them?”

“Yes. Mr. Robin has served His Grace’s family for over twenty years.”

They walked on, discussing flowerbeds and seasonal plantings. But Marianne’s thoughts had already strayed.

Her mind lingered on the bolted door, and what secrets might lie behind it.

Dominic stepped through the heavy doors of the mill he owned with his friend Simon, and into the thrum of motion and heat.

Gears turned with rhythmic force, belts snapped overhead, and the scent of flour hung thick in the air. The noise would have unsettled a lesser man, but he moved through it without flinching.

Men straightened when they saw him, and those who didn’t were swiftly nudged by their neighbors. Dominic said nothing, only nodded once—expecting, not asking, for their attention.

He stopped beside a grain chute, running his hand along the wood, checking for polish. Dust still clung to the corners. “Tell Ewan to have this cleaned by the end of the day,” he said to a passing steward, who immediately veered off with a curt nod.

He crouched beside a stack of sacks and slit one open with his penknife, rubbing a pinch of flour between his fingers. Fine enough—but he tapped it back into the bag without a word.

At the grinding stones, he stood long enough to watch two rotations. “Adjust the belt tension,” he said to the engineer, without turning his head. “It’s pulling too tight.”

The man blanched. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Dominic moved from station to station, not following a fixed route, but with purpose.

No part of the mill was beneath his scrutiny.

He spoke to three different workers by name, asked one about his daughter’s recovery from fever and another if the new grain supplier had delivered on time.

They answered with respect, not flattery.

He paused near the scales, studying the logbook while one of the younger lads fidgeted behind him. “You checked this twice?” he asked.

The boy nodded, but too quickly.

“Check again.”

Dominic handed the logbook back without another word. The boy scrambled off.

He made no speeches, no fuss. But every correction, every glance, shaped the men’s movements. The mill tightened around him like clockwork, running smoother just because he was there.

And then, of course, Simon arrived. Late, as usual.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his grin already forming. Only Simon could get away with that tone.

“To work, as usual. To see that things are running well,” Dominic replied, his voice low.

Simon sidestepped a sack of flour as if it were a dance step. “So much for a honeymoon. Not enjoying your new wife, then? I thought a wedding night might buy us a few days of your absence.”

Dominic gave him a cold look, but it lacked venom. Still, his tone turned clipped. “I’m here to ensure everything stays on course.”

Simon smirked. “Ah, yes. Nothing soothes the soul like flour and freight. You always were a romantic.”

Dominic didn’t respond. His silence was its own warning.

“The hunt not going well?” Simon added, his voice lower now, more thoughtful than mocking.

That word again. The hunt . Dominic’s mind went immediately to Marianne.

His jaw tightened as he struggled to stifle the sparks igniting deep in his body, his mind wandering to his wife’s lips, her skin, her scent…

Focus, man , he chided himself, schooling his face into neutrality.

“Fine,” Simon said, holding up both hands. “We’ll save the soul-searching for later. Let’s look at the shipment schedules.”

Work resumed, but Dominic’s focus began to slip. He moved like clockwork, but his mind had already drifted elsewhere.

His wife haunted him still.

Away from the noise and chaos of the mill, Dominic expected some peace when he returned to Oakmere Hall. Yet, when he arrived, he found the opposite.

The estate had erupted into its own chaos, with Beowulf barking loudly, bounding after a goat across the lawn. Achilles howled like a wolf, or more like a banshee announcing a death.

Then, a tiny blur of grey skittered past him, adding to the din.

Dominic recognized the feline. It was Serafina, Marianne’s cat.

“Achilles! Beowulf!” he bellowed.

His dogs instantly trotted to his side. Despite everything, it was fulfilling to see them remain disciplined.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Serafina prancing toward him, her tail in the air.

“Keep that thing away from me,” he commanded.

From a nearby bench, the source of all of his problems rose.

“She likes you,” Marianne noted, infuriatingly unbothered, her arms crossed.

“Why is there a goat running in my garden?”

“You said my family could stay here.”

“I meant your sisters. Not this menagerie of untamed creatures,” he groaned.

“The goat? That’s Perseus. Show him some respect, please,” Marianne said, pointing at the horned creature, which was now munching on a rosebush.

“Perseus?” Dominic scoffed.

Who on earth would name a goat after a mythical hero?

His wife, of course. Who else?

“Oh yes, Your Grace. Perseus is truly affectionate. He’s family. Why shouldn’t he have a name?” Marianne responded, calm as the sea on a warm summer day.

“Oakmere Hall is not a zoo,” Dominic growled.

“He’s domesticated, Your Grace. He can live with us.”

“He’s eating my roses.” Dominic gestured to Perseus, who was intent on finishing off the roses in one bush.

“Ah. Now, you can see that a delicate lady who sits in the drawing room embroidering would have been a more beneficial choice for you,” Marianne drawled, nodding thoughtfully, as if it had never been her plan to make the whole estate implode in the first place.

“I thought I married a lady with common sense.”

“Well, here we are,” she said, while Beowulf bolted after Serafina and Perseus, leaving a trail of destruction behind him.

Dominic glared at her. She glared back, a triumphant smirk gracing her lips.

She was infuriating, yes. But this meant that his wife’s more playful side would come out.

And he very much wanted to see it.

“Fine. You can keep your ‘family’ here,” Dominic relented begrudgingly. “However, if I find that goat in my house, or if he destroys any more of my property, he’ll be our next dinner. Understood?”

“He won’t do that,” Marianne affirmed, giving him a sweet smile. “He is quite disciplined.”

“Keep your horde away from my furniture,” he added, before walking away from the chaos, his temples throbbing.

Achilles and Beowulf followed him, their ears low.

If she thought that would discourage him, she was dearly mistaken.