Chapter 8

The cats had not proven to work. Although the Duke had clearly been angry, the cats remained, and he made no other mention of them. He also did not come to the library again.

Furious, frustrated, eager to prove to him that she was not the wife he had expected, and to do so before he inevitably came to her bed, she started plotting rather more extreme ways to get under his skin.

When he had agreed she would marry him, he had specified that she would obey him and behave as befitted a duchess. That point lingered in her mind again and again, and she considered what being a duchess entailed. Taking care of the household, entertaining guests, bearing children, which she did her best not to think of, and otherwise being a representative of the Duke at social events.

There were no social events out here in the country, but her other roles could be fulfilled.

The day after the Duke's mysterious guest left, she took a basket of food and prepared to leave the house. He came upon her in the ancient hallway, and his eyes narrowed as he took in her bonnet and walking dress.

"Where are you going?"

"To visit the poor," she said serenely, tying the ribbons underneath her neck. "That is part of my duty as a duchess, you know."

He frowned, searching her face as though that was the last answer he had expected her to give. "You are not going alone?"

"The directions to the village are very clearly signposted, Your Grace."

"Be that as it may, you will not go alone."

She narrowed her eyes. "You will not give me orders in that highhanded way. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"I would never let my wife wander the countryside alone." His tone was hard and uncompromising. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Are you suspecting I would escape?" she demanded.

"Of course not."

"Then why are you pushing this matter?"

His nostrils flared. "Because I am trying to ensure your safety, though you are making it exceedingly difficult. Requiring a servant to accompany you is not an unfair restriction on your freedom, Emmeline."

The sound of her name on his tongue gave her a slight thrill she refused to acknowledge. "You are attempting to ensure my safety?"

"I understand this was not a marriage of your choosing, but you are still my wife, and I will protect you the way I would have protected any woman I chose to marry."

But you did not choose to marry me.

"Then perhaps you should have thought twice before marrying me," she said tartly, and then darted out the door before he could physically stop her.

Once outside, she walked briskly along the gravel path that led to the road. From there, it was only a mile to the village, and although many might think the journey too long to be taken by foot, she had spent her childhood wandering across her father's estate, covering miles in her explorations.

Originally, she had intended to take a stable boy with her, or perhaps a maid, but his overbearing demands had overridden all her more sensible inclinations.

Still, this journey was not an unsafe one. The road was quiet, newly budding trees arching overhead, and she could hear the birds singing in the trees.

Her intention was clear. Once she got to the village and introduced herself to the primary inhabitants, she intended to invite them all to the castle for dinner. The Duke would have to attend, and he was proud and disagreeable enough that he would detest having to play nice with his social inferiors.

Then she would repeat until he concluded that she was not a suitable wife for him, after all.

Hopefully, their argument that morning would convince him of the fact as well. She was not the well-bred lady he had hoped for, or at least, for this purpose, she would pretend she was not. One day, in the not-too-distant future, she would convince him to send her back to London.

Back to her parents.

She sighed in anticipation, although really the landscape around Crowny Castle was delightful. Spring was well underway, and primroses swayed merrily in the ditch, blooming as the last of the daffodils died. There was a chance she would, in fact, miss this.

A foolish thought. She put it out of her mind. There would be no regretting leaving the village.

* * *

Adam did his best not to concern himself with where his wife had gone. He applied himself to his accounts with his steward and planned how to make the most of Emmeline's dowry, which was now his to spend as he chose. New farming equipment, probably. He would have to consult with someone with a little more modern thinking than Jacob Hawley, the man who had served his father. And, if he recalled correctly, his grandfather.

"These new-fangled ideas are all very well," Hawley said, "but you must consider the men running the land—as they have been doing for generations now. They know what is best. And what we need is better crops and equipment."

"Perhaps we can do something else with the crops," Adam mused, running his fingers across the numbers. "A brewery, perhaps? With the hops?"

Hawley gave him a stern look under bushy brows, but all he said was, "At least you're taking more of an interest than your brother."

"My brother didn't take an interest?"

"He was barely here, Your Grace, God rest his soul. Spent most of his time in London, even during hunting season. Strikes me he didn't want to be in the house."

Well, that's hardly surprising.

Considering everything they had lost here… Adam glanced around his study. Above him, in the east wing, was where his mother's room had been.

Where he had failed to save her.

No wonder William had found it difficult to be in the house. Even now, years later, Adam felt the stifling press of guilt on his soul, the sense that he should pay penance in some way.

But this was his home, and he would not let the past dictate his future. If he was going to be a successful duke, he must conquer his demons, no matter what it took.

"Well," he said, closing down the topic of conversation, "then it is a good thing I do not have his reservations."

The meeting lasted another half hour, during which Adam was tempted to rip his hair out, and when he emerged, the house was silent. There was no bashing of the piano, no tuneless singing—he had to bite back a smile at the thought; her motives were hopelessly transparent—and no other deliberate provocation.

His smile dropped at the recollection of how she had left the house. Alone, without so much as a maid to accompany her. This area was not dangerous, but she had made herself a possible target.

All to spite him.

This, no doubt, was his punishment for having failed in the past. Or, at the very least, his punishment for having married a lady who did not want to marry him.

"Mrs. Pentwhistle," he called as the housekeeper passed him by. "Have you seen Her Grace this morning?"

"I believe she left to visit the village." Mrs. Pentwhistle's face softened into a smile. Like most of the servants, she had been part of his father's household and had seen him grow up into adulthood. "What a delightful lady she is, Your Grace, if you don't mind my saying so."

He grunted, staring at the front door as though he could bring Emmeline back through the force of his will alone. "She has a mind of her own."

