Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

“Your Grace, are you quite certain you don’t want to postpone?” Mr. Boyd shuffled his papers nervously. “After all, you only got married yesterday⁠—”

“The estate doesn’t stop running simply because I’ve acquired a wife.” Arthur’s tone brooked no argument as he strode into his study, the morning sun casting long shadows through the tall windows.

He’d been awake since dawn, his body humming with an irritating awareness of the woman sleeping in the chambers adjacent to his.

His solicitor hurried to keep pace, dropping several documents in his haste. “Yes, of course, Your Grace. Though Her Grace might expect⁠—”

“Her Grace expects nothing,” Arthur settled behind his massive desk, trying not to recall how Isolde’s lips had felt beneath his, how she’d trembled at his touch. “Now, what’s this about the Hertfordshire properties?”

Boyd cleared his throat, clearly torn between discretion and propriety. “Your steward’s reports about Thornfield are… concerning. The winter wheat crop has failed entirely in the northern fields. Additionally, several crucial supply wagons have gone missing, and there are discrepancies in the ledgers that⁠—”

“Show me.” Arthur held out his hand for the documents, grateful for a problem he could actually solve.

Unlike the maddening awareness that his new wife was somewhere in this house, probably still wearing her nightclothes…

He forced his attention to the papers before him, scanning columns of numbers with practiced efficiency.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a particular entry. “The soil reports from last autumn showed signs of poor drainage in these fields. Why wasn’t this addressed?”

“The previous tenant⁠—”

“Was incompetent.” Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Send Harrison there to assess the situation. He has experience with similar problems in the southern fields here.”

“But Your Grace, to send one of your best farmers away from your primary estate⁠—”

“Will prevent further losses at Thornfield.” He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him, his quill flying across it with precise strokes. “Have these instructions delivered to Harrison immediately. And send word to the Liverpool merchants about replacing the lost supplies. I have arrangements with several who offer favorable terms.”

Boyd blinked at his rapid response. “You’ve… you’ve clearly given this considerable thought.”

“It’s my duty to consider such things.” Arthur continued writing, his mind already three steps ahead. “The discrepancies in the ledger concern me more. Have copies made and sent to my banker in London. And schedule meetings with each tenant at Thornfield—I want to know exactly what’s been happening in my absence.”

“Surely such matters could wait for a few days? A new marriage requires⁠—”

Arthur’s quill stilled. “What it requires, Mr. Boyd, is for me to make sure that my estates prosper so that my new Duchess may maintain the lifestyle her position demands.”

Even if that Duchess currently viewed him with a mix of desire and distrust that made him want to…

No. Focus on the business at hand.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Boyd gathered the papers with renewed purpose. “Though I feel compelled to mention that the ton might consider it… unusual for a newly married duke to be so immediately absorbed in business matters.”

“The ton may consider whatever it likes.” Arthur’s voice had a steely edge. “My responsibilities do not depend on their sensibilities.”

Or on his heightened awareness of the woman who was now his wife.

The woman whose taste still lingered on his lips, whose soft gasps of surprise had haunted his dreams…

“The instructions for Harrison?” Boyd prompted gently.

Arthur realized he’d stopped writing—his thoughts had drifted to decidedly non-business-related matters. With an irritated growl, he finished the letter and sealed it with perhaps more force than necessary.

“Have these delivered immediately,” he said, handing over the documents. “And Mr. Boyd?” He fixed his solicitor with a pointed look. “In the future, let us confine our discussions to business matters rather than my personal affairs.”

“Of—Of course, Your Grace.” Boyd gathered his papers and made a hasty retreat, clearly relieved to escape the Duke’s increasingly dangerous mood.

Alone in his study, Arthur found himself staring at the connecting door that led to the family wing—and ultimately to Isolde’s chambers.

Was she awake yet? Had she slept as poorly as he had, plagued by memories of their heated encounter in the carriage?

A knock interrupted his dangerous musings.

“Enter.”

Crawford appeared with fresh coffee. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Her Grace has come down to break her fast.”

Arthur’s hand stilled on the papers before him. “Has she?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She’s in the morning room.” Crawford hesitated. “She is at the breakfast table. Alone.”

