Chapter 20

"Ithought Bruxton Hall was supposed to be a grim lump of gray in the midst of equally dismal moors?" Anthony said, his head hanging out of the carriage window.

William stifled a yawn. "That was years ago before Edwin's marriage made him respectable again."

"Ah, so this is what all of you dukes do, is it? Your estates begin to crumble, you marry well, then suddenly your manors are transformed?" Anthony waved a hand. "You have to see this, Brother!"

William nodded. "What else would dukes with crumbling manors do? It is a centuries-long tradition."

He peered out of the opposite window to see what all of the fuss was about. He had not expected to see much, but with it being summer, the nights were lighter. Even if they had not been, every window of Bruxton Hall blazed with candlelight, illuminating what appeared to be a very pretty manor indeed.

Well-kept lawns flanked a driveway of white gravel, where young cypress trees and full-canopied hawthorns stood guard. The manor itself was a fine thing of sleek, dark gray stone and a slate roof, the walls naturally decorated with swathes of ivy. Wisteria grew over and around the colonnaded front terrace, where large stone pots of various bright flowers were in full bloom.

It makes Stonebridge look like a grim lump of gray…

But perhaps William's manor would be similarly transformed into something beautiful. He hoped so.

"Are you excited to see your wife?" Anthony asked.

William did not answer, preferring to concentrate on the manor. But as they drew closer and the music drifted out to greet them, he could not help imagining Lydia in his arms as they waltzed together. She had not toyed with him then. She had been nervous and shy and had relied on him to guide her, clinging to his lapels and his hand as if her life depended on it.

Perhaps he could call her bluff if they danced again.

As such, when the carriage came to a halt by the front steps, he did not hesitate. He marched up the steps, leaving Anthony to catch up, and headed decisively for the ballroom.

It was not hard to find, for a steady flow of grandly attired guests were meandering in that direction, pausing only to admire the portraits and landscapes that adorned the beautifully papered, cream and gold walls.

Through the tall double doors, in that fine ballroom, he fully expected to find his wife on the periphery, watching others dance, perhaps daydreaming of their waltz too. After all, his rules dictated that she was not to dance with another gentleman in public, and he was certain that she would, at the very least, abide by that one.

So, it was nothing short of a smack in the face when he caught sight of her, radiant and resplendent, dancing a vigorous country dance with a gentleman who was not him.

Anthony caught up at that moment. "Do not be too hard on her," he gasped, regaining his breath. "It is expected."

"No, Anthony, what is expected is that I have an obedient wife," William growled, so incensed by the scene on the dance floor that he did not know what to do with himself.

She lied about the red.

He concentrated on his breathing—in for eight seconds, hold for four seconds, out for ten seconds. He could not lose his calm demeanor in public. He would not have his wife dent yet another facet of his reputation because she found three simple rules so impossible to follow.

"You are married now," Anthony urged. "This is how married couples are expected to behave. A wife should dance with others for the sake of making friends and allies. A gentleman should dance with others for the same reason."

William tuned his brother out, transfixed by the vision in pearlescent white who whirled around the dance floor like a heavenly being. He had anticipated a vision in devilish red. He might have been less irked if she had dressed the part of the seductress she had been playing ever since she had ambushed him in London. He had not anticipated this.

He never much bothered with fashions, allowing his valet to inform him of what was considered à la mode. But the gown Lydia wore might have been the most beautiful he had ever seen.

It shimmered like liquid with every twist and turn of her body, the color impossible to explain—white transforming into pink into blue into the palest green. The beading, however, was as she had described it—exquisite. Teardrop shapes that added to the impression that her gown was somehow water, cascading to the floor. Tasseled sleeves, ornately crafted from dangling jewels, winked in the ballroom lights. And if he was not mistaken, her strawberry-blonde hair had been waved and styled as if she had been caught in a charming downpour—somehow appearing wet but not bedraggled. The sort of wet that might inspire a man to heroism.

"Excuse me for a moment," William said to his brother, not waiting for a reply as he weaved through the crowd.

He kept one eye on his wife as he headed toward the small cluster of people on the far side of the room by the terrace windows, who were as captivated by Lydia as everyone else seemed to be.

"A lovely ball, Duchess." He dipped his head ever so slightly. "You must be very pleased with it."