"Oh, but that isn't such a bad thing. You know, your mother always used to put your father in his place. The only one who could do that, mind you." Mrs. Pentwhistle paused, lost in thought. "Really, Her Grace resembles your mother in several ways."

"She does?"

"Oh, yes, Your Grace. It's wonderful to see her bring this house to life again." Her smile turned a little teasing. "And it's wonderful to see how taken you are with her."

He finally tore his gaze away from the door. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, it's plain as the nose on my face that you have a tendre for her, Your Grace, if you don't mind my saying so. And I can see why. She's a remarkably pretty lady, is she not?"

"She is," he said, deciding that confiding in his housekeeper precisely how beautiful he found his new wife was not a wise move. "Alert me when she returns to the house if you please."

Mrs. Pentwhistle practically beamed. "Of course, Your Grace. It would be my pleasure."

"And have her sent to my study." His first instinct was to request that Emmeline be brought to the library, but the last thing he needed was another confrontation with those damned cats everywhere. "I would like to speak with her alone."

"Of course, Your Grace. I shall have her sent to you immediately."

He nodded briskly and returned to his study again, attempting to lose himself in his work. When that didn't work, he moved to the billiard room and played with half an ear out for Emmeline's return.

When still she hadn't arrived and it was beginning to get dark, he strode to the stables and ordered for his horse to be saddled. If she was not in the village, he would organize a search party, and he hated to admit it, but his chest squeezed at the thought that she was missing.

No matter how much they did or did not get along, she was his wife, and he was to share a life with her, one way or another. His role was to be her protector, and he would find a way of protecting her even if it killed him.

He had the sneaking suspicion it might.

Just as his horse was saddled and in the courtyard, ready to canter out onto the lane, he heard her voice.

"Splendid," he heard her say, her melodic voice carrying on the breeze.

Anger burned through him, and he jumped off the horse. "Stable him, Lochlan," he said, handing the reins to the groom and striding in search of his errant, missing, infuriating wife.

She was talking with Mrs. Pentwhistle, her cheeks flushed from the exercise and her eyes sparkling. He stopped abruptly, gutted a little by her smile the way a fish might be gutted by a hook.

She was devastatingly beautiful when she beamed like that, with nothing but joy on her face.

She had never once looked at him like that.

He had never wanted her to, had never sought her good opinion. He had told himself that he wanted as little to do with her as possible to better save himself from distraction.

And yet, seeing her smile with such unrestrained joy made the anger in his stomach bubble over. Anger at himself, because he had never once made her look like that.

Such foolish, complicated emotions.

"Emmeline," he said curtly, striding toward her with a long gait. "There you are."

Her smile didn't dim as she looked at him, and that was another shock, to have the force of her beauty shining directly on him.

"Yes?"

"Where have you been?"

She frowned a little. "You know precisely where I have been. Visiting the village. And it was delightful. You never told me it was so picturesque."

"Next time, you will take a maid with you."

He knew he was being overly authoritative, heard the commanding tone of his voice, and knew she would protest against it, but he would not stand her leaving the house and potentially endangering herself.

Emmeline cast a brief glance at Mrs. Pentwhistle. "Is that so?"

"Your safety is no laughing matter."

For the first time, her gaze traveled up his riding attire, and her eyebrows rose. "Tell me, My Lord Duke, were you about to go riding?"

"It's almost dark, and you had not returned."

A dimple popped in her cheek. "And you were worried?"

"Send a maid to my wife's room," he said to Mrs. Pentwhistle instead of answering.

If they were going to argue again, he was damned if they were going to do so in front of the servants. If they were going to gossip, he would do his best to minimize what they gossiped about.

Emmeline said nothing as Mrs. Pentwhistle, understanding she was dismissed, curtsied and left. Adam took Emmeline's arm and led her into the house, bringing her into his study and shutting the door carefully behind them. His anger rose, along with the frustration that she did not seem to understand the gravity of the situation.

"I know you wish to provoke me," he said, not facing her in case her smile—or lack thereof—disarmed him, "but I will not budge on matters of personal safety."

"I was perfectly safe."

"So you believe, but a lone woman wandering about is rarely safe." He turned back to face her and found her examining the contents of his desk.

"If we are to argue, may I have a glass?" she asked, holding up the decanter.

Before he could answer, she poured herself a tumbler and took a sip. From the grimace she barely held back, it was her first time, and some of his anger drained at the sight.

She was doing her best to irritate him, but she was just a young lady. A sheltered young lady who, despite her best attempts at the contrary, was hopelessly na?ve.

His body stirred at the idea that she was his and they were alone. There was a number of things he could do to her. The desk seemed a particularly appealing option, but he could also have her against the wall, or even on the floor before the fire. The ashes had burnt down, but he could light them again to warm her naked skin.

He blinked and found her watching him with raised eyebrows. She still held the tumbler in one hand.

"Well?" she asked. "Are we not to argue?"

He cleared his throat. "You are not to leave the estate without a chaperone."

"You're being ridiculous." She took another sip, her wince smaller this time. "I will do as I please. I'm not an unmarried lady any longer. I have every right to move about the countryside as I choose."

"Then you will at least take a carriage."

Her gaze held his, the flare of challenge only stoking his raging libido. "I enjoy a walk."

"You—"

"I engaged a few of the charming people I met for dinner," she interjected calmly. "I thought you would have no objection. They are your tenants, after all."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And I thought it was poorly done that they had not been invited to the castle before now. Is that any way to treat your people? They rely on you, Adam."

With a lurch, he realized she had used his first name, and by the startled look in her eyes, she realized it too.

"Very well," was the only thing he could think to say, unsure whether he wanted to reach out and touch her or run far, far away. "When is this to take place?"

She beamed, clearly believing she had finally got one over him. "Tomorrow."