Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“Mrs. Hughes!” Wilhelm’s voice boomed from within his study as he put down his quill and inadvertently splattered ink across his desk.

The heavy oak door creaked open, and the sound of small, self-assured footsteps filled the room.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes said, her head bowed slightly as she stood before him.

“Have this cleaned up at once, please,” he said sharply. “Did you refresh the brandy in the downstairs library as I had instructed?”

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Wilhelm uttered as he stood up and walked to the study door. Without turning, he added, “That will be all for this evening, Mrs. Hughes. You may retire.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes replied, her voice trailing behind him as he continued down the hall.

Wilhelm felt as though he had not slept in days, because his mind refused to stop jumbling up his thoughts and offering up each one for his inspection. He had tried to quiet his mind with warm cups of tea, a bit of light reading, and several shots of brandy, but his efforts had been fruitless.

He descended the stairs and came to a stop before the library’s engraved wooden door. He pushed it open with one swift motion and immersed himself in its peaceful symphony of rustling pages, the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate, and the faint scent of aged leather.

He scanned the library’s towering bookshelves and the plush armchairs nestled among them.

After spending countless days lost in the labyrinthine world of business, money, and revenge, his mind had become overrun by strategies and calculations. He now needed the comforting embrace of literature and a well-deserved glass of brandy.

As he ventured into the library’s hushed depths, he stumbled upon an unexpected sight.

Curled up in a plush wingback armchair, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, was the sleeping form of the Duchess.

She wore a soft, flowing white nightgown, its delicate fabric clinging to her curves and pooling around her feet. A warm woolen shawl was loosely draped over her shoulders, but it did little to conceal the enticing bare skin of her neck and upper chest. A book lay open in her lap, its pages illuminated by the flickering flames, and a half-empty glass of wine rested on the table beside her.

Wilhelm’s breath hitched, his heart rate quickening as he took in the sight of his wife.

She looked breathtakingly beautiful. Though he had caught fleeting glimpses of her since their arrival at Ravenshire—moments in the hallways or across the vast dining table—the captivating scene before him was altogether different. This was Genevieve in her element—unguarded and at ease. A peaceful, translucent aura surrounded her and shimmered in the firelight.

Sensing his presence, Genevieve stirred in her chair, stretched out her legs, and opened her eyes. Startled by his sudden appearance, she bolted upright and tightened her shawl around her in an attempt at preserving modesty, to shield her body from his prying eyes.

“Your Grace,” she greeted in a sleepy voice. “I did not know that you would be coming here this evening.”

Wilhelm inclined his head, a subtle smile playing on his lips. “Nor I, Duchess, but I have had difficulty falling asleep these last few nights. I thought some quiet respite would be helpful,” he replied, deliberately emphasizing her title, recognizing that she wanted them to remain formal with each other.

He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head in the direction of the vacant wingback chair beside her. “May I join you?”

Genevieve hesitated, her gaze darting to the book in her lap.

“I…” she breathed. “I was just about to retire for the evening,” she mumbled, closing her book and demurely smoothing down her nightgown.

She rose from the armchair and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her upper body, her nightgown still clinging to her curves, and took several steps towards the door.

Wilhelm’s instincts kicked in. He moved quickly to stop her. He blocked her path with his tall, muscular frame and smiled down at her.

“I promise you, my sweetheart, I do not bite. Also, you did tell me that you are not afraid of me,” he reminded her, his voice a silky caress that sent a shiver down her spine.

He did not want to frighten her—that had never been his intention. But he had noticed that with each passing day, she was becoming more distant and guarded around him. A subtle strain would inevitably materialize between them whenever they were together in the same room.

Genevieve’s unflinching gaze met his, and she shrugged in response to his statement.

“Firstly, I am not your sweetheart, and secondly, I am not afraid of you,” she replied, her voice steady and cold.

“Then why do you continue to avoid me on a daily basis?” Wilhelm inquired with obvious frustration, his eyes searching her face for answers. “Why is it that every time I enter a room, you flee to the next? What is it that you are running from?”

Genevieve’s lips tightened, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “There is a difference between fear and wariness,” she retorted, not looking away from him. “Your Grace.”

Taken aback by her unexpected response, Wilhelm furrowed his brow. “Wariness?” he repeated, now utterly intrigued. “Of what, precisely?”

Genevieve lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering as her voice sliced through the space between them.

“Please, you are clever enough to understand what I am wary of,” she retorted with a quiet fury. “I have been staying in your home for days, yet you remain silent. You have failed to provide me with reasonable explanations for this so-called union.”

Oh, she is not scared. She is angry at me.

The thought ignited a burst of heat and energy that felt like fireworks exploding in his chest.

Wilhelm pressed his lips together to suppress a broad smile.

“Our home,” he gently corrected. “And as for explanations, perhaps they are best savored slowly, like fine wine.”

Genevieve’s annoyance flared. “I have told you many times, Your Grace, that I am not a woman who appreciates prolonged anticipation,” she said, blinking and grimacing in obvious impatience. “I prefer efficiency, clarity, and transparency.”

