Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

"H ow are you settling in?" Margaret asked. "I'm sorry my health has been so indifferent lately. I wish I could have accompanied you to Lady Cavendish's dinner."

Evangeline was not entirely sure how she would ever look Margaret in the eyes again after all the things Hugh had done to her. As they sat in the drawing room embroidering, she felt as though she would burst from her skin.

He had touched her, and then he had left. Both before she could do anything for him, and before she could understand where his reserve came from.

Yes, their marriage had certainly begun on less-than-auspicious grounds, but was that a reason for him now to shun her?

Evangeline thought of what had happened after the dinner at the Cavendish's and blushed. "It's no matter."

"It seems as though you feel more comfortable here now you've had some time to accustom yourself to the place." Margaret raised a brow. "And I've heard of your enjoyment of the beach and the sea."

Evangeline's blush deepened. "Do you object?"

"If your husband does not, then I can have nothing more to say on the matter."

"I am settling in here more," Evangeline said, threading her needle. "I confess it took me some time to love the country as much as you do."

"It grows on you, I think."

"I've certainly found so." She hesitated but didn't dare bring up the subject of Hugh. "And it's nice to have company."

"Did you not have company at home?"

"My sister," Evangeline said, and sighed. "I confess I miss her a great deal."

"But not your parents? I know you're very far away from them."

"My parents have always felt far away." Evangeline bit her lip.

Perhaps she shouldn't have gone that far. But Margaret looked at her with a soft, questioning expression, and she couldn't help spilling the whole truth.

"They have always been more concerned with public appearances than with my sister and me. We have always been left largely to our own devices. First nannies, then governesses, then eventually just each other for company. My father was thrilled at the prospect of my marriage to the duke merely so he could claim the connection."

She sighed.

"And my mother… She was precisely the same—she has little concern other than for her clothes and her next engagement and whether anyone will give her the cut direct because of my father's poor business choices."

She laid down her needle and tucked her legs underneath her. "I know intellectually that they love me, but I have seen little enough evidence of it over the years. If it weren't for my sister, I don't think I would mind never seeing them again."

"How old is your sister?"

"Seventeen. This next Season will be her first, and I'm so hoping she finds a good match with a man who will love her."

Margaret reached out to pat her hand. "That must have been a lonely childhood."

"I suppose it was, though I do my best not to think of it." Evangeline gave a wan smile. "It does make me especially glad that you are here to offer some company. The duke is so often busy, and of course, I cannot become too close with the servants."

"Ah, Hugh." Margaret shook her head as she thought. "I expect he would understand more than you know."

"He would understand my childhood?"

"Well, perhaps not the specifics, but… Has he ever mentioned his father?"

Evangeline shook her head. There were a few portraits around the castle, all of a grim-faced man who looked as though humor was a distant concept ill-recognized. She had assumed he was the duke's father, but she could find very little of her husband in the sharp-faced man depicted in the paintings.

"We've never discussed our childhood," she said.

"Ah, of course. Understandable, given the way the duke was brought up." Margaret slanted her a look. "I don't tell you this lightly. But I do think it's important for you to understand a little of his perspective, so you may approach him accordingly. Hugh's father was…"

She sighed once before she continued.

"He was a cold man, much as it pains me to say of my own brother-in-law. And he was proud of this land, his legacy. Hugh was his legacy, and so he insisted on bringing Hugh up to be just like himself."

"Cold?" Evangeline whispered.

"In a way, yes. Oh, you mustn't mistake the matter—Hugh has a heart to break, and so it was broken over the business with his sister. But he brought the poor boy up in the Scottish moors, often away from home. They would go hunting for days at a time, fighting—I think my brother thought he was bringing up a feudal lord to defeat the French."

Margaret gave a wry smile.

"And Hugh was taught to be the same. His mother, my sister, was a wonderful woman, loving and kind, and always so generous to both my brother-in-law and Hugh. But the duke was cold to her, almost to the point of cruelty, and he taught Hugh to be the same."

Evangeline swallowed the lump in her throat. "Was he cruel to Hugh?"

"You mean did he beat him? Not to my knowledge, though I wasn't there for most of Hugh's upbringing—and when I was here, chances are that Hugh wasn't. But no, I don't believe there was any physical altercation between the two. But I do think it did Hugh some damage in here." She tapped her chest. "He has never been the most open of boys, but when he was fifteen…" Her face shuttered. "Well, what did his father have to do but get gored by a wild boar?"

Evangeline gasped.

"Hugh never spoke of it directly, but as I understand it, he held his father until his dying breath. Left a boy, came back a man. And the new duke."

Evangeline took a moment to process this information. No wonder he could be harsh at times if he'd endured that. She could not imagine holding her wounded father, listening to his rasping breathing as she knew the end was upon them.

Her throat closed. "What of his mother?" she whispered.

"She died seven years later, when his younger sister was but ten years old. Hugh became her guardian."

No wonder he was so protective of her.

