Before I do that, I dress myself in order to play the part of a perfect duchess, complete with one of the fine Chanel suits issued to me upon arrival, conservative shoes and neutral hose—fuck you very much, Malachi, as if I don’t know how to dress myself appropriately—and my hair smoothed back into an elegant chignon. But no make-up. I’m boycotting make-up for a good, long while.
The skirt suit consists of a shell top with three-quarter-length sleeves, a scooped neckline that hits just below my clavicle, and a fitted-but-not-tight skirt that hits just above the knee. It’s also a lovely shade of lavender, and it’s just the right color to accentuate and highlight the bruising of my face.
Upon arriving downstairs, I find that Malachi doesn’t eat breakfast in the dining room, rather in an oval-shaped sunroom that flanks one of the smaller libraries near the front of the palace. It’s bright white with tall windows flanked by floor-to-ceiling drapes in a homey shade of sage green. The floor is the same ornate marble as the rest of the palace, but it’s mostly covered by a large, oval Oriental rug in greens, pinks, and yellows that complement the drapes. The furniture is deep, rich cherry wood in Queen Anne styling, with a moderately-sized rectangular table at the center, and six chairs.
Malachi is seated at the head of the table with a tablet balanced in his hand and coffee in a china cup on the table in front of him. He’s as put-together as he always is these days, with a white Oxford shirt and slate gray vest, sans tie, and sleeves rolled tidily to his elbows, putting his corded, rippling forearms on full display. All of his clothing is meticulously tailored to perfectly fit his large, well-sculpted, muscular frame. His dark hair is combed back exactly like he’s worn it since he was fourteen or fifteen, and that same strand hangs over his eyes like it always has. It appears that he shaved, but he did so in a way that he kept a faint amount of shadow on his sharp, square, aristocratic jaw.
Malachi is handsome. He always has been. He grew up into a really beautiful man, and it’s a goddamn tragedy that the beautiful heart he once had turned to cold, hard stone.
The bruising is on the left side of my face, so I take the seat perpendicular to him, directly to his right, so he has a front row view.
“Good morning, Malachi,” I say pleasantly, sitting tall in the chair.
His jaw ticks, but he keeps his gaze trained on the tablet. “You will address me as Duke and then Sir.”
Mrs. Maisely, a plump, elderly woman who’s the head of the palace staff, pushes through a side door with an additional place setting, and I cock an eyebrow at Malachi. “No, I will not.”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Maisely chirps to me in an English accent, setting down the plates, napkin, silverware, and coffee cup on the table in front of me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Maisely,” I return, maintaining a hard stare at Malachi, who still hasn’t even looked at me.
“Would you care for coffee or—” Her words are sharply cut off as she sucks in a gasp. “Good heavens, Madam, your face.”
At that, Malachi’s eyes flick up from the tablet, but he stares forward. Mrs. Maisely gently takes my chin in her hand, tilting my cheek toward her line of sight, but also putting it on full display for Malachi to get a good, long look when he finally decides to cut his eyes toward me.
“I’ll need to get you some ice and anti-inflammatory medicine right away, Madam.” Her soft, weathered hand tenderly strokes the side of my hair, and then she lets go. Before she hastily scampers off, she casts a seething glance toward Malachi, and he looks at that before looking at me.
He doesn’t look at me so much as the damage he caused, and for no more than two seconds he looks about fourteen years old again. His throat pulses with a swallow, but he doesn’t say anything.
I lift my eyebrows haughtily. “Is something wrong, Malachi?”
He clears his throat and looks back at the tablet. “Literally everything,” he mumbles, almost too quiet for me to hear.
I cup my ear and incline my battered cheek toward him. “What was that? You’re sorry?”
He swipes upward on the tablet. “That’s not what I said.”
“Oh yeah.” I nod sardonically. “You’re right. It’s not what you said, nor do I ever expect you to say such a thing to me.”
One of his brows does a quick lift-and-drop. “Well, I’m not the one who owes any apologies to you, Duchess.”
“You know, you keep saying things about some kind of allegedly awful thing I did to you,” I retort just as Mrs. Maisely returns with a bundle of ice in a rag and a bottle of ibuprofen. “But you have yet to inform me exactly what that awful thing is, and I don’t have a single clue about anything I ever did that didn’t involve loving you and missing you while you were away.”
His jaw ticks again, and he keeps staring at the tablet. “You have already acknowledged what you did, and I will not offend Mrs. Maisely’s sensibilities by mentioning it in her presence.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Mrs. Maisely pipes up, holding the cloth to my cheek, “my sensibilities are far more offended by the fact that I’m tending to your new wife’s battered face.”
Malachi huffs quietly. “That’s because you don’t know what she did.”
I take the cloth from Mrs. Maisely while she shakes a couple of pills onto one of the plates. “I don’t know what I did either, so perhaps you could enlighten everyone in the room.”
He shoves back his chair so harshly that Mrs. Maisely and I both snap our faces toward him.
“Mrs. Maisely, the Duchess and I have a formal event to attend tonight,” he says brusquely. “Please assist her in making herself presentable by no later than six p.m.” He looks at me. “If she leaves this palace with that uncovered, there will be consequences for you both.”
He swipes the tablet off the table and strides out of the room.
Once alone, Mrs. Maisely turns to me and pats my hand. “We’ll get you all fixed up, Madam. Not to worry.”
I have only interacted with Mrs. Maisely about three or four times since I arrived, and right now, after such callous and hateful behavior from Malachi, her kindness becomes instant kryptonite. I have to press my lips tightly together and drop my trembling chin low in an effort to conceal my sudden emotional state.
At that, she crouches next to me, still holding my hand. “Many women have been in the position in which you now find yourself.” She lifts her silver brows in the direction that Malachi left. “You’re at the mercy of a man who values power more than anything else. So, you need to learn to value and fortify your own power in the same manner.” She lightly taps my sternum. “It’s all right in here.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “He wasn’t like this as a boy.”
Her mouth flattens into a straight line. “Boys become men. Eons of evolution have wired them to be either protectors and providers or conquerors and rulers. Rarely can they become both. His Grace is, sadly, the latter. So, you have to be the former for yourself. Protect your heart, and provide yourself with the love you deserve.”
But he was supposed to be that for me. This isn’t who he is.
I’d known Malachi for nearly twenty years before he disappeared; my entire life. We were as close as two people could be. Our last conversation was no different than any before it. And then, over a span of time I can’t even remember, he was just gone without a trace, just as I found myself in the most terrifying situation I’d ever experienced.