Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

“ D o you intend to maintain this silence for the entirety of our marriage?”

His deep voice startled her, though she refused to show it. When she finally turned to face him, the intensity of his emerald gaze made her breath catch in her throat.

“I fail to see what there is to discuss,” she managed, hating how her voice trembled slightly. “Though I suppose I should thank you for… saving my reputation.”

“Is that what you think this is? Saving your reputation?”

“What else could it be? After all, it was Lady Lillian who—” She cut herself off, her fingers twisting in her skirts. “She was the one in a compromising position, not us. The injustice of it all…”

“There’s little use in crying over spilled milk, Duchess.”

The new title made her temper flare.

“I am not crying. I am merely pointing out the absurdity of our situation.” She studied his impassive face. “Though I wonder—why were you on that balcony at all? Were you following me?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Are you truly attempting to lay the blame at my feet?”

“No, but perhaps if you hadn’t been there?—”

“Then Lady Lillian would have found another way to make you her scapegoat,” he cut in smoothly. “She needed someone to draw attention from her indiscretion. You, with your previous scandal, were simply the most convenient target.”

The truth of his words stung.

“Nevertheless, I thank you for the sacrifice you’ve made by marrying me.”

His only response was a curt nod.

“I shall endeavor to stay out of your way,” she continued, proud of how steady her voice remained. “Though I would ask that you be discreet with your… companions.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Companions? Do you truly think so little of me?”

“It’s not a matter of thinking little or much. Your reputation speaks for itself.”

“Ah yes, my reputation.” He leaned forward slightly, and suddenly the carriage seemed much smaller. “Tell me, does it frighten you or intrigue you?”

“Neither,” she lied, pressing herself back against the squabs. “It merely confirms what I already knew—that you’re precisely the sort of man I should avoid.”

“And yet here we are.” His voice dropped lower, sending an unwanted shiver down her spine. “Married. Alone. Tell me, my reluctant bride, is it truly my reputation that angers you? Or is it knowing that beneath all that proper dignity, you burn for my touch?”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you,” he murmured, moving to sit beside her with fluid grace, “are taking your frustration out on me because you desire what I could give you.”

“I desire nothing from you.”

But the words emerged breathless, unconvincing.

“No?” His fingers traced the edge of her glove, barely touching her skin. “Then why do you tremble? Why does your pulse race at my proximity?”

“Because you’re…” She frantically searched for words as he leaned closer. “You’re…”

“I’m what?” His voice held a dangerous edge. “Too experienced? Too worldly? Or perhaps too skilled at reading the signs of a woman’s desire?”

“Too arrogant,” she shot back, though her breathing had become ragged. “Do all women fall so easily under your spell, Your Grace? Does it please you to toy with their emotions before discarding them?”

“You know nothing about my relationships.”

Something flickered in his eyes—not guilt, but a weariness she hadn’t expected.

“Don’t I? Lady Helena Blackthorne, ruined and sent to the country. The Countess of Ravenscar, fled to Italy to escape scandal. Lady Beatrice Lowton?—”

“You seem remarkably well-informed about my past,” he cut in, his voice deceptively soft. “Though perhaps not as well-informed as you believe. The ton does so love its tales of scandal, particularly when they involve a wealthy, unmarried duke—though that doesn’t make all the stories true. Have you been making inquiries about me, my dear?”

“One hardly needs to make inquiries when your conquests are common knowledge.” She lifted her chin, fighting the heat that crept up her neck. “The infamous Duke of Meadowell, leaving broken hearts and shattered reputations in his wake.”

“And yet here you sit, with your reputation intact, newly made my Duchess.” His eyes raked over her with dangerous intensity. “Tell me, does it excite you? The thought of being married to such a notorious rake?”

“It terrifies me,” she admitted, the truth spilling out before she could stop it.

Something shifted in his expression. “Why?”

“Because—” She broke off, twisting her new wedding ring. “Because I’ve seen what men like you do to women who dare to care for them. My cousin Charlotte’s heart was broken by a rake who promised her the world, only to marry an heiress when his gambling debts came due. My friend Mary?—”

“I am not other men.”

“No?” She let out a bitter laugh. “You are worse. At least they made promises before breaking them. You don’t even pretend to believe in love to lure your victims in.”

“And you believe too much in it.” He moved closer, the heat of his body making her blood simmer. “Love is a pretty fiction, my dear. But desire?” His fingers brushed her wrist, finding her racing pulse. “Desire is real. Tangible. Honest.”

“There’s nothing honest about seduction,” she whispered, though she couldn’t seem to pull away.

“No?” His thumb traced small circles on her inner wrist.

“Stop.” The word sounded more like a plea than a command.

“You’re angry,” he murmured, his lips now dangerously close to her ear, “because I make you feel things your proper upbringing never prepared you for. Because deep down, beneath all that propriety and pride, you want to know if the rumors about my skills are true.”