The criticism in the butler’s tone was clear. Even Arthur, who generally cared little for social niceties, knew that a newly married couple was expected to share their first breakfast.

“Very well.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, trying to ignore the fluttering of his heart. “You may inform Her Grace that I⁠—”

The click of heels in the corridor outside made them both turn around.

Isolde appeared in the doorway, dressed in a morning gown of pale blue muslin that made her eyes appear almost golden in the morning light.

Even as fairy-like as she looked, it seemed as though she’d slept as little as he had.

“Your Grace.” Her curtsy was proper, but he noted the slight tremor in her hands. “I… That is, we…” She glanced at Crawford, who suddenly became very interested in arranging the coffee service.

“Crawford,” Arthur said without taking his eyes off his wife, “that will be all.”

The butler withdrew, softly closing the door behind him.

“You have something to say?” Arthur kept his voice neutral, though his body hummed with awareness of her presence.

“I merely thought…” Isolde lifted her chin, some of her usual spirit returning. “That is, I wondered if you intended to take breakfast. The servants seemed quite flustered when I appeared alone.”

“Did they?” Arthur rose, noting how she took a small step back. “We wouldn’t want to fluster the servants, would we?”

“If you’re too busy with estate matters⁠—”

“They can wait.” He moved around the desk, close enough now to catch the faint scent of lavender that clung to her skin. “Though I’m surprised you seek my company, given your stated intention to… How did you put it? Ah yes, stay out of my way.”

A becoming blush colored her cheeks. “I simply thought… that is… for appearances’ sake…”

“Appearances?” He stepped closer, hearing her breath hitch. “Is that truly your only concern?”

“My concern,” she said, her voice admirably steady despite her flushed cheeks, “is keeping up appearances while we establish the parameters of this… arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” The word tasted bitter on his tongue. He moved closer, satisfaction coursing through him when she swallowed. “Is that what you call our marriage?”

“What else should I call it?” Her eyes flashed with familiar defiance. “A love match?”

She tried to step around him, but he blocked her path, backing her up against his desk.

“Careful, my dear. Your sharp tongue suggests you’re still angry about that kiss.”

“I’m not thinking about that kiss at all.”

“No?” He traced one finger along the edge of her bodice, watching her pulse flutter wildly at her throat. “Then why are you trembling?”

“Because you’re…” She swallowed hard. “You’re cornering me.”

“Am I?” He leaned closer, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of her. “Or are you simply afraid to admit how much you enjoyed our little carriage ride yesterday?”

“You are insufferably arrogant.” Her voice had become breathy, undermining her words.

“And you,” he murmured, his lips a breath away from her ear, “are a terrible liar. Your body betrays you, wife.”

“Y-Your Graces.”

Mrs. Phillips’ voice from the doorway had them springing apart. The housekeeper’s face had gone crimson, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I do beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I only meant to inquire about the dinner menu, but I see you’re… That is… I shall return later.”

She fled before either of them could respond, no doubt already composing letters to her extensive network of housekeeper friends about the scandalous behavior of the new Duchess.

Isolde straightened her bodice with trembling fingers. “Well,” she managed, her voice unsteady, “I believe we’ve given the staff quite enough to gossip about.”

Arthur watched her smooth her skirts, his body taut with raging desire. “Perhaps you should join them, then. I’m sure they’re dying to hear all about your rake of a husband.”

“Better a rake than a—” She broke off, biting her lip.

“Than what?” He advanced on her again, drawn by the flash of spirit in her eyes. “Do finish that thought, my dear. I’m fascinated to hear your opinion of me.”

“Than a man who thinks he can seduce his wife into forgetting that this is merely a marriage of convenience!”

Her words hung in the air between them, sharp as drawn blades. Arthur felt something twist in his chest—not pain, surely. Merely irritation at her resistance.

“Believe me, Duchess,” he said coldly, “I have not forgotten the nature of our marriage. Nor should you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have estate matters to attend to.”

He turned his back on her, listening to the rustle of her skirts as she fled his study, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Arthur let out a long sigh.

Damn the woman. Even her anger was intoxicating.