When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,112
not defeat Parker on her own, and if any truth had emerged from all of her pondering and fretting, it was that Parker was her enemy, and likely the Crown’s as well. She had no evidence, no logical syllogism upon which to base that conclusion, other than the fact that a doting swain did not lock his intended in her chambers each night.
“Is Your Grace awake?” a maid called from beyond the bedroom door.
“I am now,” Matilda muttered. “Come in.”
The next sound was metal on metal—the lock being opened—and then the maid came in bearing a tray.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” She set the tray beside the bed. “Would you like to sit by the fire, or will you have your tea in bed?”
The clock on the mantel said the hour was just past seven. Outside, daylight had barely begun its advance against darkness.
“I’d prefer chocolate,” Matilda said. “You may return this tray to the kitchen.” Anything to push the morning’s schedule back by even five minutes.
The maid was well trained—or accustomed to the whims of aristocrats—and showed not a trace of irritation. “My apologies, ma’am. Is there anything else you’d like me to bring up from the kitchen?”
What took significant preparation? What would not be on hand, ready for the breakfast meal?
“A compote of sliced oranges, pears, and apples, with a dash of cinnamon and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts.”
The maid curtsied at the door, the tray on her hip. “Very good, ma’am.”
Her departure was followed by another soft snick of metal on metal.
When the food arrived, Matilda ate slowly. She sipped her chocolate slowly, finding the brew too rich and too bitter. She demanded a final adjustment to the bodice of her dress, though that was in hopes of seeing the seamstress—Mary was her name—who’d been the only possible ally on hand the previous night.
Mary was straightening a hem that had never been crooked on a gown that was too lovely to be worn by a reluctant bride, when Parker’s voice rang out from beyond the sitting room door.
“Her Grace is to be in the family parlor in ten minutes. I’ll send the footmen to haul her down bodily if her nerves should overtake her good sense.”
He sounded far too pleased with himself, probably because the ceremony would go off exactly as scheduled.
The modiste was boxing up the last of the embroidery supplies and refusing to meet Matilda’s gaze. Madam Foucault was a spare, gray-haired woman, and though she dressed with understated grace, her mannerisms were those of a general commanding an army on short rations.
“I do not want to marry that man,” Matilda said. “You are my witnesses that he’s coercing me to the ceremony.”
Madam turned a tired, pitying expression on her. “Nerves, Your Grace. All brides have nerves. You donned that dress willingly enough.”
And as slowly as I could. “I am the widow of a duke. I do not have bridal nerves. I need to leave this house without being forced to marry that man.” Mary had given no indication that she’d been able to find the Wentworth town house, much less speak with Duncan.
Madam closed the lid of a quilted box. “Then you should not have accepted his lordship’s suit if you did not want to marry him. Men are entitled to rely on the encouragement we give them. And if you changed your mind, why did you permit yourself to be fitted for that dress, hour after hour? His lordship is the son of a marquess, a colonel, a war hero. I could name you a dozen young women who’d marry him and be grateful.”
“I am not among them. Should I be grateful to be kept prisoner? Grateful that the only choice a woman can claim—the power to refuse a suitor—has been denied me?”
Madam stacked three boxes on the sofa, one atop the other. “Mary, cease fussing. Our work is done, and if we want to be paid, we’ll ignore Her Grace’s little bout of indecision. Take the boxes down to the kitchen.”
Mary sent Matilda one glance—apologetic?—and rose. “It’s a lovely dress, ma’am. A queen would be happy to wear that dress when reviewing her knights on parade.”
“I am not a—”
Mary regarded her far more directly than a seamstress should regard a duchess.
“I’m told the queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard,” Mary said. “Not that I’ve ever played.”
Madam glanced at the clock. “Mary, cease nattering and take these boxes downstairs.”
“Somebody left a pin near my right shoulder blade,” Matilda said. “I cannot