As you pore over another letter requesting a forgiveness of debt, you hear a disturbance without the modest holding of your marital home. Your husband’s groom comes through the front door, his steps much lighter than those of the squat count. He rushes to knock upon the study door.

You bid him to enter.

“My lady,” Basil bends his neck. “The lord is receiving a visitor.”

You lay down the scroll and let it roll upon itself. “A visitor? Unannounced?”

“Yes, my lady. Most unexpected but the lord bids you make certain dinner is enough for all.” Basil rocks on his heels anxiously.

“Yes, yes, we would be sure to uphold hospitality,” you assure him as you come out from behind the desk. “Certainly, I am not upset, though Constance may be. Assure my lord husband it will be done.”

“Yes, my lady.” He shrinks into his shoulders and leaves.

You smile to yourself. You’re never cruel to those in your employ. There’s no reason in it. Your mother would roar at her maid and it only ever got her resent. When she died, none of the servants were very sombre.

You go to the kitchen and find Constance. “We’ll have a guest for dinner.”

“A guest?” She grumbles as she turns the spit in the firestove, a healthy hen roasting over the flames.

“Yes. It seems my husband has found company.”

“Lord Randall if much too amiable for the scantness of his larder.” She wipes her fingers on her apron.

“Mm, I know it.” You mull, not confessing the poor news from the sowers in the southern fields. You will be short of grain for the winter.

You leave the cook to her grumbling. She will use more potatoes than she meant to that night, though you would take a lesser ration for the occasion. You find Mirabel, your sole maid, and have her ready the table in expectation.

You climb up to your chambers to fuss at your plain gown and cap. Randall talks of attending court next season but you hardly have the wardrobe for it, even if you’ve the title. Third daughters are rarely left a fair lot but you wonder if a convent would’ve done you better.

You hear voices without and go to the window. You hide behind the thick curtain and watch your husband approach with a much larger man. Randall is not tall or handsome. His cheeks are ruddy and pocked, and his stature is squat.

The stranger is tall and burly. His collar is high and a jewel catches the sunlight. His attire is much brighter than your husband's. Your simple embroidery around the cuffs and collar does little to stand out against the tanned leather.

You descend to greet your husband and his companion. Basil opens the doors and announces them.

“The Lord Randall returns, with the Duke of Krypfort, Lord Clark Kent.” He declares in a wobbly voice. The formality is laughable. The countly holding is more a farmhouse than a castle.

“Lord Kent,” your husband gestures as you step off the last step. “My sweet wife,” he introduces you proudly. “She has no doubt been a flurry readying our dinner.”

“Lord Kent,” you curtsy. You know of him. Your husband’s overlord. Merely a name in your head until that very moment. His chin is cleft finely, his nose is strong, and his blue eyes are bolder than the sky. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“And very much surprised.” Lord Randall adds with a chortle.

“Ah, yes, I was unable to send word ahead.” Lord Kent explains as he nears you. He offers his hand. You glance at your husband then lift your own. The duke takes it and bends to kiss your knuckles. “Such a lovely wife. And your brood?”

“None, as yet.” Randall chafes in his boots. “But it is a young marriage.”

“And you are still a young man with a very young wife.” Kent’s mouth slants as his eyes linger on you. “You see, the king sends me upon business. The council has voted upon an audit of the counties. Thus I must submit my own holdings.”

“I recall last time it was the earl’s who came out, my lord.” Randall intones.

“They did.” Kent affirms as your husband leads him to the modest dining hall. You follow. “But my earls do bolster and shorten their numbers when it suits them. I figured to do the counting mine self. It is a fine opportunity to make myself familiar to my people as it were.” He pauses and turns, looking back at you. “Lady, let us not forget our manners. Please, sit.”

You bat your lashes. “Oh, no fuss. I should help Constance with dinner–”

“Let the cook and her servants attend to their own work,” he insists.” As he pulls back a chair. “Please sit. As I said, I long to know my vassals.”

You look to your husband again. He arches a brow. You abide and near, sitting as the lord pushes the chair under you. You thank him meekly. He claims the seat next to you as Randall hesitates before rounding the table to sit across from you.

“And how long have you been married, Lord Randall?” Kent eyes you as you try not to notice.

“Ah, I believe, just short two years or thus.” Your husband answers. “I’ve been much away at business.”

“Business? What business would be more important than a lovely wife.” The duke chides. “My own… she gave me a son before her tragic passing.” He pauses and exhales. “He’s a healthy boy. Growing fast but I should’ve liked to give him siblings.”

