Chapter 9
ADuchess ought not to snort at her husband.
That should be in her husband’s little pamphlet of rules, if it wasn’t already, for it was likely to become a daily habit of hers to snort at his buffoonery. And Willow doubted he’d approve of that.
In fact, it probably was in there, but she still refused to read the infuriating stack of paper. Instead, she dressed and headed down to breakfast.
On entering the breakfast room, it was clear that the battle lines had been drawn long before Willow had woken to an irate husband. Indeed, they’d likely been drawn before the wedding breakfast, if she had to guess.
Not a single spread had been laid out. There was no evidence that the duke or the dowager had ever been present in the room at all. Instead, only one, lonely little plate had been set.
On that plate was an even lonelier slice of toast.
Her scowl deepened.
He claimed he wasn’t a beast.
Willow snorted. Evidence proved otherwise.
Apart from this absurdity, the sad sight of an empty dining room was not something Willow was used to. In their home, breakfast was a lively affair. Any meal, in truth, was a cheerful event. Even tea times were spent together as a family. It was across the table where stories were shared and events recounted.
Willow swept the cold room with a speculative glance. Not even the opulence of the space was enough to bring it a measure of warmth. No candles decorated the surface of the table to suggest evening meals by candlelight. No forgotten ribbon or glove littered the table. No laughter or stories echoed off the walls. It was a hollow space, bereft of even the simplest form of intimate decoration.
It was the saddest thing Willow had ever come across.
And it wasn’t just the dining room. There was no cheerfulness in her new home, she realized. The whole house hadn’t contained laughter in a long while.
She turned to the footman standing in the corner, unmoving as a statue. “Where is the breakfast?” she asked, wanting verbal confirmation from someone other than her husband that there was no breakfast in the house at all.
“No breakfast has been prepared, Your Grace.”
“Then what am I to eat?” Willow pointed to the table. “A slice of cold hard toast?”
The footman cleared his throat, uncomfortable.
Willow glared at the toast. That slice represented the war with her husband. Her sadness turned to anger.
This was ridiculous. She could probably live off a slice of bread in the morning but what was the point of being a duchess if she could not eat like a duchess? They could at least have added some tea to swallow the slice down.
It occurred to Willow this was why Ambrose hadn’t locked her in her room or raved on about how she’d slipped out in the dead of night. He’d already planned due reward. The duke’s reprisal wasn’t loud or obvious. No indeed, his tactics were far subtler than that. He would mete out his displeasure with her in the form of cold, dry toast.
Just like her husband’s black little heart.
“There’s not even a dash of butter,” she muttered.
“’Twas his lordship’s orders, Your Grace.”
Willow shot the footman a scathing look. She already knew that. The poor man looked ready to bolt through the door in response. She sighed. It wasn’t the footman’s fault that her husband was a browbeating beast. But she also knew that the servant would report her reaction to her husband as soon as she left the room.
If she wasn’t so hungry, which only succeeded in fueling her annoyance, she might have laughed. She’d give the man something to report then. It was high time some change came into her husband’s life. A rude awakening, if you will.
It was also time to make allies in this enemy territory. And her first ally clearly ought to be the cook. One did not fight battles on an empty belly.
“What is your name?” she asked the footman, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Wendell, Your Grace.”
“Well, Wendell, I am the lady of the house, am I not?” she asked him, this time infusing a softer tone into her voice.
