Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

P ercival was not at the breakfast table. It seemed that he was about to turn it into a habit, content to starve to death just to avoid her. While she knew that her scar might have detracted from her beauty, she did not think she was hideous enough for him to decide to starve himself to death. And they hadn’t exactly started on a good note, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move past a little argument.

The constant wondering and guessing was feeding insecurities that she would have sworn were laid to rest, but then Percival had always been able to affect her mood beyond her control.

Despite the lonely dinner the previous night, she had still woken up thinking that she might have misunderstood his absence and that he might join her for breakfast.

Now that she was sitting alone at the breakfast table, she felt stupid for taking her time this morning with her toilette, hoping to impress a man who obviously did not care for her.

“Splendid morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Owens greeted with a bright smile as she bustled into the room.

Louisa immediately felt irrational resentment towards the woman rising within her. How could the housekeeper be bright and happy while she was in a funk?

“I hope you had a splendid night?” Mrs. Owens asked, pouring water into the cup beside Louisa’s buttered toast.

“It was splendid, indeed,” Louisa answered flatly, swallowing her resentment.

At her tone, Mrs. Owens turned sharply towards her, studying her with a curious expression on her face. Of course, she would have guessed that something was wrong, because even she knew that a happy bride would never be that snappish the morning after her wedding night if everything went well and as expected.

Whatever Mrs. Owens saw on her face, she must have decided to keep it to herself because she quickly plastered on a bright smile.

“The farmers brought in some fresh milk this morning. Perhaps you might want some?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I would make do with water.”

“All right, Your Grace. Do inform me if you need anything—anything at all,” Mrs. Owens offered, before walking away.

It was ridiculous, but Louisa felt as if the woman was taking her hard-worn bout of positivity with her as she crossed the room.

“I do require something,” Louisa heard herself say, stopping the older woman in her tracks.

“What might that be, Your Grace?” Mrs. Owens asked, turning to her.

“Perhaps you could sit with me—keep me company while I eat,” Louisa requested, trying not to let her desperation show. “I come from a large household, so this silence is new to me.”

She saw the pity flicker in the housekeeper’s eyes, and she had to look away. She had enough of the pity for her scar—why on earth should her marriage be a source of pity as well?

“Certainly, Your Grace. I do have some pressing duties, but I can spare some minutes,” Mrs. Owens replied as she came back to sit across from her, looking at her with eyes filled with motherly affection.

It was so intense that Louisa averted her gaze.

“I cannot express to you how happy I am that this house has a mistress again. The last mistress was His Grace’s mother, but she died soon after having ‘em boys.”

“What of the previous Duke, my husband’s brother? Surely, he had a wife?”

“His Grace’s older brother was a very good duke, but he did not have much success with the ladies—did not know how to deal with ‘em. That was why he put off marrying for a very long time before death snatched him away,” Mrs. Owens replied with a sad sigh, shaking her head. “That is why I am grateful to have a lady at the helm of affairs. The previous Dukes were not particularly interested in rebuilding the castle. They had other… distractions.”

What distractions exactly had made them ignore the dilapidated state of their residence? Louisa wondered.

How exactly had the resources of this estate been squandered, so much so that the previous Dukes had grown comfortable with living in a manor that was literally falling apart around their ears?

Louisa suspected that Mrs. Owens knew the full story, but from the mutinous set of her lips, she instinctively knew that the woman would not tell her because of her loyalty to Percival. However, she appreciated and admired her devotion.

“I will be leaving now, Your Grace. I have to confer with Cook on some pressing issues,” Mrs. Owens said, standing up to leave.

“Thank you, Mrs. Owens. I can manage on my own.”

The buxom woman scurried out, leaving Louisa to her thoughts.

While she understood that Percival had married her solely for her dowry and social status, that did not translate to avoiding her as if she had the plague.

Why on earth would she have to sit at the breakfast table by herself, being plagued with thoughts of the possible cause of his absence? This was not the life she had signed up for, and he could not force her to live it.

Her chair made a scraping sound that was decidedly too loud as she suddenly pushed it back in a very unladylike way and stood up. But at that point, she couldn’t care less—her insides were boiling with self-righteous anger.

