Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T heodore stared down at the letter, not entirely sure why he felt so much rage building up inside him.

He’d recognize Henry’s handwriting a mile off, and this seemed to be a long letter. He had it on good authority that Anna had received a note at the church, once it became clear she’d been jilted, so it made no sense for Henry to contact her again.

What was worse, it had come at the worst possible moment. His insides were knotted up, his desire building to a fever pitch, and he’d already decided that he was going to let it all go.

It was their wedding night, after all.

As well as that, he was almost— almost —sure that Anna felt the same. Her breath was coming hard, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were dark.

And now here was a letter from Henry, tucked up her sleeve. Ladies did that, didn’t they? They kept precious things close to their skin. Lockets with miniatures rested on their bosoms, locks of hair were shut up in rings and worn every day, and letters were carried around, read over and over again.

“I…” Anna began, but no excuse was forthcoming.

He crumpled the letter in his fist and let it fall. Her eyes tracked it to the ground. In a moment, he thought she would dive down and snatch it up.

She did, and she seemed guilty about it.

“Why did you have it on your person?” he repeated. His desire was rapidly cooling now, turning into plain old anger. “If this is some ploy to steal my fortune…”

“What? Of course not!” Anna snapped, smoothing out the letter, and it did seem that she was telling the truth.

You’ve read too many novels, Theodore, you fool .

Anna had gone pale, and she folded her arms across her chest. “You cannot possibly think that letter means anything to me,” she said after a pause. “I just didn’t want the servants to poke around in my writing desk and read it.”

“None of my servants would do that,” he snapped back, insulted.

“I’m sure you’re right, but how was I meant to know that?”

He growled. “Lock the wretched desk, then!”

“The lock is broken!”

He threw up his hands. “This is why I wanted you to leave your wretched, worm-eaten things at home! I have just made you a duchess, and?—”

“You know, that is going to get old very quickly, Your Grace . I like this writing desk—it was a present from my parents, and I wanted to keep it. Where is the harm in that?”

“I thought one of our rules was that you could not interrupt me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

She gave a harsh laugh. Theodore could have told her that laughing at him when he was angry was a mistake. Stephen could have told her the same, but she didn’t seem to care either way.

“And I thought that another rule was that we would leave each other alone to live our own lives,” she shot back. “And here you are, complaining about my writing desk, and having a tantrum over a letter.”

There was a short silence after that. Theodore stared at her, trying to work out what was going on under her flushed, angry mask.

There was nothing for it. He would have to come out and say it.

“Were you in love with him?” he asked quietly.

Color rushed into Anna’s face, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions.

“What sort of question is that?” she managed, at last.

He smiled grimly. “A reasonable one. My brother is a handsome man. Charming, likable. I have often had… suspicions about him, and I long since resigned myself to the fact that he does not want to marry. It’s none of my concern, of course. You can imagine my surprise when I learned he was to marry, and especially a woman like you. I never thought Henry would have had it in him to attract you, but then again… you have known each other for a long time. I can imagine how awful it would be, to be on the cusp of marrying the man you love, only to find he has betrayed you at the last minute.”

Anna swallowed hard, tilting up her chin. “It would be terrible indeed, to be sure. But that isn’t my fate, thankfully. I was not in love with Henry.”

“Then why keep his letter so close, and on your wedding night of all times? It seems to me that you wished he could be here instead of me, and are keeping his last letter to give yourself strength and make yourself remember.”

She let out a frustrated growl. “It was an accident . I forgot I had it on me at all. Like I said, I didn’t want anybody to read it. It… he… oh, bother it all. Look, you are his brother, I don’t see why you shouldn’t…” she trailed off, biting her lip and glancing down at the letter, half unfolding it.

From where he stood, Theodore could see that it was a long letter. That didn’t necessarily mean anything—Henry was hardly given to brevity. He had a knack for chattering on and on about nothing in particular, and it frankly drove Theodore wild.

But to send such a long letter to the woman he’d just jilted at the altar…for her to hide whatever she thought would pose a threat to his reputation… What sort of woman would do such a thing? What kind of affection must she hold for him?

