Chapter Seven

By the time they arrived home in the early hours of the morning, Theo had a headache and little inclination to confront Nathanial. Judging by his silence and his frown like a gathering storm, he did not share her inhibitions.

"That will be all," he said to the butler as they walked into the house. "The Duchess will ring for her maid when she retires."

"Very good, sir."

Theo's head throbbed. "Really, Nathanial," she said as she followed him into the drawing room. "You're being ridiculous."

He stopped in the centre of the room and swung around to face her. "When I said we could come to an arrangement, I did not mean that you could flirt with my cousin in front of the entire ballroom."

"I was flirting no more than any other young lady there."

"Any other young lady," he said grimly, "is not married to me."

"You are being ridiculous!" The words left her mouth too fast, but she could not bring herself to regret them. "What is it about Sir Montague that you dislike? For you know it is not my flirting , or you would have approached me far earlier." Angry tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes, and she brushed them aside impatiently. "You told me we would not change our lifestyles when we were married."

"And yet I accompanied you to Almack's."

"If that is the problem, to be sure I absolve you of all responsibility."

His jaw snapped and his mouth thinned. She had never seen him this angry, and certainly never at her. The sight made her chest hurt. "Sir Montague is not a gentleman you should associate with," he said.

"Why?"

"He was on the Continent for killing a man."

"And that , he had the goodness to tell me himself."

Nathanial hesitated. In the darkness, he seemed tall and silent as a god, his wrath just as terrible and unending. His presence swamped her, and she wanted nothing more than to escape this room and him.

But he was not one of her unfortunate suitors she could chase away with a well-timed smile and strongly expressed opinions. Nathanial met her opinions head-on, just as he was doing now.

Perhaps, if she was obliged to embark on a marriage of convenience, she ought to have done so with a less stubborn man.

"If you gave me a reason—" she began.

"Is my request not to ally yourself with him not enough?"

She put her hands on her hips. "No, and you know that as well as I do. I will listen to reason, Nathanial, but I refuse to blindly obey. "

"I am your husband—"

"And you're behaving like a child," she said. He stiffened. "If you thought you could order me around in this overbearing fashion, you chose the wrong bride."

His nostrils flared and she gripped her reticule with both hands, preparing herself for the inevitable. They had been married less than two weeks and already he regretted it.

What an inglorious end to what had been an unpromising beginning.

"You should go to bed," he said, his voice quiet. "Before either of us say anything more we might regret."

Part of her—a rather foolish part, under the circumstances—wanted to push him still further. But no matter how tempting it might be, it was akin to picking the scab off a wound, and Theo hated blood.

"Goodnight, Your Grace," she said.

The sound of his title made him jerk, and it briefly occurred to her that she had never used it before. Previously, he had been the Marquess of Rotherham, but even then, she had referred to him by his first name.

So be it. He deserved the formality as punishment for being obnoxious.

With a curtsy, she swept past him, hoping that for once he saw a duchess before him rather than little Theo Beaumont, dress smeared with mud.

Nathanial did not come to bed for another hour. She knew that because she lay awake wondering whether he would come in and apologise. But when he finally came upstairs, although his footsteps hesitated outside her door for a moment or two, he made no move to enter, and eventually his bedroom door clicked.

Well! Odious man. Theo slammed her book shut and blew out the candle, glowering into the darkness. For all Nathanial thought he knew about women, he still had a lot to learn. He must have seen the light underneath her door and known she was awake waiting for him, yet still didn't come in.

She rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. Very well—her sweetest revenge would be sleeping peacefully without an apology.

But although she slept as she'd intended, her dreams brought with them visions of Nathanial and Montague until they merged into one.

Theo awoke the next day with a newfound determination to avoid Nathanial at all costs. If he was going to refuse to apologise, she would merely not burden herself with his presence.

Perhaps she might in fact find Sir Montague while walking with Annabelle. Her sister was right that heroes did not usually lurk in bushes, but anything was better than staying here.

