Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~15 min read
Chapter 6: Learning the Rules
Emmeline
Emmy has been the Duchess of Ashford for exactly three days when the Duke summons her to his study to discuss what he calls “household expectations” and what Emmy suspects is actually just another opportunity for him to establish rules that will keep her at a comfortable distance while he continues avoiding any actual interaction with his inconvenient wife.
The summons comes via Mrs. Winters, who appears at Emmy’s chambers during breakfast with an apologetic expression that makes Emmy brace for whatever cold, businesslike conversation the Duke has planned.
“His Grace requests your presence in his study at ten o’clock,” Mrs. Winters says carefully. “He wishes to discuss household management and your role as Duchess.”
“How delightful,” Emmy says without enthusiasm. “My husband schedules appointments to explain my duties instead of actually speaking to me like a human being. How very romantic.”
Mrs. Winters doesn’t comment on Emmy’s sarcasm, just retreats with a sympathetic look, and Emmy spends the next hour preparing herself mentally for whatever rules and expectations the Duke is about to impose while she tries to maintain some shred of dignity in this disaster of a marriage.
She arrives at his study precisely at ten because being punctual seems important when dealing with a man who clearly values control and precision above all else, and she knocks on the heavy oak door with more confidence than she feels.
“Enter,” the Duke’s voice calls from inside, and Emmy pushes open the door to find him sitting behind his massive desk surrounded by papers and ledgers, looking every inch the powerful aristocrat who has no time for frivolous things like actual partnership with his wife.
“Your Grace,” Emmy says, settling into the chair across from him without waiting for invitation because she’s tired of being deferential to a man who treats her with such distant formality. “You wished to discuss household matters?”
“I did,” the Duke confirms, and he’s looking at her with that same cold assessment he’s used since they met, like she’s a problem to be managed rather than a person to be known. “We should establish clear expectations for your role to avoid confusion or conflict going forward.”
“By all means,” Emmy says, folding her hands in her lap. “Please illuminate me regarding my duties as your duchess since you haven’t bothered to explain them during our three days of marriage.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens fractionally—the only indication that her barb landed—but he continues in the same measured tone.
“You’ll run the household,” the Duke begins, apparently working from a mental list he’s prepared. “Mrs. Winters will assist you with the actual management, but final decisions regarding domestic matters, staff assignments, social obligations, and charitable work will fall under your purview. I have no interest in those details as long as the house runs smoothly.”
“So I’m to be your housekeeper,” Emmy translates. “With a fancier title and more expensive clothing.”
“You’re to be my duchess,” the Duke corrects with clear impatience. “Which includes managing household affairs. That’s what duchesses do.”
“And what do dukes do?” Emmy challenges. “Besides avoid their wives and delegate all actual human interaction to their staff?”
The Duke sets down the paper he’s holding with careful precision, and when he looks at Emmy now there’s something almost dangerous in his ice-blue eyes.
“I manage the estate,” the Duke says quietly. “I oversee tenants and investments and responsibilities that keep this household functioning financially. I attend Parliament. I fulfill social and political obligations. And I do all of it while maintaining the emotional distance necessary for me to function without falling apart. Is that sufficient explanation of what dukes do?”
Emmy meets his gaze without flinching because she’s not going to be intimidated by his cold anger when she’s the one trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who can’t even pretend to care.
“Continue with your list,” Emmy says. “What other expectations do you have for your convenient wife?”
The Duke stares at her for a long moment, clearly wrestling with whether to address her hostility or just proceed with his agenda, and finally he continues as if she hadn’t challenged him.
“You’ll host when we have guests,” the Duke says. “Though I don’t entertain frequently. You’ll be expected to attend certain social functions as my duchess—balls, dinners, charity events—and to maintain appropriate behavior and conversation.”
“Define appropriate,” Emmy interjects.
“Polite. Refined. Nothing that would embarrass the duchy or cause scandal,” the Duke explains with clear exasperation. “You’re educated enough to manage basic social situations. I don’t anticipate difficulties there.”
“How generous of you to have such confidence in my abilities,” Emmy observes. “Is there more?”
“You’ll be given an allowance for personal expenses,” the Duke continues. “Clothing, books, whatever you need. Mrs. Winters will arrange for a modiste to visit and ensure you have appropriate wardrobes for all seasons and occasions.”
“Because I can’t be seen wearing my poor vicar’s daughter clothing now that I’m a duchess,” Emmy says. “Heaven forbid anyone remember I came from humble circumstances.”
“Because you’re my wife and should be dressed appropriately for your station,” the Duke corrects sharply. “This isn’t about shame. It’s about ensuring you have what you need to fulfill your role.”
Emmy doesn’t argue because he’s right—she does need appropriate clothing, even if the circumstances requiring it are depressing—and she waits for him to continue with whatever other rules he’s planning to impose.
