Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

“The menu for tomorrow’s dinner, Your Grace?” Mrs. Phillips watched expectantly as Isolde studied the proposed dishes. “Cook thought of roast duck. But if His Grace has other preferences…”

“I wouldn’t know.” Isolde kept her voice carefully neutral, though she couldn’t quite hide her blush. “You’ll have to ask His Grace directly.”

A week into her role as a duchess and she still hadn’t shared a single meal with her husband. Each morning, she delayed her breakfast until she heard his study door close from the top of the staircase, signaling his departure to handle estate matters. Each evening, she feigned fatigue and took supper in her chambers, ignoring the disapproving expression on Mrs. Phillips’ face.

It wasn’t cowardice, she told herself. Merely… self-preservation.

Yet, somehow, despite her best efforts at avoidance, Arthur seemed to materialize at the most inconvenient moments. Like yesterday, when she’d rounded a corner in the garden and nearly collided with him. He was returning from his morning ride, his cravat loosened, his hair windswept, looking every inch the rake who haunted her dreams.

Or this morning, when she’d stood transfixed at her window, watching him practice swordplay with his instructor. The summer sun beat down on his bare chest, highlighting every sculpted muscle as he moved with lethal grace. She’d fled when he’d looked up, certain he’d caught her staring, her body burning with unwanted awareness.

“The household accounts are ready for your review,” Mrs. Phillips continued, kindly ignoring her distraction. “Though His Grace usually⁠—”

“I will review them now.” Isolde welcomed any distraction from thoughts of her husband’s physical attributes. “In the blue parlor, if you please.”

The staff had gradually warmed up to her over the past week, seemingly appreciative of her attention to detail and genuine interest in the day-to-day running of the household. Even Crawford, who’d initially watched her with barely concealed suspicion, now offered small smiles whenever she passed by.

If only running a household was as simple as managing servants and reviewing accounts. There had been nothing in her finishing school lessons about how to handle the surge of desire she felt whenever the Duke’s deep voice carried from his study. Nothing about how to quell the persistent ache that his kiss had awakened in her body.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Phillips’ voice cut through her reverie. “Will you be joining His Grace for dinner this evening?”

“No, I—” Isolde broke off as Arthur appeared in the doorway, his evening coat emphasizing his broad shoulders in a way that made her mouth go dry.

Their eyes met for a charged moment before she quickly looked away.

“Don’t alter your plans on my account, my dear,” he said, his tone deceptively mild. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable with my insufferably arrogant presence.”

She heard the sarcasm in his voice, knew she’d wounded his pride with her persistent avoidance.

What else could she do? Every time they were alone, the air between them crackled with dangerous tension. Every accidental touch, every heated glance, threatened her determination to keep this marriage strictly transactional.

Later that evening, when she was alone in her chambers, Isolde pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her window. Below, Arthur crossed the courtyard, his long strides eating up the distance as he returned from whatever business had kept him in the village. Even from this height, she could sense the coiled power in his movements, the barely leashed energy that made him so devastating to her peace of mind.

As if sensing her gaze, he paused, looking up at her window. The intensity of his stare made heat pool in her belly.

For a moment, she thought he might come to her chambers—they were married, after all, and the connecting door remained unlocked at night. But he merely inclined his head slightly before disappearing into the house.

Isolde released a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her thundering heart.

This wasn’t how their marriage was supposed to be. She’d expected polite indifference, perhaps even cold disdain. Instead, every glimpse of him set her blood on fire, every accidental meeting left her aching for his touch.

Worse, she knew he felt it too. She saw it in the way his hands clenched whenever she passed him, in the darkening of his eyes whenever their gazes met from across a room. The air between them fairly crackled with unfulfilled desire.

But desire wasn’t love. And love was what she’d always dreamed of, wasn’t it?

A knock at her door startled her.

“Come in,” she called, expecting Martha with her evening tea.

Instead, Arthur filled the doorway, still in his riding clothes, his cravat loosened in a way that drew her eyes to his throat. “My solicitor tells me you’ve been reviewing the tenant ledgers.”

“I…” She swallowed hard, acutely aware that this was the first time they’d been alone since that heated moment in his study. “Yes. I thought it prudent to understand how the estate is run.”

“Did you?” He stalked into the room, all contained power and predatory grace. “And what do you make of our current grain prices?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes, though her pulse hammered wildly. “They’re rather low compared to last season. I thought perhaps if we delay selling until⁠—”

“Until autumn when prices traditionally rise?” His smile held a dangerous edge. “Very good, my dear. Perhaps you’re more than just a pretty ornament, after all.”

