“A formidable combination, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Damien turned from the mirror. “I must keep her at arm’s length for I do not need the complication when I must leave England with Dominic should my plans fail.”
“Yet you must also convince the household—and by extension, Society—that your marriage is genuine.”
“A perfect conundrum.” Damien smiled grimly. “Let’s hope dinner provides an opportunity to establish some boundaries that protect us both.”
He checked the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly eight. Time to face his duchess across the dining table.
“Wish me luck, Graves. I suspect I’ll need it.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The valet’s normally impassive face softened slightly. “Though if I may say so, given how magnificent you look tonight, I think Her Grace might be equally in need of fortune’s favor.”
Damien laughed, the first genuine laugh he’d experienced since discovering Dominic had fled Macao for London. “I am comforted by that thought, Graves.”
With a final adjustment to his cravat, Damien Westmore, Duke of Westmore, prepared to rejoin his duchess for what promised to be the most intriguing dinner negotiation of his life.
The Insufferable Husband
Eleanor surveyed thedining table with a critical eye. The Sinclair family silver gleamed in the candlelight, polished to perfection. Her mother’s Wedgwood china—an extravagance she’d refused to relinquish when Mr. Abram began his systematic pillaging of her assets—was arranged with military precision.
Perfect.
She’d selected the intimate corner of the dining room where shadows played across the table’s western side, her own place illuminated by the best of the candlelight. The documents detailing her proposed allowance increase lay beside her place setting, the figures she’d carefully calculated positioned to catch the light.
“Is everything to Your Grace’s satisfaction?” Mrs. Wright, her housekeeper, asked.
“It’s lovely, thank you.” Eleanor rearranged the crystal glasses, ensuring the duke’s would catch the light in a way that might draw his eye at critical moments. “I’ve selected the ’08 Bordeaux for dinner.”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened slightly. “The special reserve, Your Grace? The one from the hidden cellar?”
“Indeed.” Eleanor offered a cool smile. “One must mark important occasions appropriately.”
“Very good, Your Grace. If I may say, it’s been some time since the house has had a master present. The staff is quite pleased by His Grace’s arrival.”
Eleanor merely nodded, dismissing the woman with a slight wave. So the household had already shifted loyalties. All the more reason to ensure this negotiation proceeded as planned.
She straightened the neckline of her gown, a rich burgundy silk with silver threading that matched the color of the wine they would drink. The modiste had insisted the lower neckline was the latest fashion from Paris. Eleanor had initially resisted, but tonight, she was grateful for the daring cut. George had always said she had a beautiful décolletage—might as well make use of it in battle.
The door opened, and she turned, expression perfectly composed.
Her most inconvenient husband paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over her with unhurried appreciation before moving to the carefully arranged table. One dark eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.
“My dear duchess,” he said, crossing to her. “You look magnificent. That color becomes you immensely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She extended her hand with practiced grace, noting how his gaze dipped briefly to the neckline of her gown before returning to her face. A small victory. “I’m pleased you could join me for our discussion.”
His lips curved as he bowed over her hand. “I believe we agreed to negotiate terms. Though I must say, if this is how you conduct all your business affairs, London’s merchants must be at a severe disadvantage.”
Eleanor withdrew her hand, ignoring the warmth his touch and words had kindled. “Shall we be seated? I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some figures for your consideration.”
He gestured for her to precede him to the table, following with measured steps. When she indicated his chair—positioned so the documents would be in shadow from his vantage point—he paused.
“How thoughtful of you to arrange such an intimate setting,” he said, eyes twinkling with unmistakable amusement. “Though the light seems rather particular in its focus.”
Without waiting for her response, he lifted his chair and moved it to the adjacent side of the table—next to her own seat rather than opposite it. “There. Much better for reviewing documents together, don’t you think?”
Eleanor stiffened. “That’s not the customary arrangement.”