A wave of revulsion overcame her as she thought about George, who must have seduced this poor, innocent, orphaned girl, then abandoned her the moment he had the opportunity.

"I am so sorry that one of my friends ever could have hurt her," she said, tears filling her eyes against her control. "I thought George would never—I wish I had never even thought of marrying him."

Margaret patted her hand clumsily. "There now. You never knew what he was or what he had done."

"Is that why Hugh hates me?" she whispered, not even letting herself think the thought until her mouth had already given voice to it.

"Hates you? Oh my dear, no. Of course he doesn't hate you." Margaret's expression softened. "Is that what you thought? Sweet child, he is just a complicated man, battling a complicated legacy, and with all the scars of his childhood persisting into adulthood."

"It's as though he's afraid of getting too close," she said.

Both physically and emotionally .

"Well, consider the upbringing he had and the example he saw between his mother and father. He was taught to be cold and unaffected, and where he has cared, he has been deeply hurt. It is perhaps his deepest flaw as a man—he sees himself as untouchable. Or perhaps that is his goal. As his aunt, it saddens me to see him so closed off from the world. But," she said, her gaze piercing, "I think that perhaps you can help him."

"Me?" Evangeline shook her head slowly. "I've tried."

"You've provoked him," Margaret said with a small smile. "And I understand the feeling—he can be provoking. But while I have no doubt he delights in the challenge, what you must also do is open up to him. Offer him kindness and stability and as much love as you can bear to give. I know you may not love him, but if he's greeted with softness, you might teach him how to be soft in return."

An image of the way he had caressed her after he had brought about her pain—and her pleasure. He was capable of softness, and in that moment he had given her precisely what she needed.

Perhaps he wasn't particularly used to kindness, but she could learn to teach him.

"But," she said, trying to formulate her thoughts. "Is that not what Hugh's mother attempted with Hugh?"

"Yes," Margaret admitted. "But there is one vital difference in all this."

"What's that?"

"His father was born that way. Hugh was just made."

* * *

Margaret's words echoed in Evangeline's head as she walked through the castle, playing with her necklace. After their altercation—or engagement—in the library, she had seen all but nothing of him, and she suspected that was highly deliberate.

True that their marriage had been one of convenience, but was he truly afraid of intimacy? Afraid that if he came to care for her in any aspect, he would lose her the way he had lost every other member of his family?

She would at least give some credence to it.

Ahead of her, she spied a servant carrying a tray. They turned the corner as though they were heading towards the west wing.

Surely not.

Evangeline hurried after them, all thoughts of Hugh and his troubles leaving her mind as she followed the servant to the door of the west wing, which they opened with one hand and slipped through. It clicked shut behind them.

Evangeline stared. She hadn't been able to see what was on the tray, but it had appeared food-like.

But who was getting food in the west wing?

Hugh had always been so stern about it. So determined never to let her go in… and now this.

Could it be that he was hiding something—or someone—from her? A mad wife, perhaps, locked in the tower, or a lab where he conducted vile experiments. Or, perhaps, a ghost. There were so many possibilities, and although she didn't acknowledge most of her ideas as being even remotely viable, there had to be some explanation for the mystery.

Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand on the door handle and was about to turn it when she heard someone clearing their throat behind her.

She turned to find the butler watching her with suspicion in his gaze.

"What's in there?" Evangeline asked.

"The master is looking for you," he said blandly.

"Truly?" He so rarely looked for her. The coincidence was too much for her to stomach.

"If you'll just come this way, Your Grace. I believe His Grace is in his study."

No doubt he was, she thought grimly, allowing him to lead her away from the door and all the secrets behind it. If Hugh wasn't out, tending to who knew what else, he would be in his study. Occupied with everything in the castle except her.

* * *

Hugh was in his study when there was a knock on the door. "Enter," he said.

Moore entered, with Evangeline behind him. At the sight of her, Hugh felt his blood heat. Since the library, he had done his utmost to keep her from his mind, but the memory of her soft skin under his had almost been enough to undo him.

"Well?" he asked.

"I brought Her Grace to see you as you asked, Your Grace," Moore said without inflection. "I found her by the west wing."

Well, that was quick thinking on the part of his butler. All the retainers were extremely loyal, especially considering the upheaval they had been through when he was a boy.

"I see," he said. "Thank you, Moore."

Mr. Moore inclined his head and turned to leave, Evangeline standing in the middle of the floor before Hugh, a mulish expression on her face. No doubt she was about to fight him yet again, and he would be forced to quash her defiance in a way that they both enjoyed entirely too much.

But instead, she glanced around the space. The flowers she had left were still there, and her gaze alighted on them.

Foolish. They were sentimental; they had no place in his room.

"Do you ever think how much of a shame it is that we never met before we married?" she asked, walking to the chair before his desk and seating herself in it with unreasonable grace.

"No."

"I do. I think it would have been better to know you a little before we were married. I think that would have helped us understand each other better."

He had no wish to understand her. The closer she insinuated herself, the further away he had to retreat, or he might become compelled by her beauty and her softness.

