“I felt the same. And as for being a duchess, I can’t tell you how vexing I find it all. The truth is…I can’t quite describe it. He infuriates me.”
“Do not fret. All will be well, I am certain of it,” Jean said as she stopped in front of a large door. It reminded Charity of the doors at Stafford House: huge and white with a golden trim. Jean grasped the golden handle and swung the door open.
As she stepped inside, Charity was rendered breathless. The chamber was twice the size of her home in London and three times the size of her room back at Pembroke. An enormous four-poster bed stood in the right-hand corner, draped with a canopy of red and gold, tied back curtains framing the sides.
Several trunks were piled up on the right, while on the left, her armoire door stood open, revealing many of her gowns already neatly hung.
“I couldn’t finish unpacking before you arrived,” Jean said.
“Do not worry. Neither of us was expecting to be here today.” She looked around. The room was a palace, no denying it.
“Of course,” Jean replied. “Shall I fetch you a more simple gown for dinner?”
Charity looked up. Dinner. He would, of course, expect her to join him, wouldn’t he? The thought was unbearable. She had barely swallowed anything at the wedding breakfast, the prospect of returning home to this insufferable man weighing heavily on her stomach. Sharing a meal with him now felt even less appealing.
“Please tell the cook I only want a tray brought to my chamber.”
“Are you sure?” Jean asked, her eyes wide in surprise. “Isn’t that a bit... unusual?”
“I don’t care about what is usual. I want to be in my chamber. Alone.”
Jean nodded and moved to the armoire to find a suitable gown. As she busied herself, Charity roamed the room. At the far end, she spotted a door. She knew where it led: to his chamber.
Approaching, she paused for a moment with her hand on the doorknob, then turned it and found it unlocked. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and peeked inside.
His room was as large as hers, but it looked lived-in. The bed was made, and a stack of books sat on the nightstand. A half-burned candle in a silver holder suggested he enjoyed reading at night.
Papers were strewn across the desk, and the air smelled of a dying fire. The curtains were pulled back, revealing a view similar to her own.
A green banyan lay draped over the arm of a chair by the fireplace, with more books scattered on the floor beside it. Sitting there was another candleholder, this one with a fresh candle waiting to be lit.
She tried to picture him in this space and wondered how he spent his nights—besides reading. An assortment of bottles near the hearth held amber liquid, suggesting he was partial to drinking. Did he sit at his desk, working while sipping brandy? It reminded her of her father’s habits.
She was tempted to explore the titles of his books, but held back; it felt wrong to invade his privacy. She chastised herself. She shouldn’t waste thoughts worrying about his potential annoyance at her intrusion—after all, he had already invaded her life. Still, she refused to lower herself to his level.
With a sigh, she closed the door, noting its thinness. If he snored, she would likely hear it through the door. An unsettling feeling washed over her, knowing she would sleep just beyond this barrier, with him on the other side, able to enter at any moment.
A small voice in the back of her mind wondered what it must feel like to be truly married—to share space with a husband, lying awake at night in anticipation of his company. Not that she wanted his presence, specifically. In theory, it was an intriguing idea. But here and now, it was entirely unappealing.
Stepping back, she placed her hands on her hips, scanning the room until her eyes landed on a small dresser by the window. Nodding as if to reassure herself, she began pushing the heavy piece of furniture in front of the door.
“Your Grace! What in the world are you doing?” Jean exclaimed, rushing across the room.
“Please help me, Jean. I want to block the door with this armoire. I refuse to lie awake at night worrying that he might enter.”
Jean stepped beside her, and together they moved the dresser into place. Once they finished, Charity nodded and sat down.
“I truly don’t believe there’s any reason for such worry. From all I’ve heard from the servants, he’s a man of honor who wouldn’t invade a woman’s privacy. He’s held in high regard, as is his family. Many of the servants, while prone to gossip, have been here for years. Even Stevens has told me this.”
“How honorable is he if he forces a young woman, still in mourning, to marry him?” Charity shot back, her tone laden with disdain.
Jean lowered her gaze, her hands clasped in her lap. “But was it not your mother who sought to arrange your marriage anyway? Isn’t it better to marry a duke well-regarded among his peers?”
Charity remained silent, her mind racing. Her mother had indeed been pleased with this match. Eleanor saw the whole affair as a grand romance. Even Jean now spoke highly of Eammon.
Had she, in her anger, overlooked the advantages such an alliance could hold? Perhaps Eammon wasn’t as terrible as she had initially thought.
CHAPTER13
