Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

E vangeline poked her head into the library, searching amongst the shelves for Margaret. This was to be their third day of lessons, but again, Margaret had appeared to have vanished from the house entirely.

Odd.

In search of her, Evangeline left the library and moved into the stateroom. A frisson of guilt passed through her as she left the library and entered the stateroom again. The portrait of the family—as it had been—hung over the fire, and she looked into the sweet face of the former Lady Lily Ashcombe.

Or the late Lady Sandhurst , she added to herself.

George had done this to her. George had seduced this poor girl and left her to die as she birthed their child.

Evangeline shivered. For a long time, she had resisted thinking about George or what he had done, but she was staying in the very castle where the worst of his crimes had been committed—and he had not even been there to see them, in London courting her as he had been.

And she, ignorant of his cruelty, had allowed him, thinking that the marriage would help her family. Although her bond with him had never been romantic, she had loved him as a brother. Not once had she thought him capable of this.

She imagined the duke as he had been the day of her fateful wedding, the way he had stormed down the aisle with a face as black as thunder, more stern and forbidding than a face had any right to be, yet with a softness around his mouth that might have hinted at a good humor if he had given it leave to.

The people here all seemed to view him as though he was near a god, and yet he had been nothing but distant and condescending to her—aside from that time he had kissed her, as though he had dreamed of doing nothing else for days, months, years, as though kissing her had been the culmination of all his desires.

No, she should not think about that kiss.

Annoyed with herself, she moved away from the painting. This was a rare moment of freedom, and a chance to explore more of the castle. Specifically, the west wing.

Her heart quickened as she hurried along the now-familiar corridors to where she knew the west wing began. A doorway separated that portion of the house from the rest, and this time it was silent. Sometimes, she wondered if she had imagined the weeping.

But just as she turned the handle, opening the door, a voice came from behind her.

"Your Grace."

Startled, Evangeline released the door and turned to find Mrs. MacDonald behind her, lips pinched in disapproval. She attempted a smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. MacDonald. Do you know where Lady Harrowfield is?"

"I believe she ordered for you both to take tea in the garden, seeing as it is such a lovely day," Mrs. MacDonald said. "I expect she'll be along shortly."

"Oh." Evangeline's dreams of finding what was truly in the west wing vanished. "I couldn't find her, so I thought perhaps she was?—"

"I expect she was in her bedchamber, ma'am. But if you want to know, you'll have to ask her. Come with me, now."

Reluctantly, Evangeline left the door to the mysterious west wing and followed Mrs. MacDonald through to the patio that overlooked the large lawn and, to the right, the rose garden. It was a tranquil view, and just as Mrs. MacDonald had said, servants were setting out china teacups and teapots on one of the shaded tables.

Margaret, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Will we be studying here?" Evangeline asked, taking a seat, as was evidently expected from her.

"I expect so, Your Grace."

Evangeline poured herself some tea, and soon enough Margaret appeared through the double doors, seating herself beside her.

"What a lovely day it is," she said and glanced across at Evangeline. "You must excuse me for not putting in an appearance earlier. I found my stomach troubled me and I returned to my rooms."

Finally, an explanation, and it was far less mysterious than Evangeline had imagined. She offered the older lady the teapot. "Tea?"

"Yes, please. There's nothing like tea for refreshing the soul." She took the cup and cradled it in her hands for a moment.

Beyond the walls of the castle gardens was the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs.

Evangeline had not yet ventured out onto the beach, but she thought it would be delightful to wiggle her bare toes in the sand and perhaps even dip them into the cold North Sea.

After some time making polite conversation, Margaret put her tea down and the lesson began in earnest. This time, it had less to do with the land and more to do with the history of the Eldermoors and the intricacies of their family tree. Largely, it seemed, the family had married locally, and while daughters had often gone to London for the Season—at least since the late eighteenth century—they often chose husbands who were situated in the north.

But partway through Evangeline reciting the members of the Eldermoor family from memory, there came the sound of footsteps, and the duke emerged from the side of the house.

He wore a very fine navy coat with large golden buttons, his pantaloons hugged his legs admirably, and his boots were perfectly shined. In short, he looked exactly as a master of the house should look—and yet there was still a wildness to him, as though he had been born about the moors and the wind may yet take him back.

"Ah, Aunt," he said, giving her a smile and coming toward them. "I see you are hard at work as always."

Despite the reserve in his tone, there was an element of intimacy between them that Evangeline saw and couldn't help but envy. Her parents had never looked at her with the fond exasperation that Margaret reserved for the duke, and she had never been so pleased to see her parents, or as certain of their pleasure in seeing her as was evident in the duke's confidence.

Then his gaze slid to her, the smile fading from his face. For a moment, she thought he would say something, but he merely cleared his throat. "Wife."

"Husband," she said coolly.

Something flashed in his eyes at her defiance, and if she didn't know better, she would have said it was something like desire, a twin to the twisting knots in her stomach and the heat that fluttered up her spine.

He swallowed, eyes dark, pulling her into them like honey.

Perhaps she could hate him, but he was her husband; she could want him, too. And maybe it was better that way, because he could not keep avoiding her bed forever.

Finally, he looked away, and Evangeline felt able to breathe again.

"Come," Margaret said, patting the chair beside her. "Sit with us and take some tea. You can explain to Evangeline more about your family tree than I ever could."

Once again, the duke glanced at Evangeline, and although she knew it was foolish, she found herself wishing that he would join them.

But he merely gave a small smile. "I thank you, but there's still much work to be done."

"You've only just returned, surely."

"And that's precisely why I cannot stay. You know how busy the estate keeps me."

While Evangeline was certain the estate did keep him busy, she was also positive that he was motivated by a desire not to spend time with her. The thought stung, even though there was no reason why he should.

