Chapter 42

The Duchess lay on the bed, glaring up at the hangings. The spiders were still there, too. She wondered—did she dare knock them down, or would her husband come raging into the room and insist that she might hurt herself on the sharp edge of the pillow? She was nowhere near the banister when the duke had plucked her off the bench. Surely he didn’t think her such a crack-head as to fall over the edge. Or worse yet, jump. If it came to that, she’d choose a less messy end, considering the amount of time and boric acid it had taken to return the entry hall marble to pristine white.

She punched the offending pillow in frustration. It needed airing. As did the hangings.

She’d tried not to think that way. But there was so much to do. If he wanted her to be idle, she’d learn how.

And then she guiltily took the pillow and walked with it to the open window, pounding it on the sill before leaving it

to hang in the breeze.

‘Your Grace?’ There was a faint knock and the door opened to reveal a hesit