First, however, she would have to rise earlier than Nathanial. Not usually a difficult task, but if she dallied, she might miss her window of opportunity; and that truly would be disastrous.

To Betsy's obvious surprise, she flung back her covers. "I would like to dress and breakfast immediately."

Betsy frowned, though her bun pulled her forehead so tight it was a wonder she could form any expression at all. "You haven't finished your drinking chocolate, Your Grace."

"I can finish it at breakfast. But I must rise quickly."

Betsy had come with her from her parents' house and no doubt recognised the expression on Theo's face, but they had been together too long for her to attempt arguing. "Yes, ma'am."

Impatiently, Theo entered her dressing room and rifled through her wardrobe until she found a blue walking dress that suited her purpose. It brought out the colour of her eyes and, so she thought, flattered her figure admirably. Now she was a duchess, she could commission more dresses than she knew what to do with, but this remained her favourite.

As soon as she was dressed, she hurried downstairs and into the breakfast room—only to pull up short at the sight of Nathanial already seated with a newspaper open before him.

"Nate," she said in shock. "What are you doing here?"

He gestured to his tea. "Eating breakfast, as you can see."

"Yes, but—it's before eleven."

"I agree, it's dreadfully early. Yet here you are."

She swallowed, the words of their argument hanging between them. This was precisely the awkwardness she had hoped to avoid. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but—"

"If you call me Your Grace once more, I will throw this tea at you," he warned. "Now why don't you sit down?"

A reluctant smile touched her mouth. "You are obnoxious, Nate, coming downstairs to prevent me from sneaking away."

"I thought that might be your plan, but I didn't want you to leave before I'd had a chance to speak with you."

"Another scolding?" she asked, folding her arms. "Because if it is, you know I won't stay and listen."

"Wretch," he said, but an answering smile lit his eyes, and he held out his hand to her. "Come here, you abominable brat, and stop looking at me like I'm about to bite."

Cautiously, she placed her hand in his and his fingers curled around hers. His gaze travelled across her face for a long moment, dropping from her eyes to her mouth in a way that, for an unaccountable reason, made her heart pound. The trace of a frown appeared between his eyes and he released her hand a little too fast. "Can you forgive me?" he asked.

He was impossible. She scowled. "Will you not allow me to be angry at you?"

"Ideally not. "

Finally, she took a seat beside him. "I suppose I ought not to have said some of the things I did, either."

"And I suppose I should be content with that as your apology."

"You were being unreasonable," she reminded him.

"If I was, it was not without provocation. But," he added, sobering, "my anger was not at you and I should have directed it to its proper place."

"Why do you hate Sir Montague so much?"

"Aside from the fact he tried to steal my wife from me?"

She bit her lip, but could not hide her smile. "Don't be absurd."

"Very well. Let us just say there is bad blood between us, and while I'm sure he was charming—Penelope could tell you, indeed, how very charming he can be—his motives are unlikely to be pure."

"I can handle myself, Nathanial."

"Can you? You don't know what he's capable of, Theo."

"And what?" she challenged, meeting his gaze, "is he capable of?"

His smile was grim. "Everything you could possibly imagine."

At around midday, the butler knocked on Nathanial's study door. "Sir Montague to see you," he said. The butler, having been a loyal devotee of the family for a number of years, did not attempt to hide the disapproving ring to his voice. Sir Montague was well known to the retainers, and not for anything good .

Nathanial glanced up with a frown. He'd expected this visit, but it didn't displease him any less for having been anticipated. "Send him in."

"Very good, Your Grace."

Montague, in a blue coat and tan buckskins, entered the room with a hand outstretched. "Nathanial, glad to see you've finally come into your title."

Nathanial declined the hand. "Is that right?"

"And to hear you've married." Montague laughed with his customary, and irritating, charm. "I must congratulate you. The Duchess is a remarkably pretty woman."

"I noticed you found her so."

