Chapter 10

Arranging for the Duke's least favorite dinner to be served every day for a week seemed to have no effect on him. To her chagrin, he merely nodded and chewed and maintained a silence that she was forced to break for her own sanity.

Replacing the curtains in the drawing room with something garishly yellow also didn't work. If he noticed, he gave no sign of it, and she was left to stew in the knowledge that the color scheme now made her unhappy. After just three days, she ordered for it to be changed back.

She went into the village three more times without an escort, walking each time. The Duke's jaw ticked at that, especially when she invented a wild tale about a group of drunken young men walking and singing and offering to show her a good time.

In reality, there had been three drunken young men who had been so confounded by her presence that they had each bolted in different directions.

To her frustration, nothing seemed to prove to the Duke that she was unsuitable to be his wife. She had said as much to him several times, but he hadn't taken the hint. In fact, he seemed remarkably obtuse to every possible hint that they would not suit. Did not suit. Would never suit.

Eventually, her ideas dried up or proved fruitless, so she turned her attention to the garden. Unlike the house, which was worn but still presentable, the garden needed a great deal of work. The formal gardens were overgrown, the rose garden was more like a maze, and the style was a good century out of date.

Thus, donning a large bonnet and an old dress, she made to go outside, encountering Mrs. Pentwhistle in the hallway.

"Oh, dear me," the housekeeper said involuntarily and stepped back, the keys on her belt jangling. "Where are you going in that getup, Your Grace?"

"It's time to address the garden, don't you think?" Emmeline said breezily.

By the way Mrs. Pentwhistle's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, she did not think. "The garden, Your Grace?"

"Well, yes. That's something I truly can do, and at no expense to the estate."

"But—surely you don't mean to do the work yourself?"

"Whyever not?" Emmeline gave the housekeeper her sunniest smile. "It'll keep me occupied, and pulling out a few weeds is hardly likely to do me any damage."

"But… consider your position, Your Grace," Mrs. Pentwhistle said feebly. "You're a duchess."

"A little weeding won't kill even a duchess!" With a merry smile, Emmeline left through the front door and walked across the expansive lawn to the rose garden. "Bring me some shears," she commanded one of the gardeners, who was so old that it looked like a strong breeze might knock him down. "And a gardening fork, if you please. The flowerbeds are overrun with weeds."

He gave her a doubtful look but touched his forelock and obeyed. Moments later, she had the tools she needed and began to address the terrible mess that was the garden.

When she was younger, she'd spent considerable time in her garden, tugging up the weeds and pruning the flowers. Her mother hadn't thought it ladylike, but her father hadn't objected, and so her mother's complaints were never heeded.

There was something soothing about the rhythmic motion—grasping the weeds at the stem, tugging them free from the earth, tapping the roots against the ground to dislodge any soil, and putting them to one side. The sun beat down on her head, and a sweat broke out down her back, but she found the motion calming.

That was until a furious voice from behind her said, "And just what do you think you're doing?"

Surprised, Emmeline dropped the dandelion she was holding and turned, shielding her eyes against the sun. Her husband, in all his height and glory, towered above her with a scowl on his face.

She hadn't even been attempting to anger him with this, but perhaps this was the straw that broke the metaphorical camel's back.

"My Lord Husband," she said, bobbing a low, mocking curtsy. His gaze dropped to her hand and the mud smearing it. "What a delight to see you outside on such a lovely day. I'm surprised you aren't burning in the sunlight."

If he noticed her reference to the idea he might be some kind of creature from the deep—or indeed a vampire, as she intended—he gave no signs of it, casting a critical glance over her face.

"You're going to burn if you're not careful," he said curtly.

"Allow me to worry about that if you please."

"What do you think you're doing out here?" His voice was cold, but something in his gaze was as hot as the sun as it traveled across her face. "I never gave you permission to alter the garden."

She tipped her chin up defiantly. "I wasn't aware I had to ask permission. Is this not my house as well as yours?"

"What are you intending to do to it?"

"Clear away some of this nonsense," she said, gesturing toward the tangled roses, "and perhaps make way for some new flowers. At the very least, tidy it up a little."

"You should have spoken to me about it first."

"Why?" she challenged. "And why, pray? It's hardly as though you're often around."

"You could have sent me a message."

"Over the garden? I'm not razing it to the ground, Adam." The moment she said his name, she realized her mistake and tried to rake it back. "That is to say, I'm not making any significant changes, My Lord Duke."

"Emmeline—"

"No. You will not command me as though I am a servant. Is that what you wanted when you married me? A meek lady who would do nothing without your permission, and who would wait for your say-so to breathe? Because, husband, I am not that wife. I refuse to sit around idly while you busy yourself and ignore me."

His eyes flashed, and she did her best not to notice the deep blue rings around the outer edges of his irises.

"Would you rather I didn't ignore you, wife of mine?"

"I would prefer if you didn't fight me on every change."

"I said nothing when you changed the curtains."

"Oh, so you did notice."

"Of course, I noticed." His mouth ticked at the corner, and she was unsure whether it was a smile or a scowl. "And you were so obliging to change them back."

That's because they were ugly.

Emmeline changed tack. "Why did you come out here and disturb me now? Merely so you could tell me to come inside and stop my working in the garden?"

"Working? Is that what you call this?" He cast a deliberate glance at her handiwork. "Are you aware that you are not merely pulling up weeds?"

She gaped at him. "Excuse me?"

"If you keep this up, the garden will be devoid of actual flowers."

