Chapter 5

5

The carriage was rocking under her, and stunning countryside passed by the window, with its rolling hills and hedgerows under a sky the color of her husband's eyes…

The air was fresh, but Patience was breathless.

The duke and she were alone.

It must have been the first time in her life she was alone with a grown man who wasn't her papa or brother. It was most definitely the first time she had sat in a carriage drawn by four horses, with a driver and two footmen standing at the back. The first time she was in a vehicle draped in black and red silks embroidered with golden lions in flames.

The cost of the curtains and the silky material covering the walls must have been more than all of her sisters' gowns combined. Goodness, she could have asked Anne to make a ball gown out of this fabric.

Out of the window, she could now see fluffy white clouds passing overhead, tenants working the fields, clusters of trees dotting the landscape interspersed with bushes and undergrowth .

All this belonged to him. As did she.

She fingered the crease of her gown in her old lace gloves, her whole body clammy, the straps of her bonnet digging in too tight under her chin. He sat, handsome and intimidating, with eyes that were dark blue now, the color of the endless ocean, under long, thick, elegantly arched eyebrows. She could smell him over the rich scents of leather, wood, and clean fabric—musk, bergamot, and pepper. Good Lord, he even looked a little like a lion. With close-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose that looked broad and long while still being regal and attractive. His sharp, angular jaw worked under his perfectly smooth skin, the full lips of his broad mouth stretched into a flat line. His shoulders under the exquisite coat were tense, his large hands fisting the edges of the bench so tight, the leather glove on his right hand was stretched to the limit. His dilated pupils flickered left and right as he tracked the passing trees, bushes, and fields. He was breathing hard, the edges of his crimson waistcoat rising and falling quickly.

Definitely displeased. Or was he simply as uncomfortable as she was, having just married a stranger?

The need to smooth the situation, to lighten the mood, to make him feel at ease scratched at her stomach. That was what she did best.

But what did one ask their own husband when one knew nothing about him?

Could she ask why he was so vexed?

What did he have for breakfast today?

What was his favorite color?

What did he like to read?

Could she make a jest? Lord in heaven, send her an idea for a jest…

Nothing. All she could think about was how big he was in the enclosed compartment of the carriage…which wasn't actually small at all. It was bigger than the larder at Rose Cottage.

Silence stretched between them so thick and long, it felt like a high-pitched note. She didn't know where to put her legs so that she wouldn't touch his. It was impossible. His long, muscular legs were open, surrounding her knees, and she did her best not to stare at the lines of muscles bulging against the fabric. After a while, he crossed his big arms over his chest, and even through layers of his clothing, she could see how his flesh rippled.

Finally the pitch reached a breaking point, and she couldn't be silent a moment longer.

For God's sake just say something positive! she managed to command herself before she opened her mouth.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," she said in a croaky voice.

His sharp gaze landed on her like a slap. A lion, indeed, cold and watching his prey. His gaze penetrated her, digging deep into her face, and she felt naked and vulnerable even though she was fully clothed in gloves and a bonnet and a long coat.

"Congratulations on what?" he snapped.

Oh, his voice. Even tinged with irritation, it remained the most resonant male timbre she had ever heard.

"Our nuptials."

"I don't believe it's customary to congratulate each other."

She chuckled. "I suppose."

Silence fell once again, and she scratched the soft upholstery of the seat with her gloved fingertips. She felt a thread inside her glove catch on a snag in her nail and itched to free her hand and smooth it, but she couldn't.

She couldn't imagine feeling more vulnerable.

He returned to staring out of the window. The edge of his jaw moved so fast, she thought there might be a creature trying to break out of there. Her rib cage felt constricted and tight in her corset— oh, damned corset —and she kept sucking in air in an attempt to calm herself. Good God, how long could the ride from the village church to Rath Hall take?

Someone needed to say something. Anything.

This was undoubtedly the tensest, most awkward situation she had ever experienced. She couldn't endure the silence any longer. The discomfort hung in the air like an acrid smell she desperately wanted to dispel.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she blurted out, and he looked at her in confusion.

No smile, not even a shadow of one, but at least the angry, jaw-working look was wiped off his face. His mouth relaxed from the scowl, eyes brightening to the shade of a sky just before dusk. Something lightened inside her.

"Toast," he said, looking a little struck. "And coffee."

Coffee… Right away her mind went to the botanical plant, called Coffea arabica . It came from inland East African regions and had red berries that could be roasted and were beloved by many. The plant grew in subtropical highlands and loved warm temperatures and humid conditions. She longed for an opportunity to see the real coffee plant and study it.

But that was not what a duchess would talk about.

"I've never tried coffee," she said. In fact, they didn't even have money for proper tea, so the tea they drank was mint, lavender, rose hips, and other herbs and plants Patience could grow or forage in the nearby woods. "Is it good?"

He kept staring at her with his penetrating glare. "Yes."

"How does it taste?"

"Intense. One can say a little bitter, but pleasantly so. Roasted."

"Oh. Is it true one feels alive and energetic after drinking it? "

He nodded. "I suppose so, yes."

She chuckled. "Did you know that according to a legend, coffee was discovered when some goats ate coffee berries and began running around as if possessed?"