"Well, suit yourself," Margaret said. "But I hope you are proud of the work Evangeline has put into knowing the area and your heritage."

"Naturally." His voice was low, and something in her stomach tightened. "I expected nothing less."

Evangeline held his gaze. "Is that so? Or were you expecting me to fail, my lord duke?"

Margaret tutted. "Is that any way to address your husband after he has returned from a long journey?"

"I hardly know," Evangeline said. "I have not been married long."

The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was tempted to smile but thought better of it. "Then perhaps you ought to add that to your lessons."

"Oh, in public I shall play the role of doting wife. And in private I doubt I shall see much of you at all if our first few weeks of marriage are anything to go by."

In fact, she was more likely to see him while sneaking out of bed than through any design of her own.

Perhaps she would yield better results by barging into his study, but she rather thought it would make him angry.

Then again, the thought of his anger was hardly displeasing. Lazy warmth made its way through her body at the thought, and she shivered, the breeze suddenly cool against her enflamed skin.

His eyes sparked as though he had an idea of her thoughts, but the next moment he was bowing to them both. "I should go inside. Thank you for being so thorough in your tutelage, Aunt."

Margaret waved a hand. "Oh, be off with you."

Evangeline watched the way he strode away, not once turning back to glance at her.

"Do you know where he went?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light. "As you can see, we do not know each other well."

"I believe he went to York, although I hardly know for what purpose. Still, you should control your tongue around him. He's not a man who stands for insubordination."

"Then what does he stand for?" Evangeline asked. "So far, all he has done is tell me what I must not do, and the rest of the time he ignores me. I am not so much his wife as a houseguest—and perhaps not even that."

She calmed herself. "He made it very clear this was a marriage of convenience, and so I don't feel as though I need to pretend when we are alone together. Or with you. As his aunt and the holder of more affection than I can claim, you must be at least a little in his confidence. You must know that we did not marry out of love."

Margaret poured some more tea. "You would not be the first to engage in a marriage of convenience, Evangeline. But the first thing you must learn to do is keep your discontent to yourself. The duke is a powerful man and your husband, and you would do well to respect him."

Seeing she truly had erred, her bitterness over her position leading her to insult her companion's nephew, she bowed her head.

"Of course, I do respect him. I would never dream of doing or saying anything that might—that might suggest he is anything but a powerful man. The servants have all said good things about him, after all. And I…" She searched for the right words. "I appreciate all he has done for me."

"Good." Margaret smiled. "And in time, I am positive, you will come to think fondly of him for your own sake, too. He may be strict, but he is not unkind, and you are his wife now, bound to him. He will not take that lightly."

She almost asked why, if he felt so strongly about the prospect of a wife, he had never visited her bed but caught herself. That was not a question to ask his aunt, or perhaps anyone at all.

Either he would eventually overcome his distaste for her and visit her bed, or he would not. She would not allow herself to care either way.

Once she re-entered the house, Margaret claimed she wished to retire for a few hours before the next lesson.

And that was when she saw the duke standing in the middle of the hallway, a letter in his hand.

"What is it?" she asked, coming forward.

He glanced at her. "We've been invited to Lady Cavendish's dinner."

The name triggered a memory deep in the recesses of her memory. "Lady Cavendish?"

"Her estate borders mine, still closer to the Scottish border. Her husband and I have some business together."

Finally, the first part of his statement sank into her. "You said we."

His eyes were almost silvery in the light. "I did."

"You intend to take me with you?"

"I do." He came a little closer, tipping up her chin with his finger. "It would be beneficial to me to arrive with my wife. This alliance is an important one to maintain."

Of course —he wanted her there because it would be better for his business prospects, not because he had any wish for her company.

Even so, it was a chance for her to leave the castle. A taste of freedom and society, more of the life that she had assumed she'd have when she married a duke.

"Very well then," she said.

"Good." His gaze flittered over her once more, and his lips pressed together.

Was he displeased with her dress? She had not thought she would see him, and truthfully would not have dressed to impress him if she had. But the idea that he disliked what he saw made her stomach tighten.

"Do you really dislike me so much?" she asked.

"That depends if you've attempted to defy me of late."

"Only when you're being unreasonable."

"I'm never unreasonable."

"Then I suppose that explains why you cannot tolerate any form of defiance," she said and raised her chin. "But that does lead me to wonder why you married me at all."

"Perhaps I had need of a wife."

"To accompany you to social events?"

"That is certainly an advantage," he said. "Do you dislike the idea?"

"Not at all," she said and realized she meant it.

How much she liked the duke was irrelevant: he was one of the most powerful men in England, and she was now his wife.

When she entered a room, all eyes would be on the two of them. She was secure in the knowledge that, whatever his reasons, he had chosen her to be his wife.

"That's what I thought," he murmured, the thumb to her chin giving her a soft pinch before releasing her. "It's in two days. Make sure you're ready."

"Yes, my lord duke." She curtsied, and felt his hand on her arm, squeezing just tight enough that she would not be able to free herself if she tried.

"If you show that disdain for me in any respect during the dinner, that will be an end to such outings," he said, his voice a growl. "Do you understand me?"

"I was not being disdainful," she said, gasping as his hold on her tightened. "I can assure you."

"Be sure that you weren't." He released her. "From now on, save when we are in company, you may call me Hugh. I have a dislike of my title being wielded against me."

Evangeline blinked. Of all the manners in which she had expected to receive permission to use his name, this was not one.

"Yes," she managed. "Hugh."

It seemed to her as though his gaze softened just a little, but he merely nodded and strode on his way, the invitation still held in his hand.

Bewildered, but oddly gratified, Evangeline made her way to the drawing room and the pianoforte there, sitting herself at its keys.

What had just happened?