Page 9 of His Graceful Duchess (A Lady’s Vow #3)

CHAPTER 9

“ H is Grace requests your presence in the study for dinner , ” one of the house staff informed Isadora.

She was in her room, thinking to herself that she would not get to meet Evan today. He had been quite busy, and she had not seen him all day.

“Is His Grace at home?” She could not hide the surprise in her voice.

The staff member nodded. “Yes, and he had said that the meeting is urgent.”

Isadora pressed her lips together in a thin line. “And did he mention what it would be regarding?”

“His Grace said that you would know what he is referring to,” the latter replied. “Shall I ask him for clarification on your behalf, Your Grace?”

“No, no,” Isadora waved the staff member off gently.

She knew exactly what this was in reference to. She just did not anticipate it coming so soon.

“Let His Grace know I accept the request . ” She deliberately emphasized the last word.

For she knew that it was not a request at all. Evan Marwood was not a man give out polite requests . He only made orders and expected them to be followed.

Perhaps that could be the first lesson, she thought to herself.

With a sigh, she rose and straightened her gown. If she was to train him into a proper duke, she supposed she had to start somewhere.

It was not long before it was time for dinner, and Isadora made her way over to the study where she had been requested.

When she entered, the first thing she noticed was a small makeshift table had been set up there with a small but elaborate spread of dinner already laid out.

Well, no. That was a lie. The table was not the first thing she had noticed.

It was Evan.

He was already seated, one arm draped lazily along the back of his chair, his dark eyes watching her with far too much amusement.

“You came,” he mused, gesturing toward the empty chair across from him. “How lovely.”

“I was summoned,” she corrected, moving to take her seat.

“Were you?” Evan challenged. “I merely sent out a message requesting your presence here this evening.”

Isadora jaw twitched. Her husband surely had the knack for making everything sound so innocuous, even when it wasn’t.

“I am sure that it would not go well with you had I refused your request,” she said sardonically. “Therefore, one can make the intelligent assumption that it wasn’t so much of a request at all. It was more of an order.”

Evan’s lips twitched, as though she was spot on in her analysis. “I do not wish to get into the semantics of it, but the important thing to note here is that you obeyed. ”

Just the way that he said the words sent a small shiver down her spine, but she quickly composed herself and shot him a wayward look. “Do not get used to it, Your Grace. ”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from him as he reached for his glass of wine, taking a slow sip before setting it down. “I don’t intend to. Though the idea does sound quite appealing.”

Isadora pondered over that for a moment. Would he really like it better if she was unquestioning and obeyed his every order without so much as a second thought?

Perhaps so. But that seemed impossible to do, especially when so much of what he did made no sense to her.

“I’m afraid that only the opposite is a possibility here,” she admitted finally. “As unappealing as it may be for you.”

“You’re just putting words in my mouth now,” Evan retorted. “I never said anything about anything being unappealing.”

Isadora hated how that sentence made her blush. It wasn’t even a compliment—it was simply a negation of an insult.

Get a hold of yourself.

Isadora exhaled to steady herself before smoothing her napkin over her lap. “I assume this is your way of beginning your lessons?”

Evan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You tell me, sweetheart. Where does one begin teaching a rogue how to be a gentleman?”

“Difficult question,” she replied, maintaining the eye contact. “But as you have asked for my presence at dinner, I shall take your lead and begin with the basics.”

“The basics,” he repeated with mock interest.

She gestured toward the array of utensils laid out before them. “Tonight, we start with proper dining etiquette.”

Evan arched a brow, glancing down at the assortment of forks, knives, and spoons before him. “I have to say that this is not my favorite topic.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said swiftly. “Because I have chosen it to be our first lesson.”

Something in his expression shifted as she said the words. Almost like admiration of sorts.

Does he like it when I assert myself like this? she thought to herself. How very out of character for someone who thrives on being in control.

“I fail to see why one man needs so many tools to put food in his mouth,” Evan retorted finally.

“It is not about utility,” Isadora sighed, already regretting this endeavor. Evan was not someone who cared about the proper way to do anything. “It is about refinement. Presentation, if you will.”

“You mean it is about making men feel superior over the arrangement of their cutlery,” Evan smirked in response.

She ignored him, picking up her soup spoon and demonstrating the correct way to hold it. “This is the spoon you use for soup. You do not?—”

Evan grabbed the wrong spoon and dipped it into his bowl.

“That is incorrect.”

He took a long, slow sip, watching her over the rim of his spoon. “Oh no.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “Let me show you the correct way to do it. Again.”

She grabbed the right spoon and demonstrated it for him. He watched her carefully and then set the spoon down with a soft clink.