“You’ll have freedom of the estate,” the Duke says. “The libraries, the gardens, the public rooms are all available for your use. You may ride if you wish—we have suitable horses. You may pursue charitable works or other activities appropriate to your position. I won’t restrict your movements or activities as long as they’re appropriate.”
“How magnanimous,” Emmy says. “I’m allowed to move freely in my own house. What a gift.”
“Are you capable of listening without commentary?” the Duke asks with clear frustration. “Or should I simply send all future communications through Mrs. Winters to avoid your sarcasm?”
“I’m listening,” Emmy says, even though listening to him lay out rules for their marriage like it’s a business contract is making her want to scream. “Please continue telling me how our arrangement will function.”
The Duke takes a breath, clearly trying to maintain his composure, and Emmy watches him struggle with patience he doesn’t really possess.
“As for the matter of producing an heir,” the Duke says, and his discomfort is visible now. “That will happen eventually. When I deem it appropriate.”
“Eventually,” Emmy repeats, latching onto the vague timeline. “Eventually when? Weeks? Months? Years? Or are you planning to avoid that obligation indefinitely like you’re avoiding everything else about actually being married?”
“When I deem it appropriate,” the Duke repeats firmly. “When I’m certain I can manage the process without causing harm to either of us. You’ll be informed in advance when that time comes.”
“Don’t I get a say?” Emmy demands, because she’s tired of him making unilateral decisions about their marriage without consulting her. “Don’t I get to have input on when we attempt to conceive an heir? Or is my body just another thing you control in this arrangement?”
The Duke looks at her with something that might be actual surprise beneath the cold control.
“Of course you have a say,” the Duke says, though he sounds uncertain. “I assumed—I thought you’d prefer to have time to adjust before we… before that became necessary.”
“What I’d prefer is to be consulted,” Emmy says. “To be treated like a partner in this marriage instead of like property you’ve acquired and are managing according to your preferences. But apparently that’s too much to ask from a husband who can’t even dine with me more than twice a week.”
“I’m trying,” the Duke says, and there’s actual frustration in his voice now. “I know my efforts don’t meet your expectations, but this is me trying to establish a functional arrangement that works for both of us.”
“It doesn’t work for me,” Emmy argues. “You’re establishing an arrangement that works for you—that lets you keep all the distance you want while still getting the heir you need. I’m just expected to accept whatever terms you dictate.”
“Then what would you prefer?” the Duke asks with clear exasperation. “What specifically would make this situation more tolerable for you?”
“I already told you,” Emmy says. “Actual presence. Actual acknowledgment. Treating me like a human being instead of a problem to be managed. But those things require emotional engagement you’re not willing to provide, so we’re at an impasse.”
The Duke stands abruptly and paces to the window, and Emmy watches his shoulders tense with frustration or distress or some combination of both.
“You get security,” the Duke says finally, his back to Emmy so she can’t see his expression. “You get wealth and position and your father’s debts forgiven. I get discretion and distance and an eventual heir. That’s the arrangement. That’s what we both agreed to.”
“You’re truly cold, aren’t you?” Emmy observes, using the same words she said on Christmas Eve when she first realized how empty he was. “Everyone warned me. They said the Duke of Ashford turned to ice when his wife died. But I thought surely there must be some warmth left somewhere. Some capacity for basic human connection. I was wrong.”
The Duke turns from the window with an expression that’s harder than Emmy has seen before, colder, more closed off than ever.
“I’m practical,” the Duke says flatly. “This is a practical arrangement serving practical purposes. You’d do well to be the same. Stop expecting romance or warmth or whatever fantasy you’ve built up about what marriage should be, and just accept what this actually is.”
“And what is it?” Emmy challenges. “Really. What is this marriage?”
“A legal contract,” the Duke says without hesitation. “A social arrangement. A practical solution to problems we both had. Nothing more.”
“And you’re satisfied with that?” Emmy asks. “You’re satisfied living the rest of your life in a marriage that’s nothing more than a contract? Never letting anyone close? Never risking actual connection?”
“Yes,” the Duke says simply. “I’m satisfied with that. Because the alternative—caring about someone enough to be destroyed when they inevitably leave or die—is unbearable. This arrangement keeps both of us safe from that kind of devastation.”
“It keeps you safe,” Emmy corrects. “I didn’t ask for this kind of safety. I asked for a real marriage.”
“You asked for your father’s debts to be cleared,” the Duke reminds her brutally. “You accepted my terms. You signed the contract knowing exactly what I was offering. If you’re dissatisfied now, that’s unfortunate, but it doesn’t change what we agreed to.”
Emmy stands because sitting and having this argument across his desk feels impossible when what she wants to do is shake him until some emotion breaks through all that ice.