Wilhelm chuckled, unable to help himself. “Patience is a virtue, Duchess,” he countered, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And one that I believe you would do well to cultivate.”

“I have little patience for games, Your Grace,” she declared. “Especially when I cannot avoid them. Since our marriage is obviously based on one, I demand answers, and I am not prepared to grow old waiting for them.”

“Demand, Duchess?” he said, a playful lilt in his voice. “You are forgetting your place. That demand violates the terms of our marriage.”

Genevieve’s cheeks flushed with anger. She clenched and pulled on her shawl so forcefully that it shifted and exposed her hips.

Wilhelm forced himself not to give in to temptation and let his eyes wander down her body to the thin fabric that covered her generous breasts.

I wonder if her nipples are hard.

“You assured me that I was free to ask for whatever I want, so I am asking you to tell me the truth. I am not a child to be patronized,” she huffed in indignation. “I am your wife, and I deserve your respect and cooperation.”

“I understand your frustration with my reticence.” He tried to keep his voice low and soothing. “I assure you, there are valid reasons for my secrecy.”

Curiosity quickly replaced Genevieve’s anger. She blinked, her long lashes gently brushing her cheeks, and she inclined her head questioningly.

“And what are those reasons?” she said slowly.

Wilhelm shook his head. “I fear that I cannot divulge my reasons yet.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “But I promise you, Duchess, in time, all will be revealed.”

At Wilhelm’s secretive words, Genevieve’s hands balled into fists, and her nails dug into her palms. Her breathing quickened, and a muscle in her jaw ticked as she fought to maintain a neutral expression.

She looked towards the door, but her feet remained rooted in place.

The distance between them thrummed with a sharp crackle of mutual restraint. Genevieve’s chest rose and fell with frustration, and it became increasingly difficult for Wilhelm not to glance down at it.

“I have had more than enough of your vagueness, Your Grace,” she said through gritted teeth, the words escaping before she could stop them.

She turned on her heel with an annoyed huff and began to walk away from him, but Wilhelm’s hand shot out, seized her waist, and pulled her back.

She gasped at the force and suddenness of his maneuver, and her heart lurched to her throat. Her body became rigid and frozen in place as she stared up at him in shock.

Wilhelm watched her body react to his powerful touch. He took notice of the subtle change in her breathing and the way she had stiffened like a cornered rabbit, but he could also detect a degree of vulnerability and innocence.

Was it possible that she was still a virgin? That her first husband had perished before he had the chance to consummate their marriage?

The thought excited Wilhelm more than he would admit. If Genevieve was untouched, unclaimed… it meant that all of her would belong to him.

He reached out one hand and gently ran his fingers across her lips. Genevieve flinched, and her breathing quickened, further confirming his suspicions.

“Have you ever been touched before?” he asked as he continued tracing her lips with his fingers.

He smiled faintly as he felt her stiffen at his question.

“Excuse me?” she blinked, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Have you ever been touched before?” he repeated slowly and deliberately, savoring the way her blush deepened.

He was not trying to be cruel, but there was something intoxicating about her reaction. He relished the flush that crept up her cheeks and the way she turned her head slightly to avoid his gaze. He found himself captivated by the vulnerability in her expression.

Genevieve was not one to show weakness.

“You know,” he began, his voice low, leaning in just enough to make his words sound more intimate. “Your previous husband died mere hours after your wedding. I cannot help but wonder…”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them, watching her as her features tightened.

“Could it mean that you are completely inexperienced?”

She sucked in a sharp breath as the color drained from her face, then returned with renewed intensity and spread across her neck and cheeks.

Her eyes quickly darted away. Was it due to embarrassment? Annoyance?

“I am certain that he kissed you at the altar, did he not?” Wilhelm continued, his voice deliberately soft. “But all kisses are different, do you not agree? Perhaps that experience was unlike ours… at our wedding.”

Genevieve’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, her body betraying her emotions. The flush on her cheeks deepened, but there was now something else in her expression—reluctance.

He could feel a subtle shift in the way she leaned into him, as though the vibrations between them were becoming too much for her to bear.

“Perhaps it is time that I showed you what a real kiss is like,” he said.

And then, his lips crashed down on hers.

There was no hesitation now. All of her resistance melted in an instant, her body responding to his in ways that sent a lightning bolt of desire straight through him.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders, and for a split second, it felt as though she intended to push him away. But then her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pulled him closer, meeting his kiss with an urgency that gave him shockwaves of pleasure.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured against her hungry mouth as his fingers traced the delicate contours of her face.

She exhaled faintly, her breath warm, her lips lingering against his own. Her deep blue eyes, half-lidded from the intensity of their kiss, slowly widened as a sudden realization sparked within them—a flicker of alarm that he could feel as it radiated from her.

Her gaze shifted, and she studied his face intently as if searching for some hidden answer.

Then, in one sharp motion, she wrenched herself free and stepped away from him as if she had been scalded.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes and a hardened gaze, her lips pursed in fury.

Or was it fear?

Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled, her steps quick and silent as she crossed the room, the only sound the soft rustle of her nightgown.