Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

It had been an arranged marriage.

As was customary, their union had been decided upon by their parents when they were still children—or at least Catherine had been. He was nine years older and at that time more interested in roaming the countryside with his friends, hunting, fishing, and riding than being with his child bride, who, in her portraits, appeared to be a diminutive, well-mannered doll with corkscrew curls, dressed according to the fashion of the time.

He'd never questioned the arrangement. It was his duty to marry and provide the Dukedom with an heir, and he was expected to marry the woman who was chosen for him. Certainly, he'd had his bits of muslin by the side, for his child bride was one thing, and his mistress another. One thing was duty, the other was desire. No one in his class would have batted an eyelid, for this sort of arrangement was not only common and acceptable, but it was also expected of the men of his class. It was the way things were done. Julius did not give it a second's thought; he had had neither the time nor interest to court anyone else, and he regarded the entire Season as a nuisance. As far as he was concerned, the engagement was convenient. When he inherited his father's title at the age of twenty-six, they were expected to marry quickly. She was still too young, her parents had protested, barely seventeen.

He'd met Catherine at their official engagement a year later, a fragile, delicate slip of a girl, who'd looked at him with tremulous, nervous eyes. She looked as though a puff of wind would blow her away.

She was pretty enough, he'd decided. Good breeding, a good name, good manners. She could play the pianoforte, sing, and embroider well. She would bear him a son. In short, she would make an excellent duchess.

They'd taken a turn about the rose garden. It had been somewhat awkward. He wasn't the most talkative person, and she was painfully shy. It was clear as daylight that the girl was terrified of him. They had nothing in common. She never met his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was so low that he had to bend down to make out what she was saying. She blushed furiously as she pulled out a small trinket and handed it to him, stammering that it was to be his engagement present. It took her three tries to get the words out.

There had been something endearing about that. He'd taken the trinket, which had been engraved with his family's crest.

"You can open it," she whispered.

When he did, he found a surprisingly accurate miniature of herself inside, and on the other side several strands of gold. A strand of her hair.

It took him by surprise. This was a gift from a lover. He'd certainly never expected to receive such a trinket from his future wife.

"I'll always treasure it," he told her, and he'd meant it.

She glanced up at him shyly, like a fawn. Her lips had been slightly parted and looked like the dewy petals of a rosebud.

He'd kissed her then. He hadn't planned it, and he certainly hadn't thought about it. It hadn't been a gentle, tender kiss either, but a demanding, possessive one. For a moment he'd allowed himself to be lost in her intoxicating sweetness.

He felt her shrink and tremble, and the first sane thought that penetrated his foggy mind was that it was too soon, too fast, and she wasn't ready.

He let her go abruptly, and she looked at him with those fawn eyes as if he'd grown three horns on his head.

He'd suppressed a curse. Now he'd gone and frightened her with his brute handling of her. It was a miracle she didn't run.

He'd mumbled an apology and fled, leaving her standing alone in the rose garden.

Not an auspicious beginning to their marriage, he'd thought ruefully.

They'd been married a month later in the family chapel. She looked as white as porcelain, and her hand had trembled like a little bird in his. There was still that nervous look in her eyes, as if she feared he'd devour her on the spot .

Julius wandered away from the Arenheim home and stared across the distance over the river, ignoring the cold wind pull at his hair.

Had theirs been a happy marriage?

He'd been absent most of the time. When he was at Aldingbourne Hall, she had tried so hard to please him. She'd been such an obedient, dutiful little wife. But she'd been so much younger, in a different league; she hadn't been the companion he needed. She was always there, yet he'd barely acknowledged her existence.

Had he loved her at all during all that time?

The plain truth was that he had not. That was the thorn in his soul that kept him awake at night. He hadn't loved her enough.

Had he been fond of her, then?

Possibly. Like one was fond of a puppy that jumps into your lap and licks your hand. One pets it and gives it a treat. He'd done the same, quite literally, in that order. He grimaced, remembering how he'd patted her hand and given her a box of candied violets.

She blushed furiously and hadn't been able to meet his eyes when she'd taken the box.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He'd felt a flash of irritation. He'd dismissed her blushing, her persistent stammering, and her tongue-tied speech as mere awkwardness—symptoms of her youth, lack of personality, and inability to hold a conversation. Her nervousness in his presence he attributed to fear, which only annoyed him further. Yet why shouldn't she be nervous? Even men older and more experienced than her trembled in his presence. It was a way of commanding respect, something he'd mastered early on with his father as the ultimate role model. Cool, distant, feared. The Duke of Aldingbourne. With Catherine, it was different. He found it hard to tolerate that she saw him more as a duke than as a man, respectful of his status but intimidated by his personality.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

He'd understood nothing about her at all. Nothing.

A dark streak of anguish seared through him, followed by the old, familiar feeling of cold and leaden guilt pressing down on his chest.

He hadn't understood that she was suffering from a severe case of adulation and that she, in fact, adored the ground he walked on. It had never even occurred to him that she had been deeply in love with him.

He'd been completely unworthy.

He had been a blind, stupid fool, who hadn't seen or understood the treasure he was holding in his hands until it was too late.

So when she asked him the impossible question of whether they had been very much in love, what in the name of Zeus should he have said otherwise?

A "yes" might have been a lie, at best half a lie, but a "no" would not have been entirely accurate, either.

"Not yet"—should he have said that? In reference to when? The past or the present? What sense did that make?

Possibly, the more accurate answer should have been, "Maybe. If so, it was too late."