“You are utterly mistaken, Your Grace.”

“Am I?” His free hand came up to trace her jaw. “Shall we test that theory?”

“I’m not one of your lightskirts,” she managed, though her voice trembled. “You can’t simply?—”

“No,” he agreed, his voice dropping lower. “You’re my wife. Which means I can do this…”

The kiss was nothing like the perfunctory peck in the chapel. This was heat and hunger and devastating skill. His fingers threaded through her carefully arranged curls as his other hand drew her closer.

She gasped at the sensation, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until she forgot everything—her anger, her pride, even her name.

When he finally drew back, they were both breathing heavily. Isolde realized her hands had somehow found their way to his chest, gripping the fine wool of his coat. Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she tried to pull away, but his arm around her waist held her still.

“Still nothing?” he asked, his voice rough. “Still no desire at all?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t trust her voice not to betray her.

His thumb traced her lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss.

“Your body speaks more truthfully than your tongue, my dear.” His smile held wicked promise. “Perhaps we should see what other truths it might reveal?”

His lips found that sensitive spot beneath her ear, and Isolde had to bite back a moan.

This was madness. Complete madness.

She should stop this now, before?—

The carriage hit a rut, jolting them apart.

Reality crashed back like a wave of cold water. What was she doing? This man viewed marriage as a duty and women as conquests. She would not become another notch on his bedpost, no matter how well he kissed.

“Don’t.” She pressed her hands against his chest, putting some distance between them. “Please.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Was it frustration? Perhaps even regret? Still, he moved back to his seat, straightening his cravat with precise movements.

The silence that followed was different from before—charged with awareness and unspoken desires.

Isolde turned to the window, pressing her burning cheek against the cool glass. Her lips still tingled from his kiss, her body humming with unfamiliar sensations.

The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, nearly throwing her into Arthur’s lap. His hands steadied her reflexively, and that brief touch sent another wave of heat through her body.

“Your Graces,” they heard the driver call, “we’ve arrived at Meadowell.”

They stared at each other in the confined space, the air thick with possibility.

Arthur’s emerald-green eyes had darkened to forest green, and something in their depths made Isolde’s breath catch.

Wanting to distance herself from him as soon as possible, she nodded toward the carriage door, unable to trust her voice.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he reached for the handle.

Before he stepped down, he turned back to her, his voice low and intimate. “Fight it all you want, Isolde. But mark my words—you’ll come to me, and it won’t be because you have to. It’ll be because you can’t help yourself.”

With that promise hanging in the air, he descended, leaving her to gather her scattered wits before facing her new staff.

Mrs. Phillips, the housekeeper, proved to be a dignified middle-aged woman who efficiently introduced the key staff members: the butler, Crawford, who despite his stoic look had a twinkle in his eyes, and the cook, Mrs. Thorne. She then proceeded to introduce a parade of maids and footmen whose names blurred together in Isolde’s overwhelmed state.

“Your chambers have been prepared, Your Grace,” Mrs. Phillips announced, leading her up the grand staircase. “Martha has already begun unpacking your things.”

The Duchess’s chambers were a suite of elegant rooms decorated in soft blues and cream. A connecting door, currently closed, led to the Duke’s apartments. Isolde tried not to stare at it as Martha helped her out of her wedding gown.

“A bath has been drawn, Your Grace,” Martha said, unfastening the rows of tiny buttons. “I dare say you must be exhausted from the journey.”

As she sank into the steaming water, Isolde found herself studying the connecting door again.

“Martha, what do you know about His Grace? From the other servants, I mean.”

Martha’s hands stilled briefly on Isolde’s hair. “They say he’s strict but fair, Your Grace. Not at all like his father was.”

“His father?”

“I’m new to the household myself,” Martha admitted, “but I’ve heard whispers. The old Duke was… cruel, they say. Especially to His Grace when he was young.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs. Phillips says there used to be a pianoforte in the music room, but the old Duke had it destroyed when he caught His Grace playing it.”

Isolde absorbed this information, remembering how the matchmaker had mentioned their shared love of theater and opera during their encounter at the tea rooms.

How many other layers lay beneath his rakish exterior?

Martha left a few minutes later, and Isolde, alone in her new bedchamber, found herself straining to hear any sound from the Duke’s chambers.

Would he come to claim his husbandly rights? Did she want him to?

The memory of his kiss made her body tingle with unfamiliar yearning. His hands had been so sure, so skilled, awakening sensations she’d never imagined possible.

Almost without conscious thought, her hands began to wander, seeking to recapture those feelings. But her tentative touches brought none of the fire his hands had sparked. Frustrated and confused, she rolled onto her side, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Sleep proved elusive as his parting words echoed in her mind.

“You’ll come to me… because you can’t help yourself.”

The worst part was that she was beginning to fear he might be right.