“Tell me, sweetheart, does it make the experience of dining that much more enjoyable if you only select the right kind of cutlery?” There was a questioning edge to his voice. “Does it make it taste better somehow?”

“Well, I cannot answer that for you,” She straightened her posture. “But as for me, I suppose so. I take pleasure in order and civility, yes.”

“Order and civility,” Evan repeated with a chuckle. “Then perhaps you have engaged with the wrong person. Those words hardly feature in my vocabulary.”

Yes, that is exactly what I am trying to fix.

She did not say the words out loud though—knowing full well that he would have an answer readily prepared for her.

Instead, she opted to ignore that, too and simply focused instead on demonstrating the next step.

“This,” she said, pointing to a smaller fork, “is for your salad. The larger one is for your main course.”

Evan picked up the wrong one. Isadora’s eyes narrowed immediately.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” she snapped finally.

Teaching him was like dealing with a toddler. It was impossible, and he was obstinate.

“Why ever would I do that?” Evan said with mock innocence. “That would mean that I am deliberately trying to rile you up.”

Isadora rolled her eyes. “Yes, that is exactly my point.”

Evan held her gaze. “No, darling. I could never be so cruel.”

And then he cut into his duck, finally using the correct fork—but with deliberate slowness, as if indulging her.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient.

Do not let him get into your head. That is precisely what he wishes to do.

“Are you pleased with my… civility now, Duchess?” He stirred when she did not say anything.

“Yes. I would much prefer if you keep this up for the remainder of the lesson as well,” she insisted—though the request felt in vain.

The lesson continued, and for a time, Evan behaved himself well enough. He followed her guidance—albeit with a glint of mischief—and seemed genuinely interested in learning.

It really was as though Isadora had achieved the impossible. She had gotten the rogue duke to listen to instructions.

Until—

He took a bite of something he clearly did not like. The grimace was instant, fleeting, but unmistakable. Isadora caught it immediately.

“You must not do that,” she chided.

Evan arched a brow, still chewing. “Do what? I am using the right cutlery.”

“React,” she said simply.

He swallowed and leaned back in his chair. A look of astonishment crowded his features. “You mean to tell me that if I am served something I find utterly repulsive, I must pretend otherwise?”

“That is precisely what I am telling you.”

“I do not think you should dish out advice that you yourself cannot take,” he said—a hint of a challenge lingering in his tone.

“I beg your pardon?”

What on earth was he on about now?

He gave her a pointed look and then speared a piece of the offending dish on his fork, reached across the table, and held it up to her lips.

“Prove it,” he murmured.

“You want me to eat this?” she asked though she felt immediately silly afterward. It was implied after all.

“Yes.” Again, it was more of an order than a request.

She opened her mouth to protest, but Evan merely raised a brow as if to quell any further argument.

“Come now, sweetheart,” he murmured, coaxing. “Surely you are not asking me to do something you yourself cannot manage?”

Insufferable . Truly, he was. He was testing her to prove his point. But she would not let him win.

Two can play can at this game, Your Grace.

Lifting her chin, she parted her lips, allowing him to place the bite of food onto her tongue. The flavor hit instantly—bitter, overpowering—and she had to fight the urge to grimace herself.

But she was not going to let him have the satisfaction of being proven right. So, she forced herself to chew slowly and swallow gracefully, keeping her expression utterly neutral.

Evan watched her with fascinated amusement, his dark gaze flickering to her lips as she swallowed.

He smirked.

Isadora’s stomach tightened.

She could feel the warmth creeping up her neck, the telltale burn of a blush rising to her cheeks.

No.

She refused to let him see her flustered.

She turned her embarrassment into irritation, lifting her napkin with perfect composure and dabbing at the corners of her mouth.

“See?” she said coolly. “It is not so difficult.”

Evan hummed, but there was a knowing look in his eyes—one that said he had noticed the blush, noticed the slight hesitation before she had spoken.

“You are a better actor than I am,” he commented, his gaze never leaving hers.”

“It is improper to show disdain for a meal that has been prepared for you,” she emphasized. “And really—it doesn’t take much.”

“Then we have a difference in opinion there,” he settled. “I am not too fond of putting up an act. It’s better for me to be honest about my opinions.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “This has nothing to do with honesty. Only manners.”

“Well then,” he murmured, sounding entirely unconvinced. “As you say. Shall we continue?”

Isadora exhaled, willing her composure back into place.

She would not let him win.

Evan was watching her again, his elbow resting lazily on the arm of his chair, fingers tracing absently along the rim of his glass.

“Yes. Let us move on to table conversation.”

“Ah, so now you will instruct me on what I am allowed to say?”

Allowed? She could never assume the audacity, for the Duke had a mind of his own. But she could try—if only for the sake of the lesson.