Joanna stared at him in surprise. "Why… thank you, Duke. Yes, I am rather pleased with it." She gestured out to the dance floor. "Your wife is making yet another fine impression, is she not?"

"Have you seen her card?" he asked abruptly.

Joanna frowned. "Pardon?"

"Her card. Have you seen it?" He did not like having to repeat himself.

Emma stepped in. "Yes, I do believe it is entirely full. What a pity that you were not here earlier, or you might have gained a place on it. Although, if you were to ask nicely, I am certain she would find a spot for you."

"Thank you." He flashed a dark smile at Emma and turned his back to the party of Lydia's friends and family.

I warned you, Lydia. I told you at the tearoom that it would be the last time I tolerated your disregard for my commands.

It was that gown. That sparkling, shimmering, bridal gown. He heard her call him ‘husband' in his mind, and his blood boiled all the more, despising every light graze of that other gentleman's hand on his wife. They were chaste enough touches and friendly presses of palm on palm, but he could not accept anyone putting so much as a fingertip on that heavenly gown nor the woman who wore it as if she had been born to wear it.

He halted at the side of the dance floor and stood tall with his arms behind his back. A few ladies made doe eyes at him, and a few gentlemen whispered in amusement, but he ignored them all, his attention entirely fixed on Lydia.

Incensed though he was, he would not behave in a manner that was beneath him. He would be courteous enough to let her finish her dance with this intruder, but that would be all. After that, there would be no further courtesy, no further leniency for her mistakes and blatant breaking of his rules.

"A mite jealous, are you?" a gentleman said amiably, coming to stand at William's side. "Who would not be with such a wife as that? I, myself, am due to dance the next set with her."

William turned his head just a little and let his eyes do the talking for him. A threatening glare that hit its mark instantly. The gentleman lowered his gaze and backed off, muttering an unintelligible apology.

That warning glare seemed to have cast a spell around him, inviting no one to start a conversation, keeping others away. The ladies who had been casting sideways glances at him did not dare to look in his direction now, and the gossip died in his vicinity.

At that moment, Lydia and her partner danced past him, swinging one another around in giddy circles.

Her eyes widened as she finally spotted her husband, and her lips parted in a soft gasp. She missed the next step, grabbing her partner's arm to hold herself steady, before picking up the dance once more.

William watched it all with an entirely blank expression, though it was a different story inside. He simmered with a quiet fury, bubbling with jealousy he refused to acknowledge, smoldering with the rampant desire to peel that tortuous gown from her body as slowly as possible, for it was far too beautiful to tear it off her.

Lydia wished the music would never end. Not because she wanted to keep dancing with the Earl, but so she would not have to cease and face her husband. He was standing there as calm and still as a statue, but she had never seen any statue with eyes that burned like that.

She was in trouble, she knew that much.

"Are you well?" the Earl of Gorsley asked.

Lydia forced a smile. "Of course, Lord Gorsley."

Not at all, Lord Gorsley. Indeed, I feel quite sick.

"You look rather pale," he insisted.

"I am always pale. My mother forever commanded that I was not allowed even a hint of sunlight on my face, lest I gain a solitary freckle." She attempted a smile.

The Earl chuckled, and behind him, Will's eyes darkened. Lydia's nerves began to roar, her legs turning wobbly. But nerves were a waste of time when she should have been formulating her excuses.

"You are delightful, Your Grace," the Earl said. "So very amusing for one so young."

Lydia was about to respond when the music came to a close. The Earl laughed and dipped into another elegant bow while Lydia bobbed a shaky curtsy.

"That was wonderful," he said. "Thank you kindly. I wish I had requested two dances now."

"You had one," Will's cold voice cut in. "That is one more than any other. Be grateful for that."

Lydia's heart threatened to stop, her hands trembling so violently that she folded them both against her stomach.

The Earl balked. "Your Grace, I did not see you there. I was just saying how delightful your wife has been. She is an excellent dancer."

"I heard what you were saying." Will stepped between Lydia and the Earl, his searing gaze burning into her. His hand closed around her wrist as he whispered, "We are done here."

She would have asked what he meant, but he made it clear a moment later when he tugged her forward, pulling her through the crowds to the exit. She made a vain attempt to resist, for she could not leave without saying farewell to her sister and her friends. Indeed, she had no reason to leave at all—according to other duchesses, she had done nothing wrong.

