The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(48)

Calhoun.

Even at meals, Sera and Haven were separated, regularly seated at opposite ends of the formal dining room—a room in which he could not remember the last time he’d been—and she disappeared immediately following dinner.

Mal was ashamed to admit that he’d spent three nights listening to the silence on the other side of the adjoining door to their rooms before he’d given up and interrogated the servants about his wife’s evening activities—desperate to know if she was, in fact, spending them with Calhoun, who made himself as scarce as his wife did in the evenings. It was only then that he was told that Mr. Calhoun left the house after the evening meal, and returned the following morning at dawn, before most of the house had rung for tea and toast.

Which meant Sera was alone at night.

In the next room.

Her silence was making him mad.

He’d given her space, dammit, sure she’d return to him. Sure she’d seek him out for—if nothing else—pleasure. She’d come apart in his arms, hard and fast and with an intensity that had brought him with her. That had left him on his knees as she’d straightened herself and turned tail.

And it had been turning tail.

She’d hied out of that room as though Lucifer himself had been on her heels. Coward.

Of course, he had not chased her.

Resisting the thought, Haven stood from the desk in his private study and went looking for his wife. This time, he would find her. And this time, she would not be able to avoid him.

She was in the kitchens, surrounded by his possible future wives and their mothers, as though the women were not houseguests, but rather sightseeing in Bath.

“Now,” she was saying. “As mistress of Highley and Duchess of Haven you will be expected to arrange meals for the duke and any of his guests.”

As Seraphina Bevingstoke had never once played the duchess, Malcolm couldn’t contain the little grunt of surprise that came at her words; the sound was louder than expected, clearly, as it attracted the attention of the entire assembly.

Sera’s face was all calm, even as Mal noted the way her eyes flashed with anger. “Your Grace? Do you require something?”

Yes. You.

“No,” he said. “Please. Go on.”

There was a pause, and he could see she wanted to argue. He raised a brow in invitation. Let her argue. If that was what he could have of her, so be it.

Her lips pressed together in annoyance, and he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to kiss her always, honestly, but particularly when she was annoyed.

She began anew. “The duke enjoys game, lamb, and duck.”

He did laugh at that. What a ridiculous play in which they all performed.

Sera’s annoyance became anger, and she turned on him again. He took it back. He wanted to kiss her particularly when she was angry. She was most beautiful then. “Your Grace,” she said, not hiding the disapproval in the words. “Again, may we assist you in some way?”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. “In fact, I’m finding this supremely edifying.”

“You are surprised to find that you enjoy duck?”

“I’m surprised to find that you are aware that I enjoy duck.”

She raised her brows. “Am I incorrect?”

“No,” he said. “But you’ve never planned a meal for me in your life.”

He knew he goaded her. But if this was what he could have of her, he would take it.

She smiled. “Considering we’re in the process of divorcing, I would think you’d be happy I haven’t attempted to poison you.”

He blinked. The girls assembled tittered. Amusement? Surprise? Mal didn’t care. All he cared was that Sera was moved. Moved enough to challenge him. This was familiar. And welcome. God, she was welcome as the sun in English spring.

As she drew closer, Mal’s heart began to pound, his palms itching to lift her in his arms and carry her away. Find a bed and keep her there until she agreed to begin again. Instead, he willed himself still, even as she stopped, scant inches from him, and said, loud enough for the room to hear. “Shall I tell you which foods I would happily lade with arsenic?”

He raised his brows. “You realize that if I turn up dead now, we’ve a roomful of witnesses.”

“A pity, as I realize I should have considered this course of action before. A widow receives a third of the estate, doesn’t she?”

Christ, he loved the way they sparred.

She continued. “Duck with sour cherries. Vegetables turned in the Portuguese style. New potatoes with a salted cream sauce. Lamb with jelly made from Highley’s own mint.”

Until that moment, it had never occurred to him that his favorite foods might be used against him in battle.

“Sprouts roasted with pear, fig and pig cheeks. Vinegared artichokes. Neither beef nor poultry are of particular interest. His Grace does not care for sweets, but if he must choose a dessert, it is raspberries with a drizzle of fresh cream.” She raised a brow. “Do you have anything to add, Duke?”

He’d been given a culinary set-down.

He cleared his throat. “I quite like asparagus.”

She saw the lie. He loathed asparagus. But she inclined her head and said, “How edifying. He quite likes asparagus. Do remember that, ladies.” He noted that several of the mothers were scribbling notes, as though she were giving a lesson in gross anatomy rather than meal planning. “If you’re through, Your Grace, we are in a bit of a hurry, and you are a distraction.”