Page 7 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Alexander released her hand. “Good. Philips, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Halston. See that she is made comfortable.”
Her Grace.The title sat strangely on Lydia’s shoulders. Too heavy, too grand for a girl who’d been orphaned and married in the span of a week.
“Of course, Your Grace. We have prepared the duchess’s chambers, and Mrs. Jones has arranged supper—”
“Excellent.” Alexander’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Show her to her rooms. I must speak with my steward before I leave.”
The words took a moment to penetrate.
“Leave?” Lydia’s voice came out smaller than she had intended.
He turned to her with that same distant politeness one might show an acquaintance at a ball. “I will be returning to London tonight,” he declared.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. “Tonight? But we have only just—you said you needed to see to the addition of a wife. To ensure my comfort…?”
“And I have done so.” He nodded once. “The house is prepared. The servants have their instructions—”
“Their instructions?” She couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Y-you intend to leave me here? Alone?”
“You won’t be alone. You’ll have an entire household at your disposal.” He gestured vaguely at Philips, at the housekeeper who’d appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Jones will see to your immediate needs. My steward will show you the properties I mentioned—you may choose whichever suits you best for after the annulment.”
After the annulment. The words struck like a slap.
“I-I don’t understand,” she managed weakly. Her hands had begun to shake. She clasped them together to hide it.
“I was clear about the terms, Lydia. One year. Then you’ll be free, with property and income of your own. It is more than most women in your position could hope for.”
“And in the meantime?” she muttered. “You’ll just—what? Abandon me in a strange house in the middle of nowhere?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something crack in his composure. Guilt, perhaps.
Then it was gone.
“You will have everything you need. Philips has my direction in London if any urgent matter arises.” He turned to the butler.“Treat her with the respect due any real duchess. She is to want for nothing.”
“But, Your Grace—” Lydia tried as she stepped forward, reaching for his arm, but he had already moved out of reach.
“I am sorry,” he murmured quietly, almost too quietly to hear. “Truly. But this is how it must be.”
The front door slammed open, letting in a gust of winter air. The carriage waited in the drive, the horses stamping and huffing impatiently.
He was really leaving. Right now. This moment...
Humiliation burned through her grief. She was a duchess—aduchess—standing in her own entrance hall, being abandoned by her husband mere minutes after arriving. The servants were watching. They would pity her. Or worse, they would gossip about her.The poor duchess, married and cast aside in the same breath.
Lydia lifted her chin, forcing steel into her spine. She would not beg. “Of course. Do have a safe journey, Your Grace.”
If he heard the ice in her tone, he gave no sign. He simply bowed—that same formal, distant bow, and walked out into the night.
“Your Grace?” Mrs. Jones began. “Shall I show you to your chambers? We’ve a lovely fire going, and I’ve had Cook prepare something light for supper.”
Lydia turned to find the housekeeper’s round face creased with motherly concern. Behind her, Philips stood rigid, his expression carefully neutral. A young maid hovered nearby, clutching a candle.
They were all watching her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. That would be lovely.”
