Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~13 min read
Chapter 11: The First Dinner Alone
Emmeline
Emmy’s father lingers for another week—sleeping more and more, lucid less and less, slowly fading despite the best care Dr. Pembroke and the Duke’s wealth can provide—and during that week the Duke surprises Emmy by being present in small ways she didn’t expect, checking on her father’s comfort, ensuring Emmy has whatever she needs, occasionally sitting with her in companionable silence when the vigil becomes too lonely to bear alone.
It’s not warmth exactly.
It’s not the emotional support Emmy desperately craves while watching her father die.
But it’s presence, which is more than the Duke has offered before, and Emmy finds herself pathetically grateful for even these small gestures of consideration from her cold distant husband.
Her father passes peacefully in his sleep on a grey February morning with Emmy holding his hand and the Duke standing quietly in the doorway—whether to support Emmy or simply witness the death Emmy isn’t certain, but his presence feels significant either way—and when her father takes his last rattling breath and goes still, Emmy sits frozen beside the bed unable to quite process that he’s gone, that she’s truly alone now except for a husband who barely acknowledges her existence.
The Duke handles everything after that with surprising efficiency—arranging the funeral, contacting her father’s few remaining friends from his parish, ensuring Emmy doesn’t have to make any decisions while she’s drowning in grief—and Emmy moves through the days following her father’s death like she’s underwater, aware of things happening around her but unable to engage with any of it beyond basic functioning.
The funeral is small but dignified—held in the village church where her father used to preach before his gambling debts destroyed his position, attended by the few parishioners who remember him fondly and the Duke who stands beside Emmy throughout the service with uncharacteristic steadiness—and when they lower her father’s coffin into the frozen ground Emmy feels the last connection to her old life sever completely.
She’s just the Duchess of Ashford now.
No longer a daughter.
No longer part of a family.
Just a woman alone in a cold house married to a cold man who treats her with distant courtesy but nothing resembling actual affection or partnership.
It’s devastating.
And Emmy spends three days after the funeral barely leaving her chambers except to eat meals she can’t taste and take walks through frozen gardens that match her emotional landscape—barren and grey and devoid of anything resembling warmth or life.
She’s reading in the library on the fourth day after her father’s death—trying to escape her grief through books since there’s no one to talk to about the crushing loneliness of losing her last family member—when Mrs. Winters appears with a message that surprises Emmy out of her numbness.
“His Grace requests your presence at dinner tonight,” Mrs. Winters says carefully. “In the private dining room. Just the two of you.”
Emmy looks up from her book—some military history she’s not really comprehending—and tries to process this unexpected invitation.
“The Duke wants to dine with me?” Emmy asks, because in the three weeks since her father’s death the Duke has barely spoken to her beyond brief condolences and checking if she needs anything, certainly hasn’t requested her company for anything. “Why?”
“He didn’t explain, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters says with a hint of a smile that suggests she approves of whatever the Duke is planning. “But he was quite specific that it should be tonight, and that you should know it’s not a formal dinner. Just… dinner together.”
Emmy agrees because refusing seems rude when the Duke is making what appears to be an actual effort to spend time with her, and she returns to her chambers to dress with more care than she has since her father’s funeral because if this is some kind of attempt at connection she doesn’t want to sabotage it by appearing like she doesn’t care enough to make an effort.
Sarah helps her into one of the nicer dinner dresses from the wardrobe the modiste created—deep blue silk that the Duke once mentioned matched her eyes, though Emmy doubts he remembers that comment—and arranges her hair in a simple but elegant style that makes Emmy look less like she’s been crying for days straight.
“You look lovely, Your Grace,” Sarah says with genuine warmth. “His Grace will be pleased.”
Emmy doubts the Duke notices her appearance enough to be pleased or displeased, but she thanks Sarah anyway and makes her way to the private dining room feeling nervous in a way that seems ridiculous when she’s just having dinner with her own husband.
The Duke is already there when Emmy arrives—standing by the fireplace in formal evening wear that makes him look even more imposing than usual, his scarred face set in careful neutral lines that reveal nothing about what he’s thinking or why he requested this dinner—and when he sees Emmy he nods in acknowledgment and pulls out her chair with surprising courtesy.
