Chapter 9

Emmeline could barely sleep in anticipation of the dinner that was to happen the next day. Finally, she would prove to the Duke once and for all that they were not a good match. After all, what great duke would want to associate with the lowly people who lived in tiny houses with straw roofs?

She had been inside those houses, had sat with worn-out mothers as they darned clothes and spoke about how grateful they were to the Duke—for little reason, as far as Emmeline could ascertain—and had spoken to the hard-working men in the fields.

Of everyone she spoke to, she had curated her invitation list carefully. There was Mrs. Bridges, a poor widow who was barely surviving and whom Emmeline had vowed to meet again. She had pledged to send the Duke's carriage to pick her up.

Then there was Simon Smith, a farmer whom she had encountered on her way back through the village. His hands had been smeared with dirt—right up his fingernails—but he had touched his cap with such pleasant good manners that she had been unable to help herself.

Added to that, she had included the local blacksmith, who was revered by the local population, and the curate, a single man who was, by all accounts, looking for a wife.

It was an eclectic mix of guests, and ones she had hoped would discomfit the Duke.

As the day wore on, her excitement turned to jittery nerves, and she turned down several dresses until she found an informal blue taffeta day dress. Usually, she would wear an evening gown for a dinner such as this, but she didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable.

To her surprise, when she left her bedchamber, it was to see the Duke also leaving his, and instead of formal breeches, he wore calfskins and a very plainly tied cravat.

She gaped at him. "What are you wearing?"

"You sound like my mother," he said dryly.

"But—" She collected herself with difficulty. "I thought for certain you would be wearing…"

"You thought for certain I would be starched to high heaven, didn't you? And you thought—nay, hoped—I would disgrace myself enough in front of our guests that they would regard me with dislike the whole dinner?"

Emmeline bit her lip. Hard. "Not at all."

"You're quite right," he said, his tone milder now. "I should have made more of an effort to get to know my people. This is an excellent opportunity to do so." He offered her his arm. "Thank you, wife."

She took his proffered arm, her heart in her mouth and her brain fuzzy with disbelief.

Surely not. Surely this man could not be serious. She had been so certain that he would be furious at her forwardness. But to thank her. If he was being genuine, then she had misjudged him entirely.

"You're not wearing your diamonds," he said to her as they descended the stairs in preparation for receiving their guests. "I'm surprised. This is a formal dinner."

"You know why I'm not," she hissed.

"For the same reason I have decided to forgo my formal attire, perhaps?"

She scowled. "I hate you."

"Of that, I am quite aware." There was a wry note in his voice. "You have not given me leave to forget."

Emmeline stood stiffly by his side, determined to find something more that would outrage him enough to send her home. But he had defied all of her expectations, and she was powerless to do anything about them.

Heavens above, she had no clue how to proceed.

Simon was the first to attend, wearing his Sunday best, and the Duke transformed. She knew him as a cold, standoffish man, but when Simon was shown into the drawing room, Adam became a genial host, insisting that Simon sit, providing for his every want as though Simon were not a farmer but a man of great importance. His manner was easy, not stiff and standoffish, and although Simon had seemed ill at ease when he first entered the room, that soon changed.

Emmeline watched with dismay, behaving as the perfect hostess as inwardly she was forced to see the Duke in a new light, according to new information. He was everything that was kind and friendly, his manners impeccable but without the coldness she had come to associate with him.

Yet, as much as she raged at this turn of events, she couldn't help but be relieved that her mismatched guests were put at ease. The curate was seated beside her at dinner, and she did her best to entertain him with talk of scripture and providing for people in need, while on her other side, the Duke spoke to the blacksmith as equals.

And as she watched her husband, her emotions tangled in her chest, no longer easily separated from one another.

On the one hand, she was frustrated that her plan had come to naught, but seeing him behave in a way that was so accommodating made her wonder if he truly was the tyrant she had believed him to be.

After all, he had shown no issue in commanding her to do whatever he fancied. He had arrived at her father's house with the intention of marrying her sister without having even seen her.

But this was another side to him. One that spoke to his warmth, to a gentle side she had not yet been privy to.

It looked, she was forced to reluctantly admit, well on him.

He glanced across and caught her eyes for half a second. The look was brief, but there was a hunger there, as though seeing her act as the gracious hostess was doing the same thing to him as it was doing to her. Breaking down walls.

She did not want the walls between them to be broken. And she especially did not want the Duke's brief glances to lance through her, reminding her of the kiss they had shared.

"I love to see young love," Mrs. Bridges confided after dinner as the ladies retired to the drawing room. "Seeing the way you and the Duke look at one another… it warms my heart."

"Oh—" Emmeline stopped herself before she could deny the existence of any affection between her and her husband. "I suppose you have been hoping he would marry for a while?"

"Not him so much as his brother. He was Duke for so many more years before the tragic accident, and we had hoped that he would find a bride in that time, but unfortunately…" Mrs. Bridges shook her head sadly. "We never saw much of him here."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"That's to be expected," Mrs. Bridges said with a smile. "The lure of London. I visited once with my late husband, and there is so much to do and to see. For many, I can imagine it's far more appealing than the countryside."

"How did the late Duke die?" Emmeline asked, unable to stifle her curiosity. "I know so little about it."

"Not much is known about it," Mrs. Bridges said, leaning forward, though they were the only two in the room. "They say he was here, at this very castle."

"But what happened?"

"No one knows for sure. He slipped and hit his head, or so the rumors say, but you know how well rumors can be trusted, Your Grace. All we know for certain is that His Grace came back from the Continent to find his brother dead and inherit the title."

