Eleanor felt her blood turn to ice. “Adjustment?”
“Nothing dramatic,” he said with that infuriating casual confidence. “Simply a matter of ensuring everything you do reflects properly on the Westmore name. Perhaps moretraditional charitable work, fewer direct business dealings. I’m sure you understand.”
She understood his words as the battle cry they were. This was exactly what she’d fought to avoid—a husband who would “adjust” her independence out of existence, who would decide what was and wasn’t appropriate for her to do.
“Naturally,” she agreed, but her smile felt brittle enough to shatter.
The Musical Society
Damien woke tothe sound of catastrophe.
At least, that’s what it seemed—a cacophony of discordant notes that might generously be called music by someone who had never actually heard music before. He bolted upright, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar blue walls of the bedchamber before remembering where he was.
The noise became louder, a violin’s tortured wail competing with what might have been a human voice stretched beyond its natural capabilities. Below it all pulsed an irregular thumping that took him a moment to identify as a kettledrum being enthusiastically pummeled.
He groaned, falling back against the pillows and pulling one over his face. The pillow, unfortunately, proved an inadequate barrier against whatever musical massacre was occurring below his window.
A knock at the door preceded Graves’s entrance, the valet’s usual stoic expression betraying only the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?”
Damien lowered the pillow enough to fix his valet with a baleful glare. “What in God’s name is happening? Has a menagerie escaped into the garden?”
“I believe Her Grace referred to it as ‘the morning musical society,’” Graves replied, setting down a tray with coffee. “Apparently it’s a regular occurrence.”
“Regular?” Damien sat up fully, reaching gratefully for the steaming cup. “Surely not.”
“Indeed, sir. According to Simmons, whom I encountered at breakfast this morning, Her Grace has generously opened her home to struggling musicians every morning from nine o’clock.” Graves’s expression remained carefully neutral.
“How… philanthropic of her.” Damien took a long sip, wincing as the supposed soprano attempted a note that seemed physically impossible for a human to produce. “And did Simmons happen to mention how long this charitable endeavor has been underway?”
“Simmons mentioned that Her Grace announced this new schedule to the household staff only yesterday evening, with instructions that it would begin precisely at nine this morning, sir. You’ve been sleeping through the first hour of the performance.”
“Of course.” Damien’s lips curved into a reluctant smile. “Well played, Duchess. Well played.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, determined not to let Eleanor’s opening salvo in what promised to be an entertaining campaign deter him from his plans for the day. “My bath, Graves. And I believe I’ll breakfast downstairs today. Best not to hide away and give Her Grace the satisfaction.”
“Very good, sir. Though I feel it my duty to inform you that breakfast was served at seven this morning. The household apparently rose quite early today.”
“Seven?” Damien looked at the clock on the mantel, which now showed half past nine. “That’s barbaric.”
“The kitchen staff mentioned that tomorrow, breakfast will be served at ten, as that is ‘the proper hour for civilized dining,’” Graves said, then touched the side of his nose meaningfully.
Damien laughed outright. “I see Her Grace intends to keep me off balance with an ever-changing schedule.” He drained his coffee cup. “No matter. I’ve subsisted on far less predictable meals during my travels.”
As Graves laid out his clothing, Damien moved to the window to observe the source of the continuing musical assault. In the garden below, three figures were arranged in a semicircle: an elderly gentleman with spectacles perched on the end of his nose struggled with a violin, his arm moving with enthusiasm entirely disproportionate to his skill; a stout woman in a purple turban clutched a sheaf of music, her mouth open in what was presumably song; and a young boy of perhaps twelve years attacked a kettledrum with the joyful abandon of youth.
Seated on a garden bench observing this spectacle was Eleanor, looking fresh and lovely in a morning dress of pale blue. Even from this distance, Damien could see the satisfied smile playing about her lips as she nodded encouragement to her musical protégés.
“Remind me, Graves,” Damien said, turning from the window, “did we pack any cotton wool? I believe I may need it for my ears.”
Graves moved to a small chest and produced a box of cotton wool. “I took the liberty of procuring these from Mrs. Wright after my conversation with Simmons. I suspected you might find them useful.”
“Excellent man. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” Damien inserted the cotton into his ears, the blessed muffling of the cacophony bringing immediate relief.
After his ablutions, Damien made his way to the kitchen, cotton wool still firmly in place. The musical torture had ended, but he could still hear the phantom echoes of the vocal assault.
The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, with Cook directing preparations for the midday meal while two scullery maids worked at the great sink. All conversation ceased when Damien appeared in the doorway, the staff immediately straightening into respectful attention.