“Condelences, my lord. We received news and we were sad to hear it. I saw Lady Lois prior. In Noth as she was on her way to the Easter mass.”

“Oh, yes, wasn’t she shining. The most lovely hair.” He sighs again. He turns to look at you. “Cherish your wife and she will give you fine issue.”

Yes, my lord. Certainly, I only long to do so.” Randall assures.

You try not to blush at the underlying suggestions. Your husband does attempt to do his duty. You try not to think of his fumbling of how many times he’s spilled on your thigh before doing more than that. You hold an elegant smile.

“My lord,” your voice is squeaky. “Was it a long road here?”

“Ah, she is kind. Caring.” He praises. “I’ve been ahorse for some time. I’ve come down from Rochewyn all the way along the Bend.” He draws his route with his thick finger.

“That is a very long way. I came along the Bend for my wedding day. My family hails from Cynster.”

“Longer way than mine.” He remarks. “Let’s hope it was for a good marriage.”

Your husband shifts in his chair. Basil and Mirabel appear with trays of bread and butter. They lay them down as the duke observes them quietly. He doesn’t say anything as they go and he slices into a loaf.

“Is that the extent of your staff, Lord Randall?” He asks at last.

“At this time. When the season reaps, we will budget for more. My wife does keep a fine and tight household.”

“She must to subsist on a maid and a groom.”

“And a cook,” your husband adds.

Lord Kent bites into the hard bread. You butter a chunk for yourself but find your appetite waning. He swallows as you feel his gaze upon you once more.

“Her complexion welcomes colour. She would look fine in a shade of rose.” He drawls. “Perhaps a more fashionable silhouette as well.” Lord Kent rebukes.

“Well, as I’ve said, we hadn’t time to ready for you lord.”

“A noblewoman should always be kept in finery. And a wife should always be ready, yes?” Lord Kent insists boldly. “And she is a beautiful wife, Randall. Submissive, gentle.”

Your husband clears his throat. “She is a good wife, yes, Duke.”

“She deserves a good husband.”

You squirm as the words hang in the silence until it bubbles and boils. Mirabel and Basil return with plates of hen and potatoes, along with sliced beets and barley. You hesitate as the duke eagerly digs in and your husband moves his food around, chewing on his agitation.

“If you are to build your holding, Lord Randall, you will need to first build a family.” Kent pauses to lick his lips, smacking them together. He angles to lean on his elbow and looms over you.  “Tell me, Lady, when last did your husband lay with you?”

“My lord,” Randall scoffs, appalled.

The duke raises his palm to your husband without looking. “Tell me, lady? When last did he pay his duty to you?”

“This is–” Your husband begins.

“It is upon my task. I must know whether I can expect any fruit to be borne of this hold.” Kent insists brusquely, staring you down as you wilt and look at your plate. “When?”

“My lord, I… I’m unsure–”

“Within the last fortnight?” He prompts.

You twitch. “My lord. I… it is indecent to say–”

“Yes?”

“I… believe so.” You peek up at Randal as his face scalds scarlet.

“Mm, well, I suppose he might have planted something in such a fertile field,” he touches your sleeve and you flinch.

“My lord,” Randall drones flatly.

“But did he pleasure you?”

You gulp. Your husband sits up as tall as he can and rests his hand over the blunt butter knife.

“My lord…” you whisper.

“Has he ever?” The duke pinches your sleeve and leans in. “Have you cried out his name as your entire being shook?”

You blanch as your lip trembles. You can’t speak. Your whole body is alight.

“With respect, my lord, I do not appreciate your impropriety–”

“With respect, Count,” Kent points at your husband without a glimpse in his direction. “You’ve no right to bid me of my manners on the ground I have rights to. On the grounds you pay me oversight to. So shut your fat mouth.”

Randall’s nostrils flare and he growls. He slaps his hand down and grips the butter knife. “You’ve offended me in my own home–” He charges around the table.

The duke stands calmly as your husband’s chair clatters. He faces Randall as he barrels around the end of the table. Kent’s hand works lithely around his belt and he steps forward without hesitation.

He bats the butter knife from Randall’s hand and your husband lurches and sputters, a sickly groan grinding up his throat. He leans on the duke as he wheezes and Kent’s elbow bends deep and his shoulder jerks. He shoves your husband away and the shorter man tips onto his back, trembling as he slaps at the leaking wound in his stomach.

You gasp as your scream sticks in your throat. Your eyes water as your head spins. This cannot be. It cannot!