"Well then." Emmeline gestured toward the ground. "Why not show me how it's done? Unless you're too high and mighty, Your Grace?"

For a moment, she thought he might refuse. His lips thinned, and she waited for the inevitable moment when he would attempt to insist she return inside. Something she had no intention of doing. He would not get her in the house unless he dragged her there.

Instead, he held out his hand. "Allow me."

Blinking, unable to hide her surprise, she did as he asked and handed him the little fork. He then knelt in the soil and began raking through it.

"No pulling by the stems," he said, "or you'll leave the roots in the earth and they'll just grow straight back."

Still baffled by this turn of events, she kneeled by his side. "How do you propose I go about it?"

"Like this." He showed her how to dig her fork into the earth, upturning it and uprooting the plants. "See how deep these roots go?"

"Yes," she said, glancing at his face.

Engrossed in his work as he was, he didn't notice her perusal. This was not the face of a tyrant who wanted nothing more than the blind obedience of his wife. He was kneeling in the dirt, not caring about the state of his breeches, getting his hands dirty in a way she was certain was unseemly for a duke.

Who was this man she had married?

Lost in his work, he continued along the flowerbed, pausing only to shrug off his coat. Then his waistcoat. The sun was hot, and sweat dampened his shirt, making it cling onto his back and sides. Emmeline stared at the pale skin underneath, captivated by the way his muscles moved and worked under the translucent fabric.

She had never seen so much of a man before. Part of her wondered if she would ever see so much of him again.

Part of her wondered what he would look like without his shirt obscuring her view.

As though he heard her thoughts and was providing an answer, he reached down, grasping his shirt by the hem and tugging it up and over his head. Emmeline's mouth fell open as he tossed his shirt aside and returned to his work.

He had no idea what he had done. And how shockingly enticing it was to look upon his bare skin. Sweat gleamed on his sides and his ribs, which she could see in clear definition as he bent over.

Soft skin, so soft, and yet the muscles in his back proved how strong he was. She had never seen muscles like that, and she wanted to take her time admiring them. He was no marble statue. He was flesh and blood, and there was something captivating about the sight.

She glanced up and took in his back. Specifically, the lines across it. Frowning, she leaned in closer to get a better look. She'd never encountered a male body before, but these lines were white, the skin puckered. In some places they were raised, ropy scars that extended across the entire length of his back, bypassing the dip of his spine.

Her breath caught as she realized what they were.

Scars. Hundreds of them, from tiny white flecks to huge scars across his shoulders. It looked as though someone had beaten him, taken a whip or rod to his tender flesh.

His bare, innocent flesh.

She couldn't convince herself these were new.

Hesitantly, she brushed her fingers across his damp, hot skin. "Did the navy do this to you?" she whispered.

His shoulders hunched, and he dropped the fork, straightening and stepping back in one fluid, abrupt movement. His face was twisted with anger. "Don't presume you have the right to talk about my back."

"It's awful, Adam."

He snatched up his shirt and yanked it back over his head. "I'll thank you not to make comments about my personal appearance, Emmeline."

"But it's horrific. Whoever did that to you ought to be punished!"

His nostrils flared as he looked at her. "Don't pretend as though you have any care for my well-being. Your behavior thus far has shown the opposite. Leave the garden. I'll hire a gardener to weed if the sight of it troubles you so much."

It was not the sight of the garden that troubled her. She had not known it was possible for her to feel so fiercely about him, but the violence inherent in those scars made her want to wrap her arms around him and protect him from the demons in his past.

Her reaction, she knew, was entirely irrational. He was not a man over whom she should feel protective. After all, he had practically forced her to marry him. He would have forced her sister if she had not volunteered. And he had shown no signs of sympathy or regret for her plight.

She should feel nothing for him.

But her feelings had already undergone some level of change. He had been kinder and more gracious to others than she had once thought him capable of. And his servants continued to speak well of him—he plainly wasn't the tyrant she had assumed him to be.

And now she was seeing proof that his time in the Navy had quite literally scarred him.

"Emmeline," he snapped, and she realized she had been sightlessly staring into his face. "Wipe that expression off your face. And go inside before the sun does any permanent damage to your skin."

Snatching up his waistcoat and coat, he stalked inside, leaving her little choice but to follow him.

* * *

Adam stared at his ravaged back in the full-length mirror in his bedchambers. Her face had said everything she had not. Shock, horror, perhaps even some disgust.

He had been foolish to assume he could ever be fully intimate with her. When he eventually visited her, he would have to keep his shirt on. Let her assume the Navy was the cause of his scars—it was better that way. Punishment within the Navy could be harsh, and although he had never been flogged, it was not outside the realms of possibility that he might have been, position and title be damned.

The scars ached with phantom pain, and he could almost imagine the rod being brought down, splitting his skin. For weeks, he had been unable to sleep on his back. Servants had bound the skin together, changed his dressings, and given him salves.

His mother, too, had cared for him, excusing his father in ways he hated to think about. She had always loved him, or at least the man she had wanted him to be. Too soft-hearted for his own good.

At least Emmeline is in no danger of loving me.

There was no chance any woman could love him after the way he had treated her.

He shrugged on a robe, crossed to the bed and climbed in, wondering if Emmeline was under the covers in her bedchamber. Knowing she was there, just one room away, was proving to be a temptation he was hard-pressed to resist.

Today, after she had seen his scars and he had lost his temper in the garden, was not the right time. But he would have her soon.

He just had to wait a little longer for her to be ready for him.