Page 18 of The Prince’s Wallflower Wife (The Wallflower Academy #4)

W hen Daphne came downstairs the next morning, it was with a fresh resolution: absolutely, positively, no matter what, do not speak her mind.

After all, where had it got her—an argument in a carriage?

I am shy, Christoph! Shy! That, by definition, means that I do not want confrontation!

Daphne winced as she walked across the hall towards the breakfast room. No, it was not worth it, speaking her mind. She had learned a long time ago that it was a bad idea, and for a moment yesterday she had allowed herself to say utter nonsense.

Well, no more. Christoph wanted a calm, quiet life with a respectable wife. And that was exactly what she would give him. No more outbursts. No more speaking her mind, despite his request that she do so. And absolutely no more speaking out of turn.

The breakfast room was empty.

Daphne’s shoulders slumped. Why she had hoped, wished, thought, that he would be there, she did not know. It was foolishness itself. Christoph had made it perfectly clear that he had married her for her funds. There was no dream of romance here.

‘Husband not here?’

Whirling round, Daphne saw their butler, Henderson, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.

He straightened up as he met her eye, but still, there was something…

something about his eyes which she did not like.

It was mighty irritating that she’d had absolutely no control over the selection of their servants.

Apparently her father and stepmother had conducted the interviews.

That was perhaps why they were stuck with a rude man like Henderson.

Daphne castigated herself silently. That isn’t very nice.

The trouble was, neither was he.

‘I suppose you missed him, Your Highness,’ murmured Henderson.

A small nibbling worm gnawed at Daphne’s stomach. It was not precisely what the butler was saying, though that certainly wasn’t pleasant. It was the way the man seemed to gain so much enjoyment from saying such unpleasant things.

Still, she had been raised by Miss Pike both to stand her ground and be polite to all. Daphne tried to smile. ‘I imagine he had an…an errand to run.’

‘Probably sending letters to that Laura of his,’ suggested the butler.

Daphne tried not to show the pain she felt on her face. Laura . There was that name again—and, really, she should grow accustomed to it. The woman, whoever she was, would soon be living with her. Christoph and her.

‘And who do you think Laura is, eh?’ Henderson asked quietly.

Try as she might, Daphne could not help but gasp at the clear delight that his mistress was going to be usurped by…

well…a mistress, quite evidently. What on earth had she done to offend the man?

Daphne had only met him days ago. Servants should not treat their master or mistress like that, she knew, and yet…

well…what was one to say? How did one dress down a servant when her tongue was tied in a knot, her hands were burning and she couldn’t think about…

‘Ah, there you are, Henderson,’ came a voice from the hall, accompanied by footsteps. ‘Where have you been? I asked you to retrieve a set of six bottles from the cellar.’

Christoph strode into the breakfast room.

Daphne had not realised just how much tension she had been carrying in her shoulders until that moment. Only then did the strain melt away, hot trickles of discomfort flowing down her back, warming her as she looked at him.

That was the difficulty, wasn’t it? He was so handsome. Charming. If this had been a love match…

‘I’ll go right away, Your Highness,’ said Henderson, inclining his head before turning and striding away.

‘Breakfast,’ said Christoph heartily. ‘Shall we?’

Daphne was all of a flutter—which was ridiculous. It was perfectly normal for a husband and wife to eat breakfast together, after all. But it wasn’t for them. They had been married but days before, and it was hardly a love match…

Daphne blinked. Christoph was waving a hand before her eyes. ‘Daphne?’

‘I—I am perfectly… Breakfast,’ she said hastily, stepping towards the sideboard.

‘Good,’ said Christoph. His voice was short, though it so often was. ‘What will you have?’

Her fingers hesitated as they lifted a plate from the sideboard. What would she have? She had been acting on pure instinct: eggs, potatoes, tea. That was what she always had. But was it what she wanted?

Daphne remained standing, frozen, her fingers gripped tightly round the plate, unable to move.

What did she want? She had never had free rein over her breakfast choices before.

What did she want? She wanted lots of things.

She wanted nothing. She did not want eggs, which was most strange.

Her stomach growled with hunger yet her throat rebelled at the idea of even eating.

‘It was not supposed to be a difficult question,’ said Christoph quietly, brushing past her to pick up his own plate.

