6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

Dinner was lovely, delicious, extravagant . . . and quiet.

Louisa sat at her dressing table, lightly brushing her hair as it cascaded over her shoulder. Her maid, Beatrice, had already brushed it to a silky shine, but Louisa found the action soothing, letting the bristles glide repeatedly over the strands. Her hands were restless, and she wasn't sure she would be able to sleep for some time. And the shared door in her room was troubling her.

She did not think the duke intended to come and visit her tonight, but by all rights, he could. Slipping into her bed, she burrowed deep within its covers.

Louisa tossed and turned as she kept awaiting a knock, and as she did, her mind turned to other matters that would not seem to settle.

She could not allow her contractual marriage to compromise her pledge.

She would never love a man.

Henry had questioned her for so long about why she did not wish to marry—but never had she confided in him the reason. He would have thought it an unreasonable answer, so instead of opening up, she had closed walls around her heart. But nothing would diminish the heartache Louisa had watched her mother go through. Nothing would appease the ache Louisa herself felt when she remembered her father's frail form lying in his bed, slowly dying each day.

Her mother still had not recovered. She often took to her bed with headaches, and the familiar smile she had always held when her father was still alive was much harder to come by. She put it on in moments when their family was together, enjoying the sweetness of what remained of their family. But how much sweeter they would be if her father were still alive? And Louisa could see the ache in her mother's heart whenever her eyes welled with tears when she thought no one was looking.

But Louisa saw.

She had made a vow to never allow herself to be vulnerable to love. If it held the power to break someone as it had her mother, then why risk it? Henry was an exception. He and Violet were made for one another, and he had needed someone by his side, helping him and loving him. Louisa was happy to do those things for the duke—at least, the helping part. But he had not wanted love either. It was a perfect match.

An image of the duke beyond the doors, tucked into his bed, possibly sleeping, flitted into her mind. Was he the type of man that tucked himself into the sheets in militant order? Did he sleep in a nightshirt, or perhaps fling himself across his bed with childlike abandon? What did his physique look like unencumbered by his meticulous attire?

It was much too intimate an image, and the fact she had envisioned it at all made her disgusted with herself. She was not a romantic. She wanted nothing to do with love. From a practical standpoint, he needed to sleep. When he was in his bed, he was doing something his body required. Nothing beyond that needed to be dwelled upon.

But it was their wedding night. What was he doing?

Finally, after an hour of anxious waiting, Louisa stood and tiptoed to her wardrobe, grabbing her familiar night rail and wrapping it about herself. It was not in her nature to sit and cower. If the duke had expectations of her this evening, she wished to know now.

Her confidence waned as she neared his door, but she took a bracing breath, raising her hand to knock. She gave the solid wood three quick raps and waited.

But no one came.

Wondering if her knock was too quiet, she tapped her knuckles against the door again, this time with more force. Surely it would be impossible not to hear it in his room.

But again, nothing.

What on earth? How could he be asleep when it was their wedding night, of all things?

Louisa walked across the room and grasped the handle to the hall door, slipping through. The sconces were lit, offering plenty of light for her to find her way. As she stepped by the duke's door, she saw a faint light flickering beneath the crack.

So, not asleep. But if he wasn't asleep, then what on earth was going on? Why had he not come to her door?

Perhaps, instead of pondering over the duke's strange behavior, she could distract herself with a walk through the house. Louisa forced herself down the stairs to the second floor, leaving the duke's mysteries for another day. There was one wing he had not shown her on their tour, and walking about gave her something to do other than fester in her room. The restless feeling still had not left her, and if this was to be her home for the season every year, she wished to know it well instead of feeling like a stranger within its walls.

As she turned upon reaching the last step, she peered about to make sure no one else was there. When she found the hall empty, she put her stocking-clad foot to the carpeted floor. Why did she feel like an intruder? This was her house now. She had every right to meander the halls at night if she so pleased.

Halfway to the west wing, she heard footfalls coming down the stairs. Louisa's heart about burst out of her chest, and she pressed herself flat against the wall, shimmying farther away from the sconce to envelop herself in darkness.

So much for telling herself she had every right to be there.

She waited, holding her breath—as if the person could hear it from down the hall. Her heart thudded in her ears as she waited to see who was about at this hour. And while she was expecting a servant of some sort, to her utter shock and surprise, the duke walked down the stairs from the second floor to the first, then continued directly on to the ground floor without sparing her a glance.

Her curiosity was not to be quieted, and she found herself padding softly down the hall to the stairs before she could think better of it.

The carpet and her stockings muffled whatever sounds she might have made, and she strained her neck to look down the steps. But the room was very much missing the presence of a certain duke. Her curiosity burned hotter. He was clearly not planning to visit her bedchamber that night, for which she was glad, but what was he doing? Unless . . . he was looking for her? He had walked with a purpose, his strides long and quick and sure as he had slipped down the stairs. And now, he was nowhere to be seen. Before thinking better of it, she followed. For there was one thing that made her think he was not , in fact, looking for her.

He had been fully dressed.

The man that walked by her had not been one searching for something on a whim, but a man bent on a task. And Louisa was very determined to figure out what said task was.

As she arrived at the ground floor, she noted a decided lack of breeze, meaning he had not exited out the front. The darkness of the rooms made it easier for her to slink about, trying to listen for any hint of footfalls down any of the halls.

There. She heard it. The distinct creak of a door.

Apparently, they were not all meticulously oiled. She would have to thank the servant who had been lacking in his task, for surely, after hearing it, the duke would have the squeaky hinge remedied the very next day.

Louisa did her best to follow the creak. She could not decide if it made more sense to keep herself against the wall or simply walk decidedly down the center of the hall, pretending she had a purpose in being here other than unashamedly following her new husband in the dark.

Another sound came from her right, so she changed her course to follow it. The halls became narrower the more she wound down them. What was he doing back here? Unless he had taken another turn and she was now following a maid or footman to their bedchambers. The thought made her steps come up short, her upper body continuing on a moment longer than her feet. Was she being completely foolish?

But then she remembered the duke wearing full dress, striding down the stairs as if he had somewhere to be, and her insatiable inquisitiveness propelled her feet forward once more. It had to be him she heard walking about. Though, the house did employ a horde of servants. Refusing to go back, she gave herself one more chance at finding him, quickening her steps lest she fall behind.

Louisa slowed as she neared a door at the very end of the hall, peering through the slight crack by the wall. It was him. He was slipping into an overcoat and hat, pulling on a pair of riding gloves. He then gave the door beyond him a tug, revealing the darkness of the out of doors. Louisa watched until he quietly clicked the door closed behind him. She spun about, leaning against the wall. What possible reason could he have for leaving at such an hour? And on their wedding day of all days.

Louisa's stomach twisted. A mistress, perhaps? If he was not visiting her bedchamber . . . was there a reason?

No. While she did not think it impossible, she was quite sure the duke, the epitome of restraint and stoicism, would not have such a tendency. But what else could it be?

Louisa began the walk back to her room, kicking her stocking-clad toe along the carpet as she ambled down the hall. So much for her walk soothing her spirit and bringing on a bout of sleepiness. Now she was more awake than ever.

As she entered her room, stripping off her night rail and climbing beneath her cover, she was left with a persistent and unrelenting question.

What type of man had she married?