“I accepted your terms because I had no choice,” Emmy says. “Because my father was dying and we were facing ruin. But that doesn’t mean I’m required to pretend this is acceptable. That doesn’t mean I have to just silently tolerate being married to a man who treats me like I’m invisible.”
“I don’t treat you like you’re invisible,” the Duke argues. “I’m having this conversation with you right now. I’m explaining expectations and attempting to establish functional parameters for our arrangement. That’s more engagement than I’ve managed with anyone in five years.”
“That’s pathetic,” Emmy says honestly. “That basic conversation about household management is the most engagement you can manage. That’s not something to be proud of. That’s something to be ashamed of.”
The Duke’s face goes very still, and Emmy watches something flash through his eyes that might be actual hurt beneath all the defensive coldness.
“Are we finished here?” the Duke asks, his voice carefully neutral again. “Or is there more criticism you’d like to deliver?”
“We’re finished,” Emmy says, moving toward the door because staying in this room with this impossible man feels unbearable. “Thank you for clarifying my role, Your Grace. I’ll endeavor to be a satisfactory housekeeper with a fancy title.”
She’s reaching for the door handle when the Duke speaks again, and something in his voice makes her pause.
“Emmy.”
She turns back despite her better judgment, and finds him looking at her with an expression that’s not quite as empty as usual.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” the Duke says quietly. “I know you deserve better than what I can offer. But this is all I have. Distance and rules and careful management of a marriage that keeps both of us from being destroyed. If that’s not enough, I’m sorry. But I can’t give you more than this.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Emmy challenges.
“Does it matter?” the Duke responds. “The result is the same either way.”
Emmy leaves his study without responding because there’s nothing to say that will change the fundamental reality of their situation—she’s married to a man who’s explicitly told her he can’t offer love or warmth or actual partnership, and she has to find a way to survive that however she can.
She spends the rest of the day in the library reading to escape the crushing loneliness of being married but functionally alone, and when Mrs. Winters finds her hours later to discuss household matters, Emmy accepts the distraction gratefully because at least managing staff and planning menus gives her something to do beyond dwelling on how miserable her marriage is.
“His Grace mentioned he’d discussed your role with you,” Mrs. Winters says carefully. “Are you comfortable with the household responsibilities, Your Grace? I’m happy to guide you through anything you’re uncertain about.”
“I’m comfortable managing a house,” Emmy says. “I’m less comfortable being married to a man who treats basic conversation like it’s an enormous burden.”
Mrs. Winters’ expression shifts to sympathy. “He’s trying, Your Grace. I know it doesn’t feel like much, but he is trying. Five years ago he wouldn’t have had this conversation at all. He wouldn’t have explained anything. The fact that he’s making even minimal effort is… it’s progress.”
“Progress,” Emmy repeats bitterly. “That’s a depressing measure of success for a marriage. ‘At least he’s making minimal effort to acknowledge I exist.’ ”
“I know,” Mrs. Winters says gently. “But with His Grace, minimal effort is sometimes all you get. And you have to decide whether that’s enough or if you need more.”
Emmy doesn’t know how to answer that because she doesn’t know what her options are—stay in this lonely marriage and hope it eventually improves, or… what? Leave? Run away from a legal contract she can’t escape? Demand the Duke change when he’s explicitly said he can’t?
She’s trapped in this marriage just as surely as she would have been trapped in debtor’s prison if she’d refused it, and all she can do is find ways to survive the loneliness and distance and hope that eventually it becomes bearable instead of devastating.
That night Emmy eats dinner alone in her chambers because Tuesday isn’t until tomorrow and the Duke apparently can’t manage more than his promised two dinners per week, and she lies in her massive bed listening to the silence from the Duke’s chambers on the other side of the locked door and tries not to cry about how completely alone she feels despite being legally bound to another person.
The Duke has made his expectations clear—she’ll manage his household, fulfill social obligations, produce an heir eventually when he decides he’s ready, and otherwise stay out of his way while he maintains the emotional distance that keeps him functional.
And Emmy has to decide whether she can survive that arrangement.
Whether minimal effort and careful rules are enough to build a life on.
Whether marriage without love or warmth or actual partnership is sustainable or if she’ll eventually break under the weight of loneliness.
She doesn’t have answers yet.
But she’s starting to understand that this is her life now—married but alone, a duchess but not truly a wife, legally bound to a man who’s given her security and position but can’t give her what she actually needs.
And somehow she has to find a way to make that enough.
However long it takes.
However much it costs her.
Because leaving isn’t an option, and demanding more from the Duke only results in him retreating further behind his walls.
So Emmy closes her eyes and tries to sleep, and she tells herself that maybe eventually this will get easier.
Maybe eventually she’ll stop expecting warmth from a man made of ice.
Maybe eventually she’ll accept that this is all she’s going to get, and she’ll find a way to be satisfied with it.
Maybe.
Though she’s not counting on it.
Reader Reactions