"Will, stop," she hissed. "You are hurting me."

He was not, but he did not need to know that.

He let go of her wrist, but before she had a chance to enjoy the release, he was at her side with his arm around her, ushering her out of the ballroom all the same.

"I am not ready to depart," she insisted. "If I leave now, without a word, it will seem rude. Joanna has put a great deal of effort into this ball—the least I can do is thank her for a lovely evening. Or what was a lovely evening until you came along and ruined it."

She waited for their usual banter, hoping to break the tension that way, but he appeared to lack any hint of amusement or desire to have a repartee.

"Where are your belongings?" Will asked curtly.

Lydia frowned. "Half are in my guest chamber, half are still in the carriage."

He signaled to one of the servants, informing them to gather a few other men to remove her belongings from her chambers and load them onto her carriage.

"And wake the driver if he is not already at his post. We are leaving," he added.

The servant nodded and hurried off without delay while Will continued to march Lydia out of the manor as if she were a common criminal. She could not bear it, but nor could she risk causing a scene.

"Will, what is the meaning of this?" Lydia hissed out of the corner of her mouth. "I have done what is expected of a duchess. I have behaved with decorum. I have not embarrassed you. The Earl of Gorsley is enormously wealthy and looking for investors in his mining endeavors. One afternoon of tea—or liquor, if you prefer—with him, and you might find your problems halved. Gentlemen talk when they dance—they cannot seem to help it."

Will's brow creased. "You are not my business nor my financial advisor. You are my wife. I do not need you to investigate gentlemen on my behalf. I just need you to do as you have been asked, though I see now that I was foolish to think you capable of such a simple request."

"I danced. You were not here. I did not know if you would be here. What have I done that deserves such ire from you?"

She knew, but she wanted him to admit it. She wanted him to tell her that he was worried about her being like his mother. She wanted him to be honest with her, instead of making up silly, impossible rules that benefited only him. He might have told her that she could not expect love, and she might have been waiting to demand an annulment, but in the meantime, she knew she deserved more than this. A prison fraudulently described as ‘freedom.'

He did not reply. Instead, he continued to march her to the manor entrance and did not stop until they were outside the carriage that he had arrived in.

He wrenched open the door. "Get in."

"Not until you let me say farewell to my sister, at least," Lydia replied, dragging her feet on the gravel.

He huffed out a breath. "Very well."

She smirked, believing she had won this quarrel. As such, she was not ready to fight back as he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and climbed into the carriage.

He set her down roughly on the squabs and closed the door behind them. That done, he sat down opposite, staring at her in a way that suggested that trying to defy him would not be a good idea.

"I told you there would be consequences," he said. "You know what you have done. Do not feign innocence on this one. There was no bending of the rules tonight—you took a hammer to the first one."

Lydia sat up straighter. "You ought to remember your words more keenly. I rarely forget what is said to me, particularly important information." She paused, before affecting her deepest, gruffest voice. "One, you will not flirt with any gentleman other than myself when we are in public."

"So, you admit it?" He was breathing hard, though she could not understand why—he had not done anything to warrant such exertion.

She shook her head. "You will not flirt with any gentleman other than myself when we are in public." She held his gaze boldly. "We were not in public. You were not here. Ergo, I have broken no rule. If you are to be a man of business, my silver wolf, you ought to be very careful of how you word things. A mistake with me will not matter much, but a mistake in a contract could be disastrous."

His expression became blank as he stared at her. It took all the willpower she possessed to keep staring right back, her posture rigid, her chin up. She still did not know what Mary had meant about ‘taking it all,' but she had her own reasons for not letting him win. Namely, that he had just removed her from an evening with her friends and sister, stealing away the liberty that had been promised to her.

If she gave in now, she would set a dangerous precedent.

"Careful, kitten," he said softly. "Or need I remind you of your wording?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"One," he replied with a smile. "You and I will not share a bed, nor be man and wife in said bed, unless youstay out of other ladies' beds for at least a month."

Her frown deepened. "I see no matter with my wording."

"This is a carriage." He leaned forward, placing one hand on either side of her thighs, his mouth so close to hers that she could have kissed him if she had but moved half an inch. "Not a bed."

"Oh…" she whispered, her heart racing as her body responded, not in fear or fright but in sudden and all-consuming need.