"I see," Emmeline said, wondering what it must have been like for her husband to return to a home he hadn't seen for years and to find that his final remaining family member was dead.

No. I will not feel sorry for him.

"It's truly a tragedy," Mrs. Bridges said.

Emmeline nodded, relieved when the gentlemen entered the room and she could abandon the conversation.

* * *

Adam felt the way his gaze would stray to his wife time and time again, as though it were attached to a string and she was tugging on it.

He hadn't known how pretty she would look in a simple dress and understated jewelry. And although she was clearly irritated at him, foolishly thinking he would be put out by an opportunity to get to know some of the people living on his estate, she nevertheless did her duty as hostess. That was the trait of a great duchess.

All evening, she smiled and made pretty conversation. The only time her smile died was when she looked at him.

He could not stop himself from thinking about her. When the curate was telling him about the issues he faced with his ‘flock,' including a young girl who had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and refused to name the father, he was thinking of how his wife might respond if he visited her bedchamber that night.

When they were in the drawing room and he was talking animatedly about fishing with the blacksmith, whose father-in-law was a merchant in the city and loved to fish, he couldn't prevent himself from casting glances at the demure way Emmeline clasped her hands in her lap.

Once their guests had gone, he stared at her across the empty room and realized that all the evening had done was increase his hunger for her to voracious levels.

She was a feast for the taking—she was his, and he wanted to claim her with a ferociousness he had never experienced before.

Until now, all young ladies he had ever pursued, none virtuous, had welcomed his attentions. He'd never had a lady attempt to dissuade him or inform him that he couldn't take what was his right.

She rose, her eyes on his, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of the same hunger on her face. Then she shook her head, ringlets bouncing, and closed her eyes.

"I'm tired, My Lord Duke," she said. "I think I will retire."

Not alone.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but all evening he had been painfully distracted by her. If he allowed himself to give in to his desire now, he would become even more distanced from his work.

He had not come here to while away his time with a dalliance, or to get caught up with what was under a lady's skirts.

"Very well," he forced himself to say stiffly. "If you wish."

"You were… remarkably generous today." The words seemed reluctant.

"I welcomed the opportunity to dine with my people."

She opened her mouth as though to say something more, and he imagined crushing his lips against hers, swallowing her words and her defiance and lighting her up with desire in the same way he was lit up.

He stiffened in his trousers, and he prayed she wouldn't look down and see the evidence of his arousal. This was too far. He hadn't so much as touched her.

"Goodnight," she said. "Husband."

"Goodnight, wife."

The door closed behind her, and he balled his hands into fists to prevent himself from standing up and following after her.

* * *

Adam was not sure what brought him to the library the next day. A desire to know where Emmeline was, perhaps. She was not in the library, but those felines of hers were. One, a snowy white animal with unusually blue eyes, came to wrap itself around his feet.

"You are not the tabby I was expecting," he murmured, bending down to run his hand over its back. It arched into his touch, tail curling around his arm. "What are you?"

Unsurprisingly, the cat didn't answer, and he took a moment to look around. The kittens were making a mess of his furnishings, he noted, but although Emmeline had no doubt attempted to anger him with their existence, she had moved the delicate books far away so they wouldn't become damaged. He smiled, but the expression dimmed as he ran a hand through his hair.

The truth was he wasn't entirely sure what to make of his new wife. The compulsion that had forced him to make her his wife had dimmed, and now that he saw how desperately she was trying to get under his skin, he realized how miserable she must be.

This was entirely his fault.

Yet, what was he to do? He could hardly send her back to London now. She was his wife, people would talk. By keeping her here, he was protecting her as much as himself.

Still, he knew how taxing it must be to be tied to a man like himself. No wonder she was acting out. But with every attempt to make him dislike her, he found he was increasingly drawn to her.

There was probably a deficiency in his brain. The only woman to catch his attention in years, and she held no affection for him whatsoever. In fact, she positively despised being in his presence and his house.

One of the kittens staggered over to him, tail extended straight in the air. "Well then," he murmured, bending down to scoop it up. "You are going to prove to be as much of a nuisance as your siblings."

The door opened behind him, and Emmeline entered the room. "Oh," she said, and her brow creased as she took in the sight of him holding the kitten. "Is there something you need, My Lord Duke?"

"For heaven's sake," he said impatiently. "Call me Adam."

Her eyes glinted with challenge. "I would prefer not to. That level of intimacy is entirely repugnant to me."

"You may have forgotten, but we are, in fact, married."

"Oh, no." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I had not forgotten. Would that I could forget."

Guilt throbbed low behind his breastbone. "In the privacy of our own home, you may call me Adam, or at the very least Kant. Anything is better than My Lord Duke." He shuddered.

"Perhaps I am not the wife you had hoped for, after all." She took the kitten from his arms, cooing over its tiny open eyes and mewling call. "What are you doing here?"

Her open hostility was hard to miss, and in return, he said, "Ensuring you are doing nothing else to endanger my home."

Her eyebrows rose. "Endanger? By inviting cats here?" She looked again at the white cat still circling his legs. "You do not seem wholly averse to them."

She was impossible. He felt his ire rise. Every time she laid down the gauntlet, he wanted to pick it up and meet her in combat. Seeing who would win made him more excited than he should have been.

Marriage was not a battlefield, even if she made it feel as though she was waging a war.

"I will take my leave, Emmeline," he said, giving her a stiff bow. He didn't miss the way her eyes flashed at the sound of her name. "Try not to get into too much trouble while I am gone."

"Now that," she said with a hint of defiance and pride, "is something I cannot promise."

He spent entirely too much time wondering what she would think of next, amused and frustrated at the prospect in equal measure.