Lord Thomas Reed slapped the Duchess of Summerton in a velvet alcove, certain no one would ever know — until the door behind her opened. Her husband had heard what Thomas said. But when the Duke saw the red mark on her cheek, it was not the anger in his eyes that chilled her. It was the question he asked Thomas: “How long do you think I was standing outside that door?”

 PART 5

The physical reality of violence is that it heals ugly.

Over the next fourteen days, Beatrice’s face became a morbid calendar — deep plum fading to sickly green by the fourth morning, then a broad stroke of jaundiced yellow by the eighth. She did not leave her suite. The official word of the Duchess’s severe chill held firm, and Summerton House operated in the hush of a monastery.

What the staff whispered about, however, was the Duke’s behaviour.

On the second morning, a footman hauled the heavy mahogany writing desk from Henry’s study down the west wing and wedged it near her window. Henry followed with an armload of ledgers and did not ask permission. He simply sat and began to work.

By the fifth day, the quiet politeness between them cracked. Rain lashed the windows. Beatrice threw a ridiculous romance novel onto the floor.

“The protagonist perishes?” Henry asked, not looking up.

“Worse. She forgives the man who kidnapped her because he had a tragic childhood.”

“Most literature written for society women assumes a distinct lack of intellect. A calculated market.”

“A boring market.” She paced to the fireplace. “I am going mad in this room, Henry. I have counted the floral patterns on the rug. There are four hundred and twelve.”

Henry set his pen down and watched her.

“And you sit there reviewing the northern harvest yields, completely absorbed, while I rot from idleness.”

His eyebrows rose. “How do you know I am reviewing the northern yields?”

“Because the paper is heavier stock, milled in Yorkshire, which your northern steward always uses. And you’ve been consulting a weather almanac for an hour. You only care about weather in relation to wheat.”

Henry stared at her. The silence stretched, then turned charged. He stood, fetched a spare teacup, set it beside his own, and tapped the desk.

“Bring a chair.”

Beatrice dragged a padded chair over.

“Column three,” Henry said. “The York steward claims the April rains destroyed a third of the crop. He wants a rent reduction for the tenants. The trustees advise against leniency.”

Beatrice traced the numbers. She had grown up watching her father gamble away their estate one forged signature at a time. She knew how men hid their sins in ledgers.

“The steward is lying. Look at the seed purchases in March — thirty per cent less than last year. You cannot harvest what you never planted. He’s using the weather as a scapegoat to cover a deficit he pocketed.”

Henry followed her finger, then went quiet for a long moment.

“He has managed that estate for six years.”

“Then review the last six years. I’d start with the timber sales. That’s usually where the easy money is skimmed.”

Henry turned to look at her — close, smelling of ink and clean linen — and something sharp and interested sparked behind his eyes.

“You are entirely ruthless.”

“I am practical. Survival requires it. You married me for my breeding, Henry. I simply assumed you preferred I not use my mind.”

Henry reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the edge of the yellowing bruise.

“I made a great many assumptions when I married you. I am learning, rapidly, that I was a fool regarding every one of them.”

He slid a fresh sheet of paper toward her and held out his pen.

“The eastern estates. Let us see what you make of the coal margins.”

They worked until midnight. It became their routine — the sitting room transformed into an office of war, dismantling corrupt stewards, arguing over investments. Beatrice discovered she had a genuine mind for strategy. Henry discovered he took a deep satisfaction in watching her wield it. The distance between them did not close through grand gestures. It closed through proximity — his coffee from her cup, her stockinged feet on his knee while she read the papers, waking at dawn tucked into her own bed with Henry asleep in the chair beside her.

On the ninth night, the rain came back, and Beatrice set down her pen.

“Henry. How long were you standing outside that door?”

The scratching of his pen stopped. He did not look at her.

“Long enough,” he said.

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” he said. “It is not.”