The Inconvenient Duchess

off the stool and into the hall.
    ‘What the devil are you playing at?’ Her husband stood before her, all signs of the recent truce evaporating, as angry as she’d ever seen him.
    She struggled out of his grasp. ‘I was just trying to find a way to take care of the spider’s web there in the corner.’ She pointed.
    He ignored her hand and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Trying to break your neck, more like. Do you have no care for your safety?’
    ‘What utter nonsense. I was in no danger.’
    ‘You were standing on a bench three storeys above the ground.’
    ‘And well back from the edge.’
    ‘Trying to do work that is best left to the servants.’
    ‘I am perfectly capable—’ She stopped in mid-sentence.
    ‘Of working below stairs? I do not recall hiring you as a maid. You are a duchess and would do well to act like one.’
    ‘Then you would do well to treat me as one, your Grace, instead of shouting at me like a servant and manhandling me in the corridors.’
    ‘Am I some lecherous beast, then? Will you tell me that the cobwebs hang because the maids are afraid to come upstairs?’
    ‘I never—’
    ‘Nor did I.’
    ‘Your Grace,’ she whispered, ‘we are in a common hallway. Anyone may hear…’
    ‘There is not much that would shock the servants here, Miranda. They know to hold their tongues and they will obey me to the letter, should I choose to give a command. For instance, should I insist that they lock you in your room to prevent any further foolishness on your part, I am certain I will have their co-operation. I expect you to go to your rooms and take off that damn apron and try to behave like the mistress of the house and not the housekeeper. You said you wished to rest, and I expect you to do so. Is that clear?’
    ‘As crystal, your Grace.’ She shrugged out from under his hands and stalked down the hall towards her room.

    Marcus reached for the brandy decanter, and then withdrew his hand. Locked in his rooms and drinking during the middle of the day, again? If he made a habit of that, the current marriage really would remind him of the last.
    As it was, seeing Miranda balancing near the banister where Bethany had so often threatened to hurl herself into space had unhinged him. Would it have been possible to make a bigger fool of himself in his new wife’s eyes? He thought not.
    Had he put words in her mouth, or did she suspect him of bothering the maids? Where had she got such an idea?
    Probably from previous employers. No wonder her father had been so eager to get her married and away. No wonder she was afraid to come to his bed. And, when he’d announced that the help could keep his secrets, he’d implied that there were secrets to keep.
    Which, of course, there were. He tried to remember how much of the help had been there during the reign of his first wife. They might have heard Bethany, as she raged at him in the halls. And the maids had run from him then, convinced that the sweet duchess spoke the truth.
    His mother, when she’d realised the volatility of the union, had removed to London, and let the rumours rage around him.
    He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Enough of the past. How best could he repair the present damage? Had he really shouted to her about deportment? Where had he obtained such definite ideas about how a duchess should act? Certainly not from Bethany the shrew, or his idle, negligentmother. While Miranda was rather outlandish in her desires to personally right all the wrongs done to the manor, he supposed there was no harm in it. And she was not complaining about the onus, or berating him for the work. Instead, she seemed to thrive on it.
    So in his infinite wisdom, he sought to deny her the pleasure of setting her stamp on things. He shook his head in amazement at his own foolishness.
    And then a thought occurred to him. He rang for Wilkins and sent him to the dowager’s room for her jewel case.
    It was as he remembered it, and he scrawled a hasty apology on it before handing the thing to Wilkins to relay to his wife’s maid.
    But he’d called Wilkins back before the old man had made it to the door. Marcus rummaged in his desk and produced his ring of keys, seldom needed as he trusted the servants to see to the locks. He added it to the peace offering and he prayed that he wasn’t about to be shut out by his angry wife.

    Miranda lay on the bed, glaring up at the hangings. The spiders were still there, too. She wondered—did she