She pouted, which instilled in him a novel sense of satisfaction. He did not wish to be unkind, but her demeanor toward him had been rude, at best.
“Your chamber and mine are…” he explained, “connected by a door.”
She inhaled sharply, and he noted the change in her posture. She was indeed a lovely, beautiful woman; if only she would not perpetually wear a frown. Yet, he supposed she had ample reason to feel aggrieved.
“Absolutely not!” she retorted, crossing her arms and remaining on the stairs. “I shall not sleep in the chamber connected to yours. I would sooner rest in the stables with Ambrose!”
“Suit yourself,” he replied. “But I assure you, Duchess, it is far more comfortable than a sack of hay in the stables, and I daresay the aroma is far more pleasant as well.” He crossed his arms, mimicking her stance. “As much as you adore your horse, I do not believe you share the same affection for his droppings or the scents produced thereof. But should you insist…”
Her gaze was fierce, her hands forming fists. The look she cast his way, filled with resolve and irritation, both amused him and weighed on his conscience, though he knew it likely should not. He attempted to remind himself that she was an innocent young woman thrust into this predicament through no fault of her own, yet she continuously rebuffed his overtures of kindness. Sighing, he resolved that if she desired to be obstinate, he would no longer exert himself in her direction—at least not until she was prepared.
She was his responsibility, and he would ensure her safety, yet he would not tolerate disrespect in his own abode. He was a duke, after all. Despite having attained the title through unconventional means, it remained his identity, and he deserved respect, particularly within his own home.
“Very well, suit yourself, Charity,” he said. “But should you change your mind and prefer a bed over the stable yard, proceed around this corner and take a right. At the end of the hall, veer left and through the doorway. You shall find two large doors; the one on the right leads to your chambers, and the one on the left leads to mine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Good day.” With that, he turned and left her to her own devices.
As he made his way back down the staircase, he passed a long line of portraits depicting the ancestors of the Hayward family. He harbored a dislike for this wall; unlike the individuals here, he was not a true Hayward. Yet he understood that one day, his portrait would hang among them, for the world would presume him to be their kin as well. He paused before the portrait of his father, sighed, and glanced at the inscription.
Alexander Hayward. First Duke of Leith, Eighth Earl of Worcester.
“Oh Father, why did you place me in this position? I know it was out of love, yet surely you must have anticipated the difficulties it would impose on me…and now, this. A headstrong wife who regards me with distaste, forever altered in her opinion of me…” He sighed deeply, aware of the rhetorical nature of his question. Of course, his father had his reasons for his actions—not solely for his own existence, but for the dreadful promise made to Lord Pembroke. Did he suspect that Pembroke held the key to everything? Undoubtedly.
He shook his head, dismissing the matter. There was no use dwelling on it now. It was what it was. His father was deceased. He was now the duke. And with a modicum of confidence, his future could yet be assured.
CHAPTER12
Charity
Charity could hardly believe this man. His flippant response to her statement disturbed her, but what bothered her even more was the fact that he hadn’t insisted she take the duchess's chambers.
Why should this trouble her? She shouldn’t care what he wanted, yet part of her felt almost cast aside by his refusal to insist they share chambers as husbands and wives should—each in their respective rooms, connected by a discreet door. Yet, the thought of sleeping in a room linked by such a door revolted her. So why had she wanted him to insist?
He was vexing, infuriating, and confusing all at once.
Finally, she knew what she had to do. Taking a deep breath, she turned and continued up the stairs to the second-floor landing. From there, she walked down a long corridor. She had no intention of sleeping in the stables. Perhaps if Ambrose were already there, she might consider it; after all, she had shared many nights with Ambrose back at Pembroke. But no, she wouldn’t march into the stables and settle down on a pile of hay. He would probably enjoy that, smirking at her when she re-emerged into the house, making some subtle joke about her hair smelling like hay or something equally infuriating. She wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.
No, she was determined to go to the chamber that was rightfully hers and claim her place. If he wanted her to be a duchess, to act like a duchess, she would do just that—but he might just regret encouraging her to do so.
She listened to the click of her half-boots on the stone floor, the sound echoing her silent rage. She passed portraits of landscapes that, she was certain, cost more than a small family would need to live on for a year.
Then she turned right and found herself in a hallway adorned with tapestries. She had always considered tapestries gaudy and a sign of bad taste, but her mother had insisted they were the mark of good breeding.
Marching past them, she reached a dead end. The hallway didn’t turn as she had expected, but instead opened into an alcove that overlooked the distant lake.
Exasperated, she turned back and marched past the tapestries once more. What had he said? Left, right, right, left—she couldn’t remember. Just as she was about to give up and sit down on the stairs until a servant passed by for directions, a familiar voice called out.
“Lady Charity!”
She turned to see Jean approaching, flanked by the expensive landscape paintings. Letting out a delighted yelp, she raced toward her former maid. Wrapping her arms around Jean, she noticed that, unlike in the past, Jean did not respond with a hug. Instead, she stiffly patted Charity's back. Remembering her new position, Charity straightened.
“Jean, I am so grateful to see you! Excuse my exuberance, but I’m afraid I’m quite lost.”
Jean broke into a wide smile, allowing the stiffness to melt away.
“Isn’t it confusing? I’ve already gotten lost twice myself. But I do know the way to your chamber. Come,” she said.
“It’s a maze,” Charity replied.
“Indeed it is, and a tangled web, I dare say.” She looked at Charity. “I could scarcely believe it when your mother told me you were to be a duchess, and that I was to be your lady’s maid. I was afraid I would never see you again.”
