Page 28 of Duke of Moonstone
“Two months,” he said.
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“If after two months, you find the arrangement unsatisfactory...” He chose his words carefully. “… we may begin living separate lives entirely. Different residences, different schedules. Separate in all but legal fact.”
The Duchess remained very still. She looked at him across the remnants of their breakfast—the cream cheese, the cold toast, and the coffee cooling in its cup—and her blue eyes were bright and unblinking. Alexander felt, with a certainty he could not explain, that whatever she said next was going to matter much more than it should.
“Two months,” she repeated.
“If you wish.”
She held his gaze for one more moment. Then she set down her napkin, pushed back her chair, and rose from the table with the composed grace of a woman who had said everything she intended to say and was finished.
“I cannot wait,” she said.
She turned and walked out of the breakfast room without looking back, and Alexander sat alone at the table, listening to the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hallway until they were gone.
He picked up his coffee, found it cold, and set it down again.
This was not the sort of marriage he had planned to have.
CHAPTER 12
“Your Grace, may I present Madame Beaumont, our cook?” Mrs. Wells said, with the particular formality of a woman who took introductions seriously regardless of whether they occurred in a drawing room or a kitchen.
The woman who stepped forward was stout, rosy-cheeked, and smiling with such genuine warmth that Frances felt something in her chest loosen for the first time since breakfast.
“Ah, Your Grace!” Madame Beaumont dropped into a curtsy so deep it seemed structurally ambitious for a woman of her build, and yet she executed it with surprising grace. “What an honor, what a pleasure! I have been waiting all zee morning to meet you. All zee morning! I say to my girls, today we meet zee new duchess, and everything must be perfect, you understand, non?”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Madame Beaumont,” Frances said. “I have heard wonderful things about your cooking.”
She had not, in fact, heard anything at all about the cooking, but it seemed the right thing to say, and from the way Madame Beaumont’s face lit up, it was exactly that.
“You are too kind, too kind!” The cook seized Frances by the elbow with a familiarity that would have been unthinkable upstairs and steered her toward the great range where several copper pots were simmering. “But you must not take my word for it, non. You must taste. Come, come. I am preparing zee sauces for tonight’s dinner—avelouté, abeurre blanc, and something special, something I make only for occasions of great importance.”
Frances allowed herself to be guided. The kitchen was warm and busy and smelled of butter and herbs, and it was so thoroughly removed from the cool formality of the breakfast room that she could have wept with relief.
Do not think about breakfast. Do not think about him.
Madame Beaumont pressed a small silver spoon into her hand. “Taste. Zee velouté first.”
Frances tasted. It was extraordinary—rich and smooth with a depth of flavor she could not immediately identify that made her want a second spoonful. “That is wonderful.”
“Oui, of course, it is wonderful. I make it.” Madame Beaumont was already reaching for another spoon. “Now zeebeurre blanc. Careful, it is hot.”
Frances tasted thebeurre blanc, and then the third sauce which turned out to involve shallots, white wine, and something Madame Beaumont would only describe as ‘my secret, Madame Duchess, even zee Duke does not know.’
Each one was better than the last, and by the time she set down the third spoon, Frances was smiling in a way that felt genuine rather than performed, which was not something she had expected to be doing so early in the morning.
“You approve?” Madame Beaumont asked, tapping her wooden spoon against the edge of the range with an air of someone who already knew the answer but wished to hear it confirmed.
“I more than approve. You are an artist, Madame Beaumont.”
The cook beamed and launched into a rapid description of the evening’s full menu, gesturing with her spoon as if the meal were being choreographed rather than cooked. Frances listened and nodded and let herself be carried along by the woman’s enthusiasm, because it was warm and uncomplicated and required nothing of her except appreciation.
“Ah, but before I forget—” Madame Beaumont turned and crossed to a side table where a tray sat waiting, laid with delicate China and small, carefully arranged portions. “I have also prepared Her Grace’s breakfast. Zee Dowager Duchess,” she added. “She takes her meals in her rooms. I prepare everything myself—no one else touches Her Grace’s tray.”
Frances approached the tray and looked it over. The portions were modest: a soft-boiled egg, thinly sliced bread with butter, a small pot of preserves, and a cup set ready for chocolate. Everything was arranged with obvious care.