“Table conversation,” she said evenly, “should be pleasant, light, and never controversial. One does not discuss politics, business, or—” she met his gaze firmly “—one’s distaste for the food.”

“Too late,” Evan muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to catch.

Isadora ignored it and continued, “One should engage their dining companion politely, allowing them ample opportunity to speak. A gentleman, for instance, would ensure his wife has a chance to express her thoughts.”

“And if the wife has no thoughts to express?”

Isadora exhaled through her nose. “Then the husband has chosen poorly.”

That managed to earn a chuckle from him. “Tell me, sweetheart, are all your dinner parties filled with such lively conversation?”

“My dinner parties,” she said primly, “are civilized.”

“How dreadful,” he smirked as though it was the most awful of fates.

She glared at him in response.

“But for the sake of this lesson,” he continued, “I shall try my best. Now tell me, if I must master this art of polite conversation, what is an acceptable topic?”

Isadora considered this for a moment. “Well, there is a range of topics one might settle on. Books. Travel. The arts. Anything refined.”

She noticed him grimace slightly at the word. “Fine. Let us discuss books then.”

“Do you read, Your Grace?”

“Only when necessary,” he grinned in response.

Whatever was so amusing about my question? she found herself wondering.

“That is not an answer,” she sighed, dabbing her napkin against the corners of her lips.

“I have read my fair share though I doubt the books would be to your taste.”

“Oh, I hardly doubt that,” she responded immediately.

“Really?” He seemed surprised. “I did not anticipate you and I having the same taste in… well anything. But books for one.”

Isadora ignored the teasing implication in his voice. “Try me.”

“I prefer stories where men must fight to survive. Where the world does not hand them fortune and favor simply because of their birth.” His reply was surprisingly candid.

She had not expected it in the least. If anything, she had assumed that he would give her a surface level answer. One that gave away just enough to satisfy the demands of the question but nothing more.

It made her pause. His answer had been revealing.

She had always known his upbringing had been different from hers, but she had never truly considered what that meant. Not until now.

“Your world,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully, “was never kind to you, was it?”

Evan’s expression shifted, just slightly. “I thought we were meant to discuss books. Why stray from the topic at hand?”

There it was. The evasiveness that she had come to expect.

“I am only curious,” she insisted.

“Kindness is a luxury, sweetheart,” he said lightly. “One I was never afforded.”

He said the words with a casual smirk, completely opposing the weight of what they implied. Isadora felt a strange pang in her chest.

Her own upbringing had not been the easiest, having lost her mother so young, but it was one that was orderly and in some ways—comforting. She’d had her differences with her father, but survival had always been a constant.

There had been no need to fight for it. For a brief moment, the reality of their differences settled between them.

And she did not know what to do with it.

“Well,” she said, not wanting to intrude too much—even though she burned with curiosity about the things that she did not yet know, “perhaps you should try reading something different. A gentleman should be well-versed in the classics.”

“Classics,” Evan chuckled. “Ah, yes. Shall I start with poetry? Shall I sit by the fire and recite Shakespeare for you, sweetheart?”

“Must you call me that?” Isadora replied, flushed. She realized that despite her protests, a part of her liked it when he called her that. “And I never said anything about reciting poetry to me?—”

“I will call you what I want. Besides, wouldn’t you like it if I read poetry to you? I am quite the orator, you will find,” he interrupted, teasingly.

A blush covered her cheeks. “That—that’s beside the point.” Isadora pursed her lips. “What I meant to say was that you would do well to learn a thing or two about refinement.”

Evan leaned closer, his gaze suddenly more intense than it had been all evening.

“I suspect, sweetheart,” he murmured, “that you would not enjoy me half as much if I were refined.”

Heat crept up her neck again, traitorously. Suddenly, it was as though her mind had gone completely blank. She could not think of a proper retort—not when he was looking at her like that, not when the room suddenly felt far too small for the two of them to fit.

Evan continued to watch her closely, his smirk deepening just slightly, as if he had noticed. Isadora forced herself to take a slow breath, smoothing the napkin in her lap.

“I believe we have covered enough for tonight,” she said coolly, pushing her chair back.

Evan sat back, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Already?” he mused. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”

Isadora shot him a glare, rising to her feet.

“If you are truly so eager to learn, Your Grace, then perhaps tomorrow we shall discuss the art of proper greetings.”

Evan let out a low chuckle, watching as she turned to leave.

“Sweetheart,” he called after her.

She paused at the doorway but did not turn around.

“Good night then. Don’t forget to dream of me.”

Isadora clenched her fists, refusing to react, and walked out of the room with all the dignity she could muster.

As she left, she could hear Evan chuckling to himself.