“I’m not an ornament,” she snapped, stung by his words. “Contrary to what you might think, I take my duties seriously.”

“Do you?” He moved closer, making her step backward. “All your duties?”

“I oversee the household, manage the staff, review the accounts⁠—”

“And yet you won’t take meals with your husband.” His voice dropped, becoming more intimate. “You won’t even remain in the same room with him for more than a few moments. Tell me, my skittish Duchess, what duties are you avoiding?”

“I am not avoiding anything.” But her voice trembled as her back hit the wall. “I simply⁠—”

“Prefer to watch me from windows?” His eyes gleamed with wicked amusement. “Yes. I saw you this morning during my practice. Did you enjoy the view?”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You are insufferable.”

“And you,” he murmured, bracing one hand against the wall beside her head, “love to pretend. Your blush gives you away, my dear.”

“Perhaps I’m flushed with anger.”

“No.” He traced one finger along her collarbone, making her shiver. “I have seen you angry. This is something else entirely.”

“Your Grace⁠—”

“Arthur,” he corrected softly. “We are married, after all. Even if you do your best to pretend otherwise.”

“Arthur.” His name felt dangerous on her lips. “Please…”

“Please what?” He leaned closer, his breath fanning her ear. “Please stop? Please continue? Your body seems uncertain which it wants.”

She meant to push him away. Truly, she did. But somehow her fingers curled in his shirt instead, holding him in place as his lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her skin. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“I…” But the word dissolved into a gasp as his teeth grazed her throat.

A sharp knock at the door had them springing apart.

“Your Grace?” Martha’s voice carried through the wood. “I’ve brought your evening tea.”

Arthur stepped back, his eyes dark with desire. “Sweet dreams, my dear,” he said softly. “I do hope I make an appearance in them.”

Swift like the wind—like a man who’d learned to make a hasty exit before being caught alone with a woman—he slipped out through the connecting door to his chambers.

Martha entered with the tea tray none the wiser.

Isolde pressed trembling fingers to her lips, certain her maid would be able to see the evidence of her weakness written all over her face.

Yet, Martha merely set down the tea tray with her usual efficiency, not commenting on her mistress’s flushed cheeks or ragged breathing.

Only when she was alone did Isolde allow herself to sag against the wall, her body still humming with unfulfilled desire.

This had to stop.

She couldn’t keep playing this dangerous game with her husband, couldn’t keep pretending his touch didn’t set her on fire.

As she prepared for bed that night, she knew sleep would prove elusive. How could she possibly rest when his scent still lingered in her chamber, when her skin still tingled from his touch?

Worse, she knew with burning certainty that he was right—he would feature prominently in her dreams tonight.

And she was fearing that dreams alone would never be enough.

Arthur leaned against the connecting door, his breathing ragged.

Damn her.

Damn her soft skin and those little gasps she tried to suppress. Damn the way she melted into him even as she protested.

He stalked to the drinks cart, pouring himself a generous glass of brandy with unsteady hands. The liquid did nothing to cool the fire in his blood or erase the memory of her pulse racing beneath his lips.

“Please…”

The way she’d said it haunted him—half protest, half invitation. If her maid hadn’t interrupted them…

He loosened his cravat with savage force, trying to ignore the ache that had settled in his bones.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Physical attraction, he could handle—had handled expertly with countless women before her. But this maddening obsession, this constant awareness of her presence just beyond that door…

An hour later, he lay in his bed, sleep proving impossibly elusive. Every creak of the house, every whisper of movement from her chambers sent his imagination on a wild path. Was she feeling as restless as he was? Did she touch herself, thinking of his hands on her skin?

The image that conjured made him growl in frustration. He threw off the covers and began to pace, the moonlight casting strange shadows over the floor.

This was intolerable. He was a duke, for God’s sake, not some green boy tortured by the first stirs of desire.

His feet carried him to the connecting door before he realized he’d moved. His hand actually touched the handle before his pride reasserted itself.

“Fight it all you want,” he’d told her in the carriage. “You’ll come to me… because you can’t help yourself.”

And here he was, barely a week later, ready to break his own ultimatum. Ready to go to her, to finish what they’d started, to finally discover if she tasted as sweet as he remembered.

“No.” The word came out harsh in the darkness.

He would not be the one to yield. Let her come to him, as he’d promised she would. Let her be the one to break first.

Even if every fiber of his being screamed at him to go to her now.

Forcing himself back to bed, Arthur stared at the canopy above him. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He’d spent years cultivating his reputation as London’s most notorious rake, and now he was being undone by his wife’s reluctant desire.

Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of honey-gold hair and soft sighs, offering no relief at all.