For a moment she breathed in deeply, wanting to drink in the scent of him. And then he was moving on, loading up his plate with a great number of fried potatoes, eggs, a tomato and two slices of toast.

‘You’re hungry,’ Daphne managed to say.

Christoph chuckled from behind her. He had already filled his plate and was now seated at the table, where she should be.

Get some food, Daphne!

Placing a random assortment of food on her plate, and trying not to trip over her own skirts, Daphne hurriedly sat opposite her husband.

He smiled awkwardly, then looked down at her plate. ‘Goodness. The English have breakfast so differently.’

Daphne looked down at her plate. Upon it was a pickled herring, a tomato and a drooping green something she was half-certain was supposed to be a garnish.

‘I’m not that hungry,’ she said quietly.

Christoph, on the other hand, appeared to be half-starved. He was eating with gusto and Daphne found it rather enjoyable to watch—just…watch him. Be in his presence, nothing being demanded of her, no one expecting.

‘Breakfast is very different in Niedernlein,’ Christoph said with a smile as he looked up.

‘Though I had heard of the famous English breakfast before I came here. It is one of the things I had not expected to miss—though I hope, one day, to return and assist in bringing new ideas and new cuisine to my homeland. You like it—the English breakfast?’

It was almost as bad as talking about the weather. Daphne stared, trying to understand precisely what she was supposed to say to that.

Yes, she liked breakfast…?

‘And…and tea?’ Christoph said, a strange sort of desperation in his eyes. ‘You like tea?’

Poor man; he was at least attempting conversation. Daphne tried to rouse herself. The least she could do was speak to him. ‘Yes. Yes, I like tea.’

Could she sound any more dull? Laura probably has excellent conversation, Daphne could not help but think. She would probably have had Christoph in stitches, regaling him with a hilarious tale while eating a delicate and dainty breakfast without clattering her cutlery or spilling her tea.

She swallowed. Well, she would find out soon enough.

‘The weather is very fine,’ Christoph said quietly, sipping his tea.

Daphne tried to smile, but it might have looked like a grimace, from his expression.

Oh, this was mortifying!

Over a decade at the Wallflower Academy and she could not maintain a conversation with a man who had put his hands—the very hand that was curled around that tea cup—between her legs and made her…

Daphne knocked over the pepper pot. Black granules spread across the white and previously spotless linen tablecloth. She leapt into action, desperate to clean up the mess, but only seeming to make it worse. ‘Oh… Oh, dear, I—’

‘Leave it, Daphne.’ The order was not barked, but it was hardly spoken softly either.

Mortification drowned Daphne in heat. She was either dull as ditch water or making a mess. ‘I am sorry, Prince Christoph.’

‘Do not call me that,’ he said quietly, placing his tea cup down and examining her. ‘I don’t like it when people call me that. Least of all you.’

Least of all you.

What did that mean? What did he mean by that—was there a meaning behind it?

Daphne swallowed, attempting to allow her inner thoughts to spill out, but years of restraint meant it was almost impossible. ‘What I mean…’

He did not reply. It was not much of a question, really. Oh, hell , Daphne thought darkly, thinking the oath as hard as she could in the privacy of her own mind. This was excruciating!

As though he could somehow sense the thoughts with which she was punishing herself, Christoph looked up with a vague smile. ‘Now, tell me. What can I do to make you feel more comfortable?’

Daphne’s lips parted in astonishment.

No one—not Miss Pike, not her father, not even her friends, who meant well, even if they were a bit much—had ever asked her such a question.

No one had ever truly wanted to know what would make being Daphne Smith—Daphne von Auberheiser now, she supposed—more comfortable.

Comfort? She could barely recall what comfort was.

Life was living on a precipice, at any moment certain that you would tip over into discomfort.

There was no let-up, no respite. Life was embarrassment, and that was it.

‘I… I… I don’t… I don’t know,’ Daphne managed.

Well, she’d had to say something. Christoph had leaned back in his chair and looked at her expectantly, so she’d said something. Even if it had made little to no sense.

And yet he was nodding slowly, as though he understood. ‘Well, what do you want to do today?’

Today?

Today was like any other day: empty, without the routine of the Wallflower Academy.

Strange, as she still tried to learn what it was to live in this house.

Lonely, as she attempted to work out whether she could visit her friends without a chaperone, without an invitation. Or should she invite them here?