Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Sebastian glowered at the vase of dried flowers on the breakfast table as if they might wither still beneath his shredding gaze.
The changes had at first been subtle, but now he was beginning to notice them. Aurelia was making her presence known in the manor, altering small things as it fit her fancy. Just yesterday, he had overheard her requesting fabric samples so she might look at replacing the drawing room curtains.
Replacing the bloody curtains!
He knew for a damned fact that the current curtains were in perfectly adequate condition, and he had chosen them himself a decade ago.
Admittedly, he could see that she wanted a lighter shade to brighten the room—or at least, that was the reason she had given, and he could see her point, he supposed—but that was not an excuse to run rampant about the house.
The sooner he sent her away to another of his estates—one she could change to her heart’s content—the better.
But for that, he first needed to get her with child.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated at himself for the delay. It ought to be easily achieved; he would visit her chambers after dark and lie with her until the deed was done. Then he would retire. That was marriage; they both knew the necessity of it.
So why was he hesitating?
The door slammed open, and the lady herself walked into the room, now dressed in a pretty sprigged muslin morning dress. When her eyes met his, she flushed and looked down.
Odd.
“I can come back later,” she said, hands clenched by her sides.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered. “Sit, and let’s have an end of it. You are permitted to take breakfast here. It is not that which I object to.” He scowled at the flowers. “It is the other changes I am less fond of.”
She frowned and followed his gaze. “The flowers? But I dried and pressed them specifically.”
“Why? Was the room lacking a sense of decay?”
Hands on her hips, she looked at him pointedly. “They’re pretty. And because they’re dried, they require no watering or replacing. I thought you would be pleased. But if you prefer, I can select some blooms from the gardens to be dug up and brought in, and lined up for His Grace’s selection.”
Devil take it, those hips. And that wicked mouth. He ought to have her pinned, panting, and quiet for once.
“That would be no better. Must we have flowers at all? What is their purpose?”
“They elevate the room.”
“Perhaps in your eyes.”
“Yes, I suppose it is in my eyes,” she said contemplatively. “But are you so blind to beauty that you would argue they contribute nothing to the room’s prettiness? This is a very well-appointed room; I had thought you’d designed it.”
He scowled at her, unwilling to discuss Kate, or even address the fact that he had been married before, and settled for, “I oversaw some changes here several years prior, and I would rather not see them overturned.”
Aurelia’s clear eyes met his, then danced away. Her nervousness irritated him. What did she think he would do, jump out and eat her? He disliked her managing attitude, but he was hardly about to cause a scene over it.
“Eat,” he said gruffly. “And do not accuse me of being blind to beauty.” If he was, then he would have given Aurelia no second thought.
It irritated him that when she was around, he kept looking at her like a winged insect to a pyre.
She had the kind of face that inspired dreams—and not necessarily the sweet, wholesome ones contained in the books she often kept pressed against her bosom.
Another reason he should delay on his plans no longer: he wanted her. As her husband, he was at liberty to have her.
But having her without her explicit encouragement felt wrong; his skin crawled.
“How are you settling in?” he demanded, his tone all wrong—too sharp, like he was wielding knives rather than a white flag. “I mean, how are you settling in,” he repeated in a more managed voice this time.
“Tolerably, sir. I had a guest at my dinner.” Her face abruptly glowed as she looked up and met his gaze. “She and her father moved to the area recently, although her father is ill and cannot make visits of this nature. We should return the favor and pay them a call.”
Sebastian’s jaw worked as he stared at his wife. How had she endeavored to do this? He had been so certain no one would attend—and certainly, the attendee had been new to the area, which explained why she had not fallen foul of the same prejudice.
But knowing Aurelia had somehow succeeded despite all the odds pleased him in a way he could not tolerate. He had been plagued with visions of her sitting alone in the dining room, shunned by everyone she had invited, and the thought had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
But to pay a call on an associate in the area? He did not stoop to such things.
“You may do as you please, of course,” he murmured, pouring himself a little light ale.
Her hand tightened around her knife. “Is that all I am ever to expect?”
“What did you expect?” His gaze fell to her lips, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“We both know what this is, Aurelia. And if you didn’t, then you surely do now.
