Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“ W ould you like to have dinner, Your Grace?” The soft voice broke into Damian’s reverie.
He looked up to see Gwendoline wearing a modest evening gown. Her honey-blonde hair was loosely pinned to her head, allowing soft tendrils to fall gracefully on her shoulders.
What was different tonight? Why would she ask him about dinner? She knew better than to cross the boundary between them.
Still, Damian could not help but look at her face. Her eyes looked vulnerable, as if she had forced herself to come and ask him to join her for dinner.
It must have been difficult for her to shed her pride and approach him, a man who had repeatedly insisted that there should be no romance or friendship between them.
Damian hardened himself, burying the pang of guilt that threatened to rise. He couldn’t afford to break his own rules. Distraction was a luxury he could not allow.
“I am occupied, Duchess,” he responded, his voice curt as he returned his gaze to the ledger on his desk.
“Even so,” she continued, undeterred as she stepped into his study, her skirts brushing against the floor. “Even dukes must eat, and why not use this time to?—”
“I appreciate the invitation,” he interrupted with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
It was a long night, and she was making it… Well, he wasn’t certain. Not any longer.
Interesting.
“But you know that?—”
Her voice cut through his protest, sharp and defiant. “Are you planning to decline my invitations forever? Or is disposing of me part of your elaborate plan? If so, then you mustn’t wait to send me somewhere. Perhaps a convent? I wouldn’t mind. At the moment, though, we are married, Your Grace. It wouldn’t hurt to sit at the same table for a meal once in a while. I am not asking you to do it every night.”
Damian’s head snapped up at the heat in her words. They struck a chord within him, making him see the fire in her eyes.
He hadn’t expected her to issue a challenge, but there it was. No, Gwendoline Landon was not merely inviting him. She was challenging him.
God, this woman was here to test him at every turn.
For a moment, he remained seated. He was caught off guard by her boldness. Why was he even surprised? Her preoccupation was temporary. Of course, she would find a way to get the answers she needed.
He slowly, deliberately, rose to his feet.
His movements were unhurried and purposeful. He was acutely aware of how his towering frame could fill the room, and he liked using it to his advantage.
When Gwendoline instinctively took a step back, however, it wasn’t satisfaction he felt. He could see that her defiance didn’t waver. He easily crossed the distance between them, stopping when she was only a breath away.
“You are bold tonight, Duchess,” he murmured, his voice dangerously low.
His eyes scanned her face, taking in the blush on her cheeks and the determined set of her jaw.
“And you—you are intolerable,” she retorted, struggling to hide the tremor in her voice.
Her stutter only made him want to groan aloud. How did she do that?
His lips curled into a faint smirk. “Am I?” he asked, deeply amused but also feeling more with this woman.
He leaned in so close that he could smell her hair. He fought the urge to breathe her in. She smelled sweet, like vanilla or honey or both. Her proximity was dizzying. He could feel the heat of her body, and he knew that she could feel his breath on her skin.
“Tell me, Duchess,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, “is this your way of asserting control over an unfamiliar situation?”
Her breath hitched, but her gaze remained unwavering. “I only ask for your presence at dinner. Is that so great a demand from your wife?”
Gwendoline managed to keep her voice steady, but Damian had learned enough about her to detect her uncertainty. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides. There was no way his wife was relaxed at this very moment. However, he must commend her courage to even brave a battle of wills with him.
Something primal and possessive stirred within him. It was an unwelcome feeling, one that he had always left outside the locked door of his heart. His hand moved, brushing against her wrist before he caught himself. Startled by the movement, he drew back sharply as if she had burned him.
Damian exhaled slowly, forcing himself to step away. He raked a hand through his hair, breaking the spell that had momentarily consumed him—one that he hoped she had not noticed.
“Very well,” he finally said in a clipped tone. “I will join you for dinner.”
Gwendoline blinked, clearly surprised by the turn of events. However, he didn’t wait for her response, turning his back to her and returning to his desk.
“You should go,” he added, almost rudely. “I won’t keep you waiting for long.”
She lingered momentarily, a strained smile on her face, searching for something he wouldn’t let her see. Then, without another word, she turned around and left the room, leaving him to wrestle with the storm she had unleashed within him.
The dining room felt like a frozen tundra. Damian had never remembered it that way. Perhaps he had been spending so much time in his small study, or perhaps the awkwardness between them brought the chill.
As usual, Cook had outdone herself. The table was laden with an array of elaborate dishes, which looked more suitable for a feast than a dinner for two.
Despite the sumptuous sights and smells, Gwendoline picked at her food. Her movements were slow and tentative. For someone who had invited him for dinner, she certainly didn’t look enthusiastic about eating.
She winced as she brought the food to her mouth.
“Is the food not to your liking?” Damian couldn’t help but ask, breaking the silence that he would not have minded.
“No, everything is wonderful, Your Grace. Cook has never cooked anything that I didn’t like,” she said in a rush, a little startled by his question.
Guilt flickered in her eyes. Somehow, he missed the combatant Gwendoline. This woman, the one who was too eager to please… That couldn’t be the real her.
Damian wanted to tell her that he was aware that she made it a point to compliment the staff, including Cook, but he stopped himself. That would be breaking his own rules.
“Then what is it?” he pressed, trying to keep his voice soft.
He tilted his head to the side and watched the candlelight dance across her face. Something in him stirred.
“I… I am simply not used to such abundance, especially for a meal for two,” she confessed, her fingers curling around the stem of her full wine glass.
The gentle touch soon became a tight grip.
Damian could not help but frown. Just how much had this young woman been through? Exploitation, certainly. But had she suffered hunger, too?
“I understand that your father’s finances had been strained.”
“Even before,” she agreed softly.
Her gaze dropped to her plate, taking her shame and sadness with it.