There had been altogether too little softness in his life, and he was not entirely sure how to proceed in the face of it. Softness of skin, he could handle—of that he had seen plenty. But it was the softness of her spirit, and the kindness in her actions that made him puzzled. Combined with her inner strength, it was a heady mix.

"I think we understand each other well enough," he said. "Has my aunt not been guiding you to a greater understanding?"

"Of the land ."

"What am I if not a vassal of my land?"

"You are a man, made of flesh and blood, not wind and steel." She pierced him with a hard look. "And I am your wife. Not to be downtrodden, but to stand by your side as an equal."

He remembered the way she had accompanied him to the dinner, the way she had joined him for a tour of his estate—and he had taken her to more places than he had originally planned so she could have the opportunity to learn.

"What is your point?" he asked.

"My point is, do you know the first thing about me, aside from the fact I was about to marry a man you detest?"

"I know plenty, now." He rested his elbows on the table. "You flagrantly disregard my rules, you are incurably nosy, and"— I cannot stop thinking about you —"you have shown an admirable dedication to learning about my land and the people in it."

She blinked. "Was that a compliment?"

"I do not believe in being unfair."

With an intrigued expression, she digested this. "Well then," she said. "I suppose I'll grant you that. But what do you know of my hobbies?"

"I know of one," he said grimly, his eyes flicking to the window.

"That is a recent acquisition. I have not grown up being so close to the sea."

He had gathered information about her family and had read through it to garner an idea of his future bride and his obligations to her family. On the surface, they seemed much like families of the ton were: obsessed with appearances and determined to maintain their status and wealth by any means possible. Both daughters had been educated at home by a governess, and he had subconsciously expected Evangeline to be the same as her parents—before he met her.

"Very well." He steepled his fingers together. There was a little time he could spare before he next needed to work. "Is there something about yourself that you would like to share?"

She raised a brow. "You think that I initiated this conversation because I am keen to tell you about myself?"

"What other reason would there be?"

"I wish to know you . If I am to reveal parts of my past to you, I would at least like the gesture to be reciprocated."

He frowned. "You already know most things about me, surely. My history is an open book."

"I know in which year you became duke, and I have a ledger noting your investments and business deals, but that is not the same as knowing about you. The man behind the title."

She laced her fingers together, and although he had navigated many challenging dynamics in his fifteen years as the Duke of Eldermoor, he fancied he had never suffered such a challenge as now, sitting across from his wife.

His first instinct was to cut her off. There was nothing to be gained from this.

"I will begin," she said, holding up a slim finger. "I am closest to my sister in all the world, and if she ever acted up, I would tell the governess it was me so she would not get in trouble."

"And you?" he asked, unable to help himself. "Did you cause trouble for your governesses?"

The corner of her mouth dimpled in a mischievous smile. "What do you think?"

"I would be very surprised if you were a model student."

"I shall leave you guessing." She turned her attention to him. "Now you."

"I'm unaccustomed to this mode of conversation," he said dryly. "What, precisely, do you want from me?"

"Something I wouldn't know from studying your actions as duke."

He considered, immediately disregarding several items from his childhood. Nothing involving his father, that was for certain. And nothing regarding Sandhurst and his sister—the wound there was still too deep.

Instead, he said, "My father forbade me from swimming in the sea because he thought it was beneath a duke's son. So, I would sneak out at night to swim at midnight."

Her brows rose almost to her hairline. "Midnight?"

"The sea was very cold."

He had no idea why he was explaining himself to her. She had taken herself out into the water often enough; she was well acquainted with its temperature.

"Did he ever find out?"

He shrugged. "Not to my knowledge."

"Do you do it still?"

"Swim at midnight." He raised an imperious brow. "What do you suppose, Evangeline?"

"I think if you do not, then you should." She leaned forward, her enthusiasm compelling, a sparkle in her eyes as she contemplated. But all he could think of was her naked body in the moonlight. She would be like a goddess, and she would shiver, drawing closer to him as they ventured into the icy water together.

"I think it would be inappropriate for a duke," he said. "My father was right."

"But appropriate for a duchess?"

"No. But if I told you to stop, would you, or would you defy me the way I defied my father?"

She hesitated, but he knew the answer as well as she did: she would be reluctant to listen unless he provided her with a reason as to why she should not.

If the reason was merely that he was exercising his will over her, she would object. He knew it.

The thought set his desire ablaze. The way he lusted over her was obscene, more potent than it had been with any lady before. It was decidedly dangerous for his well-being.

"Enough of this," he said, leaning back in his chair so he wouldn't be tempted to pull her closer and kiss her.

Time to find a reason for her to have been sent here—to preserve the illusion that Mr. Moore had not manufactured an excuse to send her away from the west wing.

"I asked you to come here because we are to be judging a competition at a local fair later this week, and I would like you there."

The ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "In red?"

"If I had my way"—his voice was too low, rasping from a deep place inside him—"you would never wear anything else."