"No. I didn't."

"And they're quite pretty plants. That's at least from what I can say from botanical illustrations I've seen. Very pretty, glossy leaves. White flowers. Red berries."

He narrowed his eyes. "Botanical illustrations?"

"Yes. My brother brought a book of botanical illustrations the only time he visited us from Oxford."

His face changed, and she didn't know what she'd said. From showing surprised interest, to paling suddenly as though he'd seen a ghost.

Then it all changed again in a second. Creases formed between his eyebrows. His eyes became dark, with large black pupils, the irises the color of a stormy ocean.

"Madam, perhaps you would do yourself and me a favor by not talking for the rest of the trip."

She opened and closed her mouth. What could have upset him so much?

Mama was right. She should have never been so interested in botany. He was a duke—of course he'd disapprove of her scientific interest. Good Lord, she was already spoiling this marriage in the first minutes of it.

Perhaps she should return to the topic of breakfast but stay away from talking about plants, no matter how much she enjoyed thinking about what a coffee plant looked like, what root system it had, and how to get it to flower and then to produce berries.

"Do you like strawberry jam?" she asked.

Do not think about strawberries! That they grew well in a well-drained, loamy soil and could be harvested in late spring to early summer, especially if there was much sun.

He scowled at her. "I asked you not to talk."

"I thought strawberry jam was a safe topic. Do you like strawberry jam?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't mind it."

So preserves was a safe topic. "Neither do I. How about raspberry jam?"

He pinched his nose between his fingers. "Please. I am begging of you. You do not need to fill silence with questions about my jam preferences."

"Forgive me. Um… Would you like to ask me a question?"

"No."

She blinked. "Oh. Is that how ducal marriages work? No one talks to each other?"

"That is certainly how I would like it."

"I must admit, I've never been very good at silence. My mother always said I was born under a chattering star," she offered with a small, hopeful smile.

The duke's gaze, icy and unforgiving, swept back to her. "And I was born under a star that appreciates peace and quiet."

"But surely, Duke, there must be something you enjoy discussing. Politics, perhaps? Or maybe you have a passion for horses? Men usually do… At least that's what I read."

His eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion. "What you read ?"

Oh, it was better when he was silent. "Yes. I don't know many men. Many people, I should say. Most of what I know is from what Mama and Papa told me and from reading."

He looked her over, and a hot blush crept to her cheeks.

Good God, he was so worldly, so experienced. For a moment, she was envious. She knew what he must be thinking. She was young, naive, and sheltered. What business did she have being the wife of this self-assured, confident man? He needed someone strong by his side. It must feel so calming to know exactly what one wanted to say and not to try to please anyone at all.

"Don't you have some country friends? Daughters of a local vicar must pity you and offer you some company."

Embarrassment hit her whole body in a hot wave. "Indeed, the vicar and his wife and daughters have been the only neighbors to keep company with my family. But only out of obligation, not genuine interest. Still, it was nice to have someone else to talk to than my sisters and parents."

He wore an expression of shock and a strangely intense guilt that slumped his shoulders and darkened his gaze. He turned away from her, the veins on his neck bulging rhythmically.

He was walking on some sort of an edge, like a furious lion, not that she'd ever seen one alive. She should leave him alone. And yet, she couldn't stop poking the predator.

His gloved hand twitched again, leather stretching over the knuckles. And if she was right, a fleeting expression of pain ran through his face.

"May I inquire, what happened to your hand?" she asked. "I noticed the glove."

For a moment, it seemed as though he might relent, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. But his body tensed again, and when he spoke, his voice was colder than the winter winds in Siberia.

"Miss Rose, is it your intention to torment me with your questions? Or do you hold such small intellectual capacities that you find my explicit request for silence difficult to understand?"

Patience recoiled as if struck, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and something akin to anger. She had been nothing but cordial, making an effort to ease the uncomfortable situation, but he repaid her kindness with disdain. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quieter but carried a steeliness that surprised even her.

"I was merely trying to make our journey less…oppressive. Not an easy task, as I'm learning."

Patience thought she saw a flicker of regret in his eyes. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced once more by the icy fa?ade.

The rest of the journey passed in a heavy, uncomfortable silence that felt like a third being sitting in the carriage. Patience sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her mind racing with questions.

Papa had said the duke wanted to marry quickly and that he chose her because he was looking for someone amenable, and that was what she was trying to be. Pleasant. Companionable. But if he was so eager to be left alone, why did he marry at all? He could have had his pick of better-bred young ladies who knew how to be a duchess and were ready to be what he needed. Patience's family name was slathered in scandal. She had no idea about anything but her garden, her roses, and how to keep her head high and be positive.

So that was what she would do. Stay positive. Smile.

But through her determination, a horrible thought scratched at the back of her psyche.

He was cold, and possibly cruel, by the looks of the blood on the knuckles of his hand, and God knew what hid under his glove… He didn't care about her. He didn't want to talk to her or be in her presence.

He was still a stranger who had a plan for her…of that, she had no doubt .

Based on his cold demeanor and cruel words, that plan may be quite terrible.

And she was utterly under his control.