Page 25 of My Demanding Duke

Anna hesitated for just a moment before placing her hand on his arm. Josie gave her an encouraging nod, and they made their way from the bedroom to the hallway, then down the grand staircase.

Up close, Anna could see that the duke—though immaculately presented—looked tired, with dark circles shadowing the skin beneath his eyes. Perhaps he had spent a sleepless night plagued by his conscience, she thought, pleased by the idea.

The dining room was elegantly appointed, like the rest of the house. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the polished wooden floors. A sideboard laden with various dishes stood against one wall, bearing enough food to feed Wellington’s army. Servants stood discreetly by the wall, ready to serve their new duchess.

“Is breakfast always such a grand affair?” Anna questioned as she took a seat at the table.

“Not usually,” the duke admitted, as he sat down opposite her, “I believe the staff are showing off a bit, for your first morning.”

“I shall have to tell them to rein in the extravagance,” she replied, “I don’t usually take breakfast.”

“Well, today you will,” Falconbridge was firm.

Anna quashed a smart retort as a footman arrived with a cup of steaming hot chocolate for her and a Arabic coffee for the duke. This was followed by plates of warm crumpets with jam, a dish of eggs and meats, and a platter of cheese and fruit.

Mindful of the temperamental chef in the kitchen, Anna sampled a little from each course, loudly praising each dish.

"You've hardly touched your food," Falconbridge observed, undeceived by her theatrics. "You need to eat, Anna."

“As I said earlier,” she replied, defiantly, “I do not usually take breakfast. I’m starting to feel like a pig being fattened for winter. Do you intend to take me to the slaughter house later, is that your grand plan?”

Falconbridge had the good grace to look slightly sheepish at her words.

“Forgive me,” he conceded, “I have been told that I can sometimes be a little overbearing.”

The understatement of the century, she thought with amusement. Though she was touched by his humility—it almost made him endearing.

"Nonetheless," he said continued, said humility vanishing in an instant. "You’ll need your strength. I've planned an outing for today. Shopping for new dresses and baubles, then, if you're amenable, I thought we might attend the theatre later. There's a comedy on at the Theatre Royal."

He laid out the plans casually, as though they were a normal married couple making normal plans for their day. Anna wondered for a moment what it would be like not to fight against him, to just allow him take control.

“I do not think most husbands accompany their wives shopping,” she said, managing to sound neutral to his suggestion. An improvement on her prior hostility.

“I am not most husbands,” Falconbridge shrugged, unconcerned that people might find it strange to see a duke in a dress shop.

That was what it was to be so powerful, Anna realised; he could do as he pleased without worry of censure.

“Perhaps I have plans of my own for the day,” she ventured, unable to resist teasing him, for he looked so self-assured.

He quirked a brow, his expression that of a man torn between amusement and annoyance.

“Do you?” he queried.

“I do not,” she answered, her tone light, “Though the next time you make plans for my day, you might consult me on it first.”

“Duly noted, my dear,” his boyish smile causing a lurch of longing in the pit of Anna’s stomach.

Hating Falconbridge would be far easier if he wasn’t so devilishly handsome, she thought as she speared a sausage with her fork. It was going to be a long day.

Anna’s second experience of Madame Delacroix’s was very different from her first. Weeks ago, she had been an unknown country mouse, with a limited budget and was treated as such. Now that she was a duchess, the famed modiste herself attended to her, fawning loudly over her figure, her beauty, and her fortune.

Well, she did not quite say the last part aloud, but Anna could guess.

Her adoration increased anytime Falconbridge, towering in the background, suggested a preferred material, colour, or style.

“Oui, your Grace,” she exclaimed, when the duke suggested they try bolder colours, “Your wife is too beautiful to fade away in pastels.”

Falconbridge’s eyes traversed her body, from top to toe, and Anna felt a frisson of desire in her belly. There was something strangely erotic about being watched by him as she stood in front of the mirror, scandalously clad in a thin muslin shift.

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