He laughed again and sat, though Nathanial had neglected to offer him the seat. "You can glare at me all you like, but I wasn't the only one entranced. She is remarkably refreshing."

Nathanial had known she would have no shortage of gentlemen interested in her charms now her status had been elevated; and he had meant it when he had said he would not mind if she took a lover.

He had not, however, anticipated his cousin taking an interest.

"Tell me why you're back in London," he said abruptly. "I was under the impression you were planning on staying on the Continent."

"Not forever. Paris is charming, but nothing can compare to London."

"If you even consider—"

"As enjoyable as your righteous anger is," Montague interrupted, "I did not come here to discuss your wife."

Nathanial raised an eyebrow. "Why, then? Are your pockets to let?"

"Do you think I have no shame?" Montague spread his hands wide. "You are my cousin. I'm calling to pay my respects to the new Duke. "

"You had better stayed away."

"You wound me."

"I rather think you can bear it," Nathanial said dryly.

For the first time, Montague tilted his head, his smile fading. "Is seven years not enough time to soften your grudge, Hardinge?"

No amount of time would persuade Nathanial to soften his grudge. He no longer cared for Lucy—indeed, now he was older, he suspected he never had—but that did not absolve Montague of responsibility. Not only had he compromised the girl, but he had pursued her despite knowing Nathanial had taken an interest—or perhaps solely for that reason. He had taken her and he had ruined her, and while Nathanial was in general an even-tempered man, there was nothing he detested more than betrayal.

His father's title could never go to Montague. He would do everything in his power to prevent it.

"It is not," Nathanial said, leaning back in his chair. "Nor should it be. I have no doubt you are here to prevent my marriage, but I'm afraid you were too late."

"I would never dream of doing such a thing."

Nathanial almost snorted. Montague's interest in Theo may partly be due to her sweetness, her blunt charm, but the main reason was no doubt because she was his wife.

An odd possessiveness gripped him. He had lost Lucy to a man who did not care for her; he would not lose Theo.

"Let me make myself plain," he said. "You may trifle with every other girl in London. Do what you will, live how you choose. But my wife is out of bounds. Do you understand?"

Montague's smile was amused and cruel. "So the rumours are true. You did make a love match."

If Nathanial agreed, Montague would hound Theo still more securely. If he denied it, Montague would be tempted to test the theory. Although they had known each other a long time ago, they had been close, once. Montague could read him the way few people could.

Nathanial stood abruptly. "Thank you for calling, but this conversation is over. Do not visit my house again."

"Seven years is too long to hold onto grudges," Montague said as he, too, rose. "You would find me more pleasant company if you remembered our friendship."

"Our friendship was over the moment you pursued Lucy."

"Still hung up on her?"

"Seven years is a long time," Nathanial returned, a guilty feeling arising at the thought he had not considered Lucy, or her fate, in almost that long. He pushed it aside. "Stay away from Theo."

Montague gave a sardonic bow and left the room. Nathanial remained standing, staring at the ajar door.

It was damned bad luck that Theo had taken a shine to the one man who could turn her out of the house if Nathanial died. Of all the gentlemen in the world, Theo had chosen to allow his cousin and heir to charm her. If Montague had stayed away, or if she had taken him in violent dislike, Nathanial might not have needed to interfere or keep an eye on her.

But he did not trust Montague, and especially not when he, at present, stood to inherit.

A sure way to prevent that was to produce heirs of his own. A boy. Yet that was not a given, and the process was hardly a quick one. And it would involve—

Nathanial did not let himself think about what it would involve. He had made a pledge to her that he would not visit her bed any time soon, and the hesitancy with which she had looked at him that first night had assured him she was not expecting his advances.

He would merely have to ensure that she was not taken in by Montague, through whatever means possible. That would prove a challenge given their arrangement allowed them to take lovers, provided they were discreet.

But Theo would not be taking Montague as a lover if he could help it. Even if that meant taking a more active role in his marriage than he had intended.

He poured himself a glass of claret. He had a feeling he was going to need it.