If the young duke found his
wife less loving, less tender of heart, than he had believed her to be,
he had no complaint.
"She is so beautiful and gifted," he would say to himself. "I cannot
expect everything. I know that she loves me, although she does not say
much about it. I know that I can trust her in all things, even though
she makes no protestations."
They fell into the general routine of life. One loved--the other allowed
herself to be loved. The duke adored his wife, and she accepted his
adoration.
They were never spoken of as a model couple, although every one agreed
that it was an excellent match--that they were very happy. The duke
looked up with wondering admiration to the beautiful stately lady who
bore his name. She could not do wrong in his eyes, everything she said
was right, all she did was perfect. He never dreamed of opposing her
wishes. There was no lady in England so completely her own mistress, so
completely mistress of every one and everything around her, as her Grace
of Hazlewood.
When the season came around again, and the brilliant life which she had
laid out for herself was hers, she might have been the happiest of women
but for the cloud which darkened, her whole existence.
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