“Thank you for joining me,” the Duke says as Emmy settles into her seat. “I thought it might be… appropriate for us to dine together. Since we haven’t really spoken properly since your father’s funeral.”
“Appropriate,” Emmy repeats, latching onto the word with slight bitterness because everything about their marriage is framed as appropriate or proper or necessary rather than anything resembling actual desire for connection. “Yes, I suppose it is appropriate for a husband and wife to occasionally share a meal.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens fractionally at her tone, but he doesn’t respond to the barb, just settles into his own chair while servants begin bringing food—simple courses, nothing too elaborate, clearly selected for easy conversation rather than formal dining.
They eat in silence for several minutes—both of them focused on their plates, neither willing to start the conversation that this dinner is presumably meant to facilitate—and Emmy is contemplating just excusing herself and returning to her lonely chambers when the Duke finally speaks with what sounds like genuine awkwardness.
“How are you managing?” the Duke asks. “After your father’s death. Are you… managing?”
“I’m surviving,” Emmy answers honestly. “Which is probably the best that can be expected when you’ve lost your last family member and find yourself alone in a house where you’re tolerated but not particularly wanted.”
“You’re wanted,” the Duke says, and there’s something almost sharp in his voice. “You’re my wife. That makes you wanted.”
“Needed then,” Emmy corrects. “I’m needed to produce an heir eventually. But wanted? Truly wanted as a person rather than as a means to an end? I don’t think so.”
The Duke sets down his fork with careful precision, and Emmy watches him struggle visibly with how to respond to her directness.
“I’m not good at this,” the Duke says finally. “At conversation. At making people feel… valued. But I asked you to dinner because I wanted to see how you were doing. Because watching you grieve alone for the past week has been… difficult.”
“Difficult for you to watch?” Emmy challenges. “Or difficult for you to acknowledge that maybe you should have offered more support than just arranging a competent funeral?”
“Both,” the Duke admits, and his honesty surprises Emmy into silence. “I don’t know how to comfort people. I don’t know what to say or do when someone is grieving. I barely know how to manage my own grief without falling apart, let alone help someone else with theirs.”
It’s the most vulnerable admission he’s made since they married, and Emmy feels her anger deflate slightly in the face of his obvious discomfort with emotional situations.
“You could have just sat with me,” Emmy suggests quietly. “You didn’t need to say anything profound or offer amazing comfort. Just… presence. Company. So I wasn’t completely alone while my father died and then while I tried to process losing him.”
“I was trying to give you space,” the Duke says. “Privacy to grieve without feeling obligated to maintain composure around your husband.”
“I didn’t want space,” Emmy argues. “I wanted not to be alone. There’s a difference.”
The Duke is quiet for a long moment, clearly processing this, and Emmy sees something shift in his expression—understanding or regret or maybe just the beginning of awareness that his instincts about what people need might be fundamentally wrong.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke says, and he actually sounds like he means it. “I handled this poorly. I thought leaving you alone was respectful. I didn’t realize it was just making you more isolated.”
“Now you know,” Emmy says with a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “For future reference, when your wife is grieving, sitting with her occasionally is better than avoiding her completely.”
“Noted,” the Duke agrees, and there might be the ghost of a smile in his expression though it’s hard to tell with his careful control.
They return to eating, and Emmy expects the conversation to end there—this brief moment of actual communication followed by return to their usual careful silence—but the Duke surprises her by attempting to continue talking with visible awkwardness that would be endearing if Emmy had any emotional energy left for finding things endearing.
“Do you miss the war?” Emmy asks, trying to help him by initiating a topic since he’s clearly struggling with how to make conversation.
“No,” the Duke answers flatly.
Emmy waits for elaboration, but apparently that’s the entirety of his response to her question.
“Do you enjoy estate management?” Emmy tries again, searching for something he might actually want to discuss.
“It’s duty,” the Duke says, which is barely more expansive than his previous answer.