She marched towards her husband’s study—the same study he preferred to stay in to avoid her. She didn’t bother knocking, she just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

His dark head was bent over some ledgers, but it snapped up at her entrance, and he watched her with a look of slight irritation in his eyes.

He was irritated? She was the one who had been dumped in an old manor falling apart at the seams and left to her own devices.

“What seems to be the matter, Duchess ?” he asked, removing the spectacles that were perched on his nose.

His tone was downright mocking, but even as she boiled with anger, she had to admit that the pair of spectacles seemed to increase his appeal even more. That thought was enough to add kindling to the already raging fire that was her anger.

How dare he behave so dastardly when he had such a beautiful face?

“It appears the matter concerns you, Your Grace . We have much to discuss.”

“That conversation will have to wait. I have a lot of work to do,” he said, turning back to the ledgers.

“I will have that conversation now, not later,” she insisted.

Percival looked up in surprise at her vehement tone. He must have understood the depth of her anger right then.

He rose from his desk, watching her curiously. “You do not have to be unreasonable to make your point.”

“I am the unreasonable one?” she asked incredulously, her voice rising. “You should have never married me if you hated to see my face so much.”

“I married you despite the scar on your face. I never cared about your scar,” he argued, his eyes hardening. “Why would you assume such a thing?”

“I wonder,” she snapped.

“You’re being childish.”

“Yet, you’re the one who married a scarred lady to garner sympathy or to prove yourself a hero.”

“Tell me you do not believe that,” he said, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.

“How am I supposed to know the truth? You were the one who married me and dumped me in this manor, with no guidance and no friendship. I refuse to be a trophy wife. If you recall, Your Grace , I did state companionship as the reason for this marriage.”

“It is not as it seems, Louisa. I had a ton of correspondence to deal with after the wedding.”

“Conveniently after an argument,” she pointed out hotly.

There was an awkward silence as Percy slowly moved around his desk to face her.

“Do you really think…?” he trailed off, prowling towards her with an intense look on his face, forcing her to take a step back. Then another, then another, then another, until her back hit the door to the study, leaving her with nowhere to run.

He kept stepping forward till he stood so close to her that she could feel the heat radiating from his body—which, in combination with his heady scent and his intense gaze, was slowly turning her into a puddle.

“Do you really believe that I detest you because of something as paltry as a scar?” he asked, the low timbre of his voice a hot caress to her ears, his intense gaze fixed on her lips.

Her body was hot instantly, and she couldn’t understand why instead of stepping sideways, she remained rooted to the spot. He was too close. Too tempting. Too much for her to comprehend.

“You think I do not desire you?” he continued, lowering his head.

His face was so close to hers that she was sure he was going to kiss her. And she wanted it so much. Oh did she want it.

She could see the smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. She had noticed them before, but they gave a wistful air to a man with such a rigid personality.

He lowered his head further, his breath fanning her cheeks. He must have had some tea earlier, for his breath smelled of it. She wanted a taste, and she wanted it from his lips .

She felt her eyes close involuntarily as his lips moved so close to hers that only a sliver of air separated them.

Her blood thrummed with anticipation, which was not satisfied when she felt him step away from her.

“I do not understand why you need to close your eyes,” he drawled, slight laughter in his voice.

Louisa’s eyes snapped open as a hot flush crept up her face and neck at having been caught in his cleverly woven trap.

Cad!

She thought quickly about how she could salvage the situation and her dignity.

“I was savoring my victory, Your Grace. It seems that you have moved on from monosyllabic answers to whole sentences—such an improvement,” she said weakly.

“I do aim to please,” he intoned with a mocking bow.

“Well, if you do,” she continued, drawing herself up to her full height, “then I require that you appear for at least one of the three meals of the day. Since you have missed breakfast, I will see you at dinner.” And then she turned on her heel and made for the door.

“And if I refuse?”

Louisa paused and turned back to see Percy leaning against his desk. His face was nearly unreadable, but she saw the challenge in his eyes. He thought she would be easily deterred, didn’t he? She would definitely have her revenge. One way or another.

“You will not,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “You said it yourself—you aim to please. I need you to please me, husband .”

With that cryptic statement, she left his study, satisfied with the dumbfounded expression on his face.