Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

“Good God, man. If you scowl any harder, you will break the brandy decanter,” Augustus remarked, watching Arthur drain his third glass. “I dare say married life seems to be aging you prematurely.”

“I’m not in the mood for your observations tonight, Augustus.” Arthur signaled to the barkeep for another bottle.

The dim light of the gaming hell did nothing to soften his thunderous expression.

“So I gather.” Augustus leaned back, studying his friend. “Though I must say, when Jane suggested this outing, she hoped it would improve your mood, not darken it further.”

“And how is my dear matchmaking friend?” Arthur’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Still convinced she did me a great service?”

“She’s very well, thank you. Growing bigger and more radiant by the day.” Augustus’s eyes softened at the mention of his wife. “And… she did ask after Isolde. Seems concerned that her role in arranging your match might have⁠—”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about.” Arthur’s knuckles whitened around his glass. “The Duchess is performing her duties admirably.”

“The Duchess, is it?” Augustus raised an eyebrow. “Such formality for your wife of ten days.”

“What would you have me call her? My sweetest cherub? My darling angel?” Arthur spat out the endearments like they were curses. “This is a marriage of convenience, nothing more.”

“And yet here you sit, drinking brandy and glowering like a thundercloud.” Augustus emptied his glass. “Tell me, does she still refuse to share your bed?”

Arthur’s glare could have stripped paint. “My intimate relations with my wife are none of your concern, Wakefield.”

“Ah. It’s that bad.” Augustus nodded sagely. “You know, when Jane first refused my advances⁠—”

“I am not you,” Arthur cut in, “and Isolde is not Jane. This is not some romantic tale of redemption, where the rake finds love and abandons his wicked ways.”

“No?” Augustus watched his friend drain another glass. “Then why are you here, drinking instead of seeking your usual… entertainment?”

A burst of feminine laughter drew their attention to a group of elaborately dressed women near the stairs. Several cast inviting glances their way, recognition flashing in their eyes at the sight of the notorious Duke of Meadowell.

“Arthur.” Augustus’s voice held a note of warning as his friend fixed his gaze on a particularly beautiful brunette. “Perhaps we should⁠—”

But Arthur was already rising, his movements fluid despite the brandy. “Don’t wait up.”

“This won’t help—” Augustus began, but Arthur had already crossed to the women, speaking briefly to the brunette before following her upstairs.

The room he’d secured was adequate enough—clean sheets at least, though the wallpaper had seen better days. The woman—was it Marie? Maria? Whatever her name was, she began unlacing her bodice with practiced efficiency.

“No need to rush,” he said, though his body thrummed with weeks of denied passion.

She smiled, letting her dark curls fall over one shoulder. “As His Grace wishes.”

As she reached for his cravat, all he could think of was how different her hands were from Isolde’s. How her practiced moves held none of his wife’s desire and endearing hesitation.

Even her scent was wrong—heavy perfume instead of subtle lavender.

Isolde.

The name echoed in his mind like an accusation. He could picture her now, probably curled up with one of her romantic novels, her hair gleaming like gold under the candlelight…

“Enough.” He stepped back. “This was a mistake.”

The woman—he couldn’t even remember her name now—accepted the money he handed her with a knowing smile.

“My, my. She must be something special, your new Duchess,” she drawled.

Arthur didn’t bother to respond, already striding out of the room.

He ignored Augustus’s questioning look—the bastard had to see him leave—as he collected his coat, suddenly desperate for home. For…

No. Not for Isolde.

For peace. For quiet. For anything but this maddening awareness of his wife that followed him even to a prostitute’s bed.

The ride to Meadowell passed in a blur of self-recrimination.

What the hell had he been thinking? He was a duke, not some randy youth who couldn’t control his baser urges.

The moonlight illuminated the grounds as his carriage finally rolled to a stop. He didn’t bother waiting for the sleepy footman, letting himself in through the side door he’d used in his rakish youth.

A flicker of candlelight from the small parlor caught his eye. He moved closer, drawn by an instinct he didn’t care to ponder.

Isolde was curled up in the window seat, her face soft in the gentle light as she read her book. Her hair had begun to escape its pins, one golden curl brushing her cheek in a way that made his fingers itch to tuck it back.

She looked so perfectly at home, so right, that something in his chest constricted painfully.

“What are you reading?”

She started violently, her hand flying to her throat. “Your Grace! I didn’t hear you return.”

“Arthur,” he corrected automatically, moving closer. “Apologies for frightening you.”

“It’s all right. I…” She clutched her book to her chest like a shield. “Just a novel. A love story, actually. With a happy ending.”

“Ah.” He couldn’t quite keep the cynicism from his voice. “I prefer Shakespeare. At least his tragedies ring true.”

Her eyes flashed with something like disappointment. “Of course you prefer tragedies. Some of us read to escape the sadness of reality, not wallow in it.”

“Find much to escape from here at Meadowell?”

“I…” She bit her lip, and he cursed himself for the harshness of his voice. “Yes, actually. It’s rather lonely, taking meals alone in a strange house, surrounded by servants who watch my every move.”

The guilt hit him harder than he had expected. “I never meant… That is, I assumed you preferred to dine alone, given our… situation.”

“Our situation?” A bitter smile touched her lips. “Is that what we’re calling this arrangement now?”

“This marriage,” he corrected firmly. “And despite the circumstances, I don’t want you to be unhappy. If you prefer to have company during meals⁠—”

“I do.” She looked almost shocked by her own admission. “It’s just… everything is so different here. Sometimes, I feel quite lost.”

Something protective stirred in his chest. “Then we shall dine together, starting tomorrow. No more avoiding each other.”

“Thank you.” She studied him for a moment, then seemed to muster enough courage. “I… I don’t suppose… That is, I couldn’t help overhearing you play the other day. The pianoforte, I mean. You’re quite talented.”

His hands clenched at the memory of her watching him. “My mother taught me.”

“Would you…” She twisted her fingers in her lap. “Would you teach me? I had lessons, but I never progressed beyond the basics.”

“I don’t think⁠—”

“Please?”

That single word, soft and hopeful, shattered his resolve.

“Very well.”