“To think that anyone who looks at me would never believe that I had been through… I look like someone who can eat a whole sack of potatoes. Or someone who had successfully done so.”
Damian studied his wife carefully. He had tried not to do it often. Every time he had tried before, his eyes couldn’t help but wander to her generous bosom. He thought it would be unforgivably cruel to ogle the woman he had promised not to even be friends with. Yet, it should be safe enough to admit that he thought there was nothing wrong with her appearance. She was merely shaped the way a woman should be.
Generous bosom. Hourglass shape. Womanly curves.
However, she was not only that. She had the face of an angel—soft red cheeks and bright hazel eyes. It was framed by soft, honey-blonde hair, which in itself was a work of art.
Damian shook the cobwebs from his mind. He should not entertain such thoughts. Gwendoline Landon—as he still called her in his mind—was a means to an end. She wasn’t the light at the end of the tunnel. She was the tunnel, no matter how crass that might sound.
“You don’t look like someone who can eat a whole sack of potatoes,” he muttered as he dug into his food.
Then, he looked back at her. She was staring at him again, looking thoughtful. She seemed to be waiting for him to say more, questions forming in her mind.
He realized that her guarded demeanor and her seemingly endless questions at the beginning of their arrangement were the result of criticism, deprivation, and being under someone else’s thumb.
He felt something strange in his chest.
Could it be guilt? No, it couldn’t be. He only wanted to set things right.
The Duke of Greyvale could never be wrong. A muscle ticked in his jaw when he remembered all the things his father did, especially to his mother. He would never be like that man.
“You should also remember that you are no longer at Montrose’s mercy,” he continued. “Your life will be different here. You will be more comfortable. Enjoy Cook’s dishes. She would be pleased if you’d scrape your plates. That would be the best compliment you could give her.”
Her face contorted when he said those words. She looked down at her food quizzically, possibly detecting a semblance of truth in what he said.
She pushed her fork deep into her Haricot lamb. The ferocity almost made Damian laugh, but he sipped his brandy instead. He shouldn’t laugh when she was still battling with her insecurities.
Then, Gwendoline looked at him. Her eyes searched his face for answers.
“Will it? I would like to give her a compliment either way. I want her to know that her efforts matter.” She paused for a moment. “Every person matters.”
I matter.
Damian heard those unspoken words.
It took him a while to remember that she was asking about whether her life would truly be comfortable with him in Greyvale.
Unfortunately, the question hung in the air, unanswered.
After dinner, Damian gave his wife a polite nod and headed back to his study. He thought that a few more hours with his ledger could help him get some work done. He didn’t like work piling up, but most of all, he needed a distraction.
He needed something to distract him from his wife.
His thoughts were plagued by Gwendoline. Yes, she often tested his patience with her questions and recommendations. She stirred something within him that he thought had been dormant or even missing for years.
Damian realized that it mattered how she felt about her past and her future. Yet, he didn’t want to do anything about it. It wasn’t part of the plan.
As he turned his focus back to the numbers in front of him, he heard a soft knock. Nobody asked for his permission, though. The door simply opened, and she walked in.
This time, no loose tendrils fell to her shoulders, and she looked breathless if her heaving bosom were anything to go by.
“I have tried to do my part quietly, but I can no longer accept being taken for granted, like a cheap vase placed among antique ones,” she huffed.
Damian wrinkled his nose at the comparison.
“We were clear about what we are, right from the beginning,” he said patiently. “I would also deeply appreciate if you stopped barging in without my permission.”
“I am not asking you to be a true husband, Your Grace. I merely would like you to not treat me like an inconvenience,” she said, her voice softening a little.
“You’re treading on dangerous ground, Duchess. We’ve talked about this before. It’s an arrangement. No feelings involved. You get to avoid being sold to the highest bidder, while I get to return to my routine. I have much work to do if you can’t already tell.”
They stared at each other, each too stubborn to back down.
Moments passed, and their stare-down became more charged. Anger turned into something more difficult to define. Tension crackled between them.
Damian rose from his chair, trying to use his height and size to intimidate her, but she didn’t even flinch.
She did not step back at all. Instead, she had the gall to jut her chin.
“Perhaps I am obstinate, Your Grace. You’ve helped me, as you said. Now, let me help you. Someone has to stop you from shutting yourself in. Why are you doing this? Do you want to keep brooding in a stuffy room over plans that you refuse to share? It festers within you, whatever it is. It makes you avoid people. It makes you avoid me—the woman you brought to your estate with your carriage.”
“Enough! I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said in a menacing voice as he strode toward her. “This is my house and my life. You must respect that.”
“Don’t I deserve respect from you, too? I am your wife now, Your Grace, whether you like it or not. You brought this upon yourself when you obtained a quick marriage license. Or do you find me so ghastly that you cannot even bear to remain in the same room with me?”
Her words struck him like a physical blow, her defiance stirring something primal within him that he couldn’t afford to—should never—acknowledge. Even as tension thickened between them, heavy and intoxicating, other things simmered beneath the surface—things Damian refused to confront.
Damn.
His body was reacting to her in ways he should have expected but refused to consider. He was hard.
Fortune continued to smile down at him because she had not noticed. Yet.
He counted in his head, trying to calm the rising storm. His gaze remained on his red-faced wife, even though he had tried not to look at her too closely. Her fury unsettled him, and he noticed the contrast between her flushed cheeks and fair skin. These were details that he had never bothered to pay attention to when he took countless women to his bed.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He attempted to redirect his thoughts toward Montrose. That bastard had been the source of his control and had kept him focused for a while.
Control. It was his armor. It was the strength that kept up the icy facade that his wife loathed. She shouldn’t think that he could be anything but loathsome.
Tonight, though, the armor was cracked.