But last night, he’d had no desire to question her on her feelings. Talking had been the last thing on her mind as well. And it would have taken more strength than he possessed to resist the new Lady Fanworth when she was dressed in nothing but a thin lace gown and an emerald bracelet.
She was almost as alluring now, seated across the dining table from him in blue silk. The lace and sequins on the bodice drew his eyes to the gentle slope of her breasts, firing his imagination for what might happen when dinner was finished and they had retired for the night.
But there was no sign that she was having similarly pleasant thoughts. She was thinking about something, he was certain. She stared down into her plate with a slight frown, but did not eat.
‘Is the food not to your liking?’ He had thought the matter settled.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It is delicious.’ Then she picked up her fork and began to eat, as though seeking an excuse to avoid conversation.
In an effort to distract her, he questioned her about her day. She answered in monosyllables, if at all. It was a strange inversion of the last weeks, where she had been the one to talk and he had evaded. Now, when at last he was ready and eager to speak with her, she spoke as few words as possible.
Then, he noticed the handkerchief wrapped tightly around one of her fingers. ‘What happened there?’
She looked up, startled. ‘There was an accident. In the shop. Broken glass. As I was cleaning up, I cut myself.’
Hs stood up and went to her side, taking her hand gently in his and unwrapping the cloth. ‘Does it hurt?’ It did not appear to be deep, but she looked near to tears.
‘It is all right,’ she said.
‘You work too hard. You must take better care of yourself.’ He kissed the finger and wrapped it again.
‘I have been thinking that, as well,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘In fact, I think you are right about giving up the shop.’
Of all the things likely to come out of her mouth, he had not expected this. ‘At the end of summer,’ he reminded her, feeling uneasy.
‘Or sooner,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday and we are closed. I do not have to worry for a day or two.’
‘You do not have to worry at all,’ he assured her. When he had first decided that they must marry, hadn’t that been his fondest desire: that she should never have to worry about anything again?
But she did not seem to hear his reassurance. She was staring down into her plate again, poking listlessly at the food with a fork. ‘Perhaps, next week, it would be possible to find Mr Pratchet... He wished to own it. I might sell it to him. Or not...’ The words were fairly pouring out of her, now that she had begun to speak. But she did not seem any happier for her decision.
‘Before we married, you were quite adamant about Mr Pratchet not taking control. This is quite a change of opinion,’ he said cautiously.
‘I can think of no one else,’ she said, setting her fork aside as though she had lost her appetite. ‘Justine would not want it. Her memories of the place are quite horrible. When it came fully into our control, she wanted to close it and forget it had ever existed.’
‘Women are not meant to run businesses,’ he said, repeating what he had always assumed to be true.
She gave him a tired look, as though she had heard the words too many times before. ‘Perhaps not. But there was little choice in the matter, since my father had daughters and not sons.’
He started to speak, and then stopped. Logic dictated that if a business owner had daughters, then the business should fall to the men they married. But that would have meant that she should have married Pratchet, who wanted the business more than the woman, and not a man who wanted her, but had no need of a jewellery shop. Perhaps that was the logical argument. But when it ran contrary to what he had wanted to do he’d had no problems ignoring it. Why should it be any different for her?
‘We sisters knew that some day the business would fall to us and we prepared accordingly. We had played in the shop since we were little. And though Mr Montague was a horrible man, he was an excellent jeweller. He taught us everything there was to know about the stones, the metals and the making of jewellery. We learned our letters and our numbers.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Arithmetic works just the same for a woman as it does for a man. If you were to examine my bookkeeping, you would find it kept in a reasonable hand and totalled properly at the bottom of the ledger.’
Then the smile was gone again. ‘But Mr Montague really only wanted the money. And Justine wanted her freedom. I was the only one who really cared about the shop. I planned for years so that I might be ready to take it on. And I have done well. Or, at least, I did. If I cannot have it...’
She spoke of the place as if it were a living thing. And a precious one, at that. It was not just some stray dog that could be put out when it became too inconvenient to keep. By the look on her face, she would be no more willing to abandon a child then she would shutter the windows and lock the doors of de Bryun’s.
‘Are you quite sure you are ready to leave it?’ She had come to the decision on her own, just as he’d wished. Why did it not make him happy?
‘You wish me to close it, do you not?’
‘Well, yes.’ He did. Or, at least, he had. Now, he was not so sure. ‘But when we have discussed it before, you have been quite adamant on the need to ensure the livelihoods of your staff.’
‘I must see to their safety as well,’ she said. It was an odd statement, after the assurances she had given him about the minimal risks involved in her job.
‘You promised me before that if you were worried for your safety you would let me protect you,’ he reminded her.
Hope flared in her eyes for a moment. Then the look of misery grew deeper, as she became even more obedient. ‘Of course. But as you pointed out to me, yesterday, it will be difficult to run the place with the responsibilities I am likely to have as your wife.’
‘That is correct.’ He thought of his mother and what she did to fill her days. She called on friends in the morning. In the afternoon, she sometimes shopped. She went to dinners in the evening. When they were home, she might visit the sick and the poor. If she stopped doing any of those things, it would not have mattered one whit to the duke, or the people around her. She kept busy. But he would hardly have called what she did ‘responsibilities’.
But Margot had pointed out to him on several occasions that she already had them. It was ludicrous to insist that she accept idleness for propriety’s sake. ‘Perhaps there might be a way to keep it open part of the year. Summering in Bath does not conflict with a London Season.’ What was he saying? Hadn’t it been his wish that she stop work and devote herself to him? But now that she was considering it, he felt no happier about it than she did.
She shook her head. ‘It is better to make a clean break of it. I cannot ask my staff to work half a year, and wait for me to return. It would not be fair.’
‘I see.’
‘And there is your family to consider,’ she said.
‘My family?’ It was strange that she would think of them, since he spent little enough time considering their feelings. ‘If you are thinking of yesterday’s meeting with Arthur, put it from your mind.’
‘It is not that,’ she said. ‘I am sure your father would prefer that there not be a shop girl in family.’
‘My father?’ Stephen laughed. ‘My father can go to hell and take his opinions with him. When he does, I will be Larchmont. And I do not care a fig if