The Inconvenient Duchess

pretty lies and soft glances and led me to the altar by my nose. And despised me for being a fool.’ He turned away from the portrait and stared at her again.
    ‘And you, Miranda. Now that you are trapped here, you offer me service and obedience, which is something, I suppose. If you cannot offer me more than that, I will understand. But promise me that you will not ever pretend to more than you feel, for it is a cruel awakening to find the truth later when you have given your heart to one that has none.’
    In the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains of the room, he was not the fierce noble that she remembered from the first day. He looked more like the man in the picture, but wary and tired. He wanted truth from her and there was still so much she hadn’t told him. But at least she could promise not to deceive him in the contents of her heart. If only she could figure out what it was she felt when she looked at him, she would gladly share it. She reached out and clasped his hand in hers. ‘I promise.’
    He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and drew her to his side. ‘Very well, then.’

Chapter Nineteen
    S he toyed with the keys on her chain, watching them shine in the morning sunlight. It had been a lovely gift, but what did it mean? It made her happy to look at them, but was Marcus happy that she wore them?
    Perhaps she should be more like Bethany. He’d never suggested it, but if he could have a happier, kinder, more devoted version of his first wife, Marcus might not look so sad and brood so on the past. If she were someone who could embroider useless frills and paint inferior watercolours, and sit at the spinet in the evenings, singing tedious songs in bad French, someone who could display her good breeding to the best advantage of her husband.
    She sighed. If she could be someone she could never be. The servants in this house knew their place better than she did. Of course they hadn’t known it until she’d arrived and taken charge of them, but what did that prove? That she’d make a better housekeeper than a duchess, she supposed. And what was left to her now?
    Gardening, perhaps. She grabbed scissors and a basketfrom the still room. She could clip some roses for the dining room. Her husband could find no objection to that. If she did it gracefully and inefficiently enough, she might make a duchess after all.
    But once in the garden, she discovered yet another area of the house that needed work. The park around the house was extensive, but only small areas of it were kept up, and in no particular plan or theme. She glanced towards the house, shading her eyes and counting windows. The dowager must have been confined to her room for the duration of her illness. And the gardener was underpaid and short of staff. He’d groomed the areas that could be seen from the bedroom windows and let the rest go to seed.
    She strolled around the house, making notes in her head about the work that needed to be done, resisting an urge to begin the weeding herself, before preparing a plan of action. But when she got to the kitchen garden, she could not help herself. The herbs and salad greens were in order, but the fruit trees had not been pruned in ages. The year’s harvest would not be what it should, and they would be buying apples in December, when, with a little care, they could eat happily from their own trees through the winter months. And at the back of the garden, the raspberries were an overgrown tangle, and the birds were stealing the last of the summer’s crop.
    She flapped her arms, and the flock took flight, squawking at the interruption. Then she used her rose shears to cut a hole through the brambles, so that she could reach the best of the fruit. She filled half a basket, then turned to the gooseberry bushes which were also heavy with berries.

    She was busy for over an hour before she stopped and considered her work. Her fingers were stained, her dresshad been snagged by thorns and, without a bonnet to protect her, at supper her nose would shine with evidence of a morning spent in direct sunlight. She had proved again that she was not the type of woman he’d expected to marry, not a fit duchess for Haughleigh.
    If she was discovered. Hands could be washed, the dress could be mended or disposed of. There was powder in her room that could disguise the sunburn. If she was crafty. If she was not seen. He need never know. She crept down the hall from the gardens to the kitchen. She