“Do you enjoy anything?” Emmy asks with exasperation, because getting actual conversation from him feels like pulling teeth.
The Duke looks at her with those ice-blue eyes that seem slightly less empty than usual, and Emmy sees something that might be amusement flash through his expression.
“I enjoy when you stop asking questions,” the Duke says, and there’s something almost playful in his tone that makes Emmy’s breath catch because that sounded almost like a joke, almost like teasing, almost like actual personality beneath all his careful emotional control.
Emmy laughs—genuinely laughs for the first time since her father died—and the sound surprises both of them in the quiet dining room.
“That’s the first almost-joke you’ve made,” Emmy observes, still smiling despite everything. “Since we married. Maybe since we met. I wasn’t certain you were capable of humor.”
“Don’t expect more,” the Duke says, but there’s a hint of smile playing at the corners of his mouth that suggests he’s not entirely serious about the warning.
“I won’t,” Emmy promises. “But I’ll enjoy this one while it lasts.”
They finish dinner in more comfortable silence than Emmy expected—not warm exactly, but less actively hostile than most of their interactions have been—and when the meal ends the Duke surprises Emmy by standing and offering his hand to help her from her chair with unexpected courtesy.
“Thank you for dining with me,” the Duke says. “I know it’s not much. I know you deserve a husband who’s better at conversation and emotional support and all the things I’m fundamentally terrible at. But I am trying, Emmy. In my own limited way.”
“I can see that,” Emmy acknowledges, because refusing to recognize his effort seems cruel when he’s clearly pushing himself beyond his comfortable distance. “And I appreciate it. Even if your idea of trying is still pretty minimal by most standards.”
“Minimal is an improvement from absent,” the Duke points out.
“True,” Emmy agrees. “Though the bar is tragically low when ‘present for one meal’ counts as significant progress in a marriage.”
The Duke almost smiles at that—not quite, but close enough that Emmy can see the ghost of it—and he walks with her back to her chambers in silence that feels less lonely than usual, and when they reach her door he pauses instead of just nodding and walking away like he usually does.
“I’m sorry about your father,” the Duke says quietly. “I know I’ve said it before. But I mean it. And I’m sorry I wasn’t better at supporting you through his death. I’ll try to do better going forward.”
“Better would be nice,” Emmy says honestly. “But I understand you’re doing the best you can with capacities that have been damaged. So I’ll take what you can offer and try not to resent what you can’t.”
The Duke looks at her with an expression Emmy can’t read—something complicated and maybe grateful beneath his usual careful blankness—and for a moment Emmy thinks he might say something else, might open up just a little more, might take another small step toward actual connection.
But then the familiar shutters come down and he’s just the cold Duke of Ashford again, nodding politely and stepping back to put distance between them.
“Goodnight, Emmy,” the Duke says.
“Goodnight, Sebastian,” Emmy responds, using his first name deliberately because she refuses to let him retreat completely back into formality after finally having something resembling an actual conversation.
He leaves, and Emmy enters her chambers feeling fractionally less alone than she has since her father died because at least the Duke is trying—in his broken limited way he’s attempting to be present, attempting to offer something resembling partnership even if he has no idea how to actually accomplish it.
It’s not much.
It’s barely anything.
But it’s the first crack in his armor since they married.
The first real indication that maybe—just maybe—there’s something beneath all that ice that could eventually thaw if Emmy is patient enough and stubborn enough and refuses to give up on the promise she made to her dying father.
That night Emmy lies in her bed thinking about almost-jokes and small kindnesses and the difference between a husband who avoids his wife completely and one who at least tries to share occasional meals, and she tells herself that progress is progress even when it’s painfully slow.
Even when it’s just one dinner.
Even when it feels like trying to thaw a glacier with a candle.
She promised her father she wouldn’t give up.
So she won’t.
However long it takes.
However many awkward dinners where the Duke tries and fails to make conversation.
However many tiny incremental steps toward actual partnership instead of just legal arrangement.
She’ll keep trying.
Because that’s what stubborn patient kind daughters do when they make promises to dying fathers.
They keep them.
No matter how impossible the task seems.
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