Much Ado About Dukes

It was a dire thing indeed.

From what she understood, Sylvia had never returned to England and had died abroad.

It was terribly sad—the saddest thing that she knew about her husband. Her heart ached for him, standing before his mother. She noted that the portrait was not hidden but put on full display. Almost defiantly.

When she considered her own life, she had never known any scandals or gossip.

It was true that her parents had died when she was quite young, and that had been very hard, but at least she’d had the love of her uncle and her cousin. And she had the memory of how perfectly her parents had treasured and supported each other. A beacon for her own standards in this life. She’d never achieve that. It caused her heart to ache desperately. Knowing that her parents’ sort of love would prove ever elusive.

But she was fortunate compared to most. She had to remember that. Even when life seemed to refuse to take the path she had so carefully desired.

Poor William had lost his mother in such a painful way and his father so very young.

He spoke so little of his parents.

It was no wonder that he and Ben and Kit were so close. They’d needed each other over the years. Frankly, she was astonished that they were not all bitter and angry.

They were remarkably amiable young men.

And after the tour of the house, Mrs. Marshall had presented Beatrice with stack upon stack of notations and information about the various estates the duke owned.

Like the few other truly powerful men of England, he moved from house to house throughout the year, and she would have to make certain those transitions occurred smoothly. And it wasn’t just a moving of houses. It was a dance with tenants, farmers, staff, villagers… So many depended on the duke in each area of his lands.

Come fall, they would go to the North of England. In the winter, they would go to Cornwall. And in the spring, they would come to Sussex and then London.

It was quite a lot to take in.

She’d never lack for funds, but this was wealth and power that she’d only ever been adjacent to, not directly a part of.

It was tempting to wish to do away with it. To break it all up and give it away as had been done in France, but it was all entailed to the duke’s title, and it was her job along with her husband’s to make certain that it was run efficiently, safely, and kindly for all in their care.

How they ran the vast thousands upon thousands of acres that encompassed the estates determined the lives of those who lived upon his land.

And she was determined to make certain that everyone lived well.

When not engaged in her usual activities? She read, and read, and read, taking in as much information as possible about each estate. How many people lived on it? How many houses were on it? What was the way that people made their livings, and how many schools?

She noticed that there were several boys’ schools, which she thought was quite a good thing. But most of all, she was amazed to find that there were several schools for girls as well on her husband’s holdings.

She had not expected that, and suddenly she was rather annoyed at herself for having been so difficult about William in the beginning of their relationship. He had not been lying.

He truly did support the rights of ladies.

Only he had not wished to be in league with a lady to do it. Now it seemed he was changing, just as she had hoped. Now, instead of charging forward, his own voice the loudest, he was taking advice from one of the people he was helping.

And she loved the fact that he’d been able to listen to her and to others.

So many men could not; so many women, too.

But she wasn’t certain she would ever truly know William. He was ever just beyond her grasp. His true self momentarily revealed, then drawn back and hidden behind the highest of barricades… His kisses, his kind smiles, and his unwavering assistance.

But not once had she seen him suffer or struggle or reveal weakness to her. Not in truth.

He was a rock, but she wondered, if he never allowed himself to be free in his emotions, would he not crack underneath the inevitable strain?

“Hello, dearest Beatrice. How goes the war?” he asked with that rich rumble of a voice as he leaned against the wide, polished-wood doorframe. “Do you mind if I bother you?”

“No, not at all,” she said, looking up from her ledger. She adjusted her spectacles and stretched her shoulders. “The war is ever taxing, sir, and you are often on the side of the enemy. But I shall finish up, and you and I can gather under the flag of marital truce. I was about to have a glass of wine. Would you like to join me in a libation?”