There was no guarantee that Henry felt anything for her—he couldn’t, not if he’d left her in such a way—but she clearly felt deep friendship, love, and loyalty toward him. Even after everything he had done.

A painful, sickening feeling lodged itself just behind Theodore’s breastbone, as if he’d swallowed a slug. He recognized the feeling—he had hoped never to experience it again.

Jealousy.

“Read it,” Anna said abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.

He blinked and found that she was offering the letter to him with something akin to desperation.

“Go on. Take it and read it, and then you’ll know exactly why I was so keen on keeping it secret.”

He blinked down at the letter, glimpses of his brother’s familiar handwriting glaring back at him.

For a moment, he was tempted. He had a fairly good idea of what the letter might contain—not professions of love for Anna, he was sure of that—and it would be the easiest thing in the world to take it, read it, and know what it contained once and for all.

It would not, however, answer his question. One person could love another despite all the secrets in the world, and Anna had wanted to marry Henry first. She held the letter out a little further, the paper almost brushing against Theodore’s chest. His fingers itched to take it. He could read the first sentences…

“No,” he said firmly, turning away.

Anna seemed to deflate, her arm dropping down to her side. “So you believe me, then? You’ve given up the nonsense about me being in love with Henry, who is like a brother to me?”

He smiled grimly. “I thought you didn’t have any brothers, Anna. How on earth could you know what brotherly love feels like?”

She blinked. “I’m not a fool, Theodore. Regardless of what you seem to think.”

He said nothing but rounded on her again.

To her credit, she barely flinched and didn’t move back at all, not conceding an inch of ground to him. She met his eyes squarely, and he felt the familiar frisson of desire again.

“Perhaps you prefer my brother,” he said shortly. “Perhaps not. But one thing is very clear, and I must make it clear to you also—I do not like sharing. I think we must renegotiate our terms, my dear.”

She frowned. “Renegotiate? What does that mean?”

“I am not about to pick up my brother’s leftovers, not in matters of the heart. My Duchess must be mine and mine alone. I will not come near you unless I know it’s me you want and me alone.”

She blinked, confusion written all over her face. “But… but you said it was a marriage of convenience, and that we weren’t in love.”

He grinned. “I never said anything about love.”

She understood that , at least. It was almost comical to see how scandalized she looked.

“You are wasting your time with this. With me,” she insisted, although her trembling hands, breathlessness, and wide eyes said otherwise. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

He leaned closer, close enough so that their lips almost touched. Almost, but not quite. That half-inch of distance was extremely important. It could be his imagination, but he was sure that Anna leaned forward, just a smidge, with the intention of meeting his lips, only to catch herself at the last minute.

“I won’t come near you,” he said, slowly and clearly, “until you make it clear that you want me. Until you beg me.”

She cleared her throat. “ Beg you? Never. Why would I do such a thing?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning back abruptly. She blinked when he pulled away, caught off guard.

“I can be persuasive. It’s been noted many times. Perhaps now is the time to show you just how persuasive I can be.”

Without waiting for her to respond—no doubt she’d come up with some clever response once she closed her slack jaw—Theodore turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Theodore walked fast, not allowing himself to think over what had happened or even give a name to the tight, pent-up feelings inside him.

One thing was clear, however. Marrying that wretched woman was a mistake. He should have just let her walk right out of his home and his life, and leave Henry to clean up his own mess.

It’s not Henry who would suffer, though.

He bit down the qualm of conscience and quickened his pace.

As always, he stopped before the door to the nursery and eased it open.

Kitty was asleep in her bed, a mess of disheveled hair and blankets, and a stubby candle burned on the nightstand beside her. Holding his breath, Theodore tiptoed inside.

Martha slept next door, of course, but he still worried about the candle. However, Kitty’s terror of the dark was so intense that he couldn’t bear to insist on her being left without a candle.

He watched his daughter for a moment, her breathing smooth and even, tired out after a long day. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he leaned down and swiftly blew out the candle, and then crept back to the open door in the pitch black.