Did you think your scribbled and delivered marriage proposal would have you falling in love to live in a magical castle filled with joy and delight? ”
He chuckled slowly, resisting the urge to go to her and seal her ajar mouth with his own.
“That is not how this works. You are my wife, which means you are entitled to a certain level of respect in my house. You now have the title of duchess, which ought to be a boon, considering the situation in which Mr. Arnold found you. And you will bear my heirs.”
He slammed his hand down on the table. “I am giving you time to acclimatize to this life before we begin, but we can start now, if you prefer.”
He rose and strode to her, taking her arm and hauling her out of the chair, pressing her against the wall.
“Would you prefer me to take you like this? I can, you know. Say the word.” He leaned in closer, her shock giving way to something else that made his heart pound unevenly.
All the blood in his body, or so it felt, flooded south.
“I have not given my permission,” she whispered.
“Then offer it to me.” He caught her chin in his fingers, forcing her to look at him. “Offer it to me, little mouse. I know you want to.”
Her tongue moved to wet her lips. He wanted very much to kiss those pretty lips, to force her to submit to him, but he would not do so without permission.
Even now, he held her in such a way that she could have pulled free if she chose.
She stared up at him, her eyes dark, pupils dilated, and he felt certain she would give in.
Offer him the surrender he desired, and allow him a kiss, at the very least.
Instead, she just continued to stare, her brows pulling together as though he was a puzzle she had yet to decipher. A mystery.
And instead of offering herself to him, she said the last thing he would have expected. “What was the name of your first wife?”
Aurelia could hardly believe her own daring.
Asking him about his wife seemed like a bold step too far.
But she couldn’t help herself—she had been plagued with thoughts of this lady ever since Lady Mary Ann had brought her up.
And as Lady Mary Ann had not lived in the area during his marriage, she would get no information from there.
All she could do was ask someone. The person her mind had insisted she ask, it transpired, was the duke himself.
She watched as confusion swept across his face, followed by fury, then a peculiar blankness.
“So,” he declared, his voice cold. He released her chin, stepping back as though he had not been on the verge of kissing her. And though she knew she ought to feel nothing at that, her stomach dropped in disappointment. “You know about my late wife.”
This was not a question.
While Aurelia had not suspected this wife of not existing, its confirmation still came as a kind of shock. She gathered herself as best she could. “I do, sir.”
“Who told you?”
She saw no reason to lie. “Lady Mary Ann.”
“I… see.”
“I am surprised you did not inform me of your marriage yourself.”
His gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth, then back up. “If you did not already know of my marriage, then I see no reason why I should have informed you. My history is none of your concern.”
She wanted to point out that he considered her past his business—if he had not, he would not have used her situation against her in choosing her for this marriage. Perhaps if she’d had a better knowledge of the ton, she might have known.
But he had several years on her.
During his marriage, Aurelia had quite possibly been living at home, unaware of most things to do with the ton. It was only after she began working for the Duchess of Fenwick that she began to pick some things up. And that was after, presumably, the duke’s marriage.
She didn’t even recall any gossip about his wife’s death.
Had she simply not been looking?
But the duchess had still communicated with him, sending him invitations to events and gritting her teeth when he inevitably turned them down. After all, the only reason Aurelia recognized the duke’s crest was because it had been on his seal on more than one occasion.
His expression hardened, and any intention she’d had of asking him more about his wife faded in the face of such a look.
“I am not in the mood for this conversation,” he dismissed darkly. “Feel free to finish your breakfast at your leisure.” He bowed to her and left the room, leaving her staring at her full plate. And, more to the point, the duke’s half-eaten plate that he had also abandoned.
She liked his home.
Against all odds, she felt as though she could make a life here—if it weren’t for the duke himself.
His temper and his idiosyncrasies were the only obstacles standing in her way.
The rumors that he had killed his former wife would not leave her head.
So far, he had done nothing to make her feel afraid.
Even now, when he had taken her chin in his hand and demanded that she give him permission to kiss her, he had waited for that permission.
Could he truly be the scoundrel the village declared he was?
If she was ever to know, she was going to have to ask him properly.