The Inconvenient Duchess

his tongue darted between her shocked open lips once before it disappeared. Then he grabbed a handful of berries, and smashed them against his shirt front, popping the last one into his mouth. ‘Sweet, Miranda. Very sweet. And well worth the cost of the shirt.’ And he walked down the hall and away from her, as if nothing had happened.
    Sweet, indeed. But did he mean the berries or the kiss? And without thinking, she took a handful of berries out of the basket and ate them one by one as she proceeded to the kitche

    Miranda fidgeted on the divan in the drawing room and tried not to look as restless as she felt. This was to be a typical night at home with her husband, and she must learn to enjoy it.
    The word caught in her mind like a lump in her throat. Home. This was home, she told herself. The memory of the place that had been home was already becoming indistinct at the edges. She remembered much happiness, of course, and she missed her father and Cici, but she must not forget the rest of it and be grateful for what she now had. This room was comfortable and quite pleasant, now that it had been cleaned and aired. Warm and quiet and spacious and the sound of the rain outside was distant and comforting. She did not have to empty the pan in the corner that caught drips from the hole in the roof, as she had at home. She was not sitting in a draught.
    And despite the prickle of sunburn on her nose, she was not bone tired from a day’s exertions and ready for bed. Strangely, that was part of the problem facing her tonight.
    Her blood was still humming from the kiss in the hallway, but Marcus had been quiet all afternoon and distant at dinner. Perhaps some part of his mind, the part that had led him to the portrait hall, was still dwelling on the past and his first marriage. If so, it was one more lie that St John had told her, for he did not act like a man overcome by guilt but like one that had been deeply hurt and was afraid to reopen the old wounds. When he had suggested, after dinner, that he often retired to the drawing room in the evening and that, if she wished, she might join him there, she had jumped at the chance to do something that might relieve some of the strain on his face. But he had neglected to suggest what she might do to occupy herself when she got there.
    She stole a glance at him over the book that she had been leafing through. He seemed comfortable enough, although he often looked up and stared into the fire before sighing and turning a page.
    There was a pianoforte in the corner and she wondered if Bethany, who she was continually reminded was a most talented lady, had entertained her husband evenings by playing and singing. He had not mentioned any fondness for music to her. He had not suggested that she try her hand, for which she was most heartily grateful. The scales she’d practised in the schoolroom would not be enough to make for pleasant entertainment.
    She glanced at the other chair near the fire and imagined Bethany, with silks and hooped linen, knotting and embroidering, the firelight glowing on her soft blonde hair. She was, no doubt, talented at that as well. But he did not want another Bethany, she reminded herself. This glowing vision was created by St John and the artist of the damn portrait. It was not the grasping shrew that Marcus had described to her.
    But neither picture made it any clearer what she was to do to fill the evenings alone with her husband. She glanceddown at her own hands and flexed the fingers. They were skilled enough, and could no doubt manage fancy work, if she had the patience for it. And there was the problem. They’d learned in the bone to do things that were necessary, and things that were practical. Straight seams and buttons. Mending. Sturdy unornamented garments. The most complicated sewing she’d managed in years had been turning Cici’s cast-offs into the tired garments that she’d worn to Haughleigh. And there had been no comfort in that work, as there was in the ordinary mending. No sense of accomplishment.
    She wondered what her husband would think if she stole mending from the servants to do of an evening, or perhaps demanded his valet to release his Grace’s worn linen so that she might darn. He would think her mad.
    She rose quietly, so as not to disturb Marcus’s concentration, and walked to the window, watching the rain spatter against the glass, fondling a chess piece from the set on the table there.
    ‘Are you tired,