Chapter 12
“Is this a new pastime, Your Grace? Or have you always been the one providing us with wood for the hearth all this time? Is there a reason that a household of this size does not employ someone to do that?”
Cathy’s voice was too high. It was hard not to talk that way when the Duke’s powerful forearms were on display. His chest was glistening with sweat, the liquid tracing a path down his muscular lower abdomen and...
How long had he been chopping wood, or was he already doing something else before it?
Cathy could not look away from her husband. The sun shone on those broad shoulders and the way his breeches hugged his thighs. The fact that she knew what he looked like beneath them was even worse.
The Duke did not even respond to her immediately.
It was as if he were too intent on slicing everything into small splinters.
He swung his axe one more time, burying the blade deep into a log with such ferocity that it took Cathy’s breath away.
Then, he drew a long, ragged breath even as he straightened his back.
Much to her consternation, he did not even reach for his shirt.
The crumpled thing looked neglected on a bench.
He could have just pulled it up, but he chose to wipe the sweat from his brow on his forearm.
It smeared dirt over his temple, then on his cheek when he lowered his arm.
And only then did he face and address her.
“The staff is perfectly capable,” he said, not even breathing hard. However, his voice was raspy, presumably from his manual labor. “You have seen them, Cathy. This? This is personal.”
“So, you like doing this yourself? But why must you do it here? Servants or even guests can easily stumble upon you in this... this, uh, state of undress. I should think this is utterly improper.”
Tristan rested both hands on the axe handle. To Cathy’s horror, a smirk had spread across his face. The Duke looked attractive even when he bordered on predatory. The golden rays of the sun made his eyes catlike.
“I do like this particular spot. You will find that out if you pass here more often. The air is fresh, and the wood is stubborn. It reminds me of someone I know.”
Cathy blushed.
“Why must you, a duke, chop wood like a... a common laborer?” she stammered.
It was not that at all. Perhaps if the duke were chopping wood with clothes on, she would not feel so annoyed.
“It helps with the pent-up energy,” he replied, walking toward her as if to test her.
She could not even complain. She was the one who started the conversation.
“I must make use of it on something that requires more force, or else I might use it on something more reckless. I must admit, it is a pity I had been indefinitely forbidden from using it elsewhere.”
The innuendo was clear. He was implying that the solitude imposed on both of them was causing him undue frustration, and she felt her cheeks grow red.
“Well, then,” she retorted. “I will leave you to your... productive afternoon. I shall return to my own work. I have more accounts to settle, and you have a forest to manage, it seems.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, but his gaze dropped to her mouth. It was barely a moment, and she could be imagining things. Soon, his attention was back to the poor stump.
Cathy was not going to wait for whatever was going to happen.
She retreated to her wooden bench and log table.
This time, none of the numbers were making sense.
They looked more like hieroglyphics cursed by a pharaoh.
Even as she positioned her quill, her mind was elsewhere.
The rhythmic chopping had begun again. This time, she could clearly imagine how it was being done.
With sweat. With anger. Without a shirt.
Instead of seeing the numbers for her sisters’ expenses, she imagined Tristan’s muscles flexing in his back.
Cathy knew she should not follow that train of thought, but she imagined the heat and weight of those broad shoulders pressed against her. A sudden ache pooled in her lower belly, with a hunger she had been trying to ignore.
What would it be like if they stopped this pretense of distance?
She did not want him to avoid her. No, she wanted him to pin her against something and make her feel the full weight of his masculine power.
How was it possible that his every move made her feel desperately thirsty, not for water, but for something only he could slake?
No, that does not make sense! I do not want him. I do not.
Cathy tried to refocus on her notes. She was too distracted, and that had to change. She now scribbled as if she were fighting someone. Hopefully, someone watching her would think she was merely focused on her work.
So focused did she seem at some point that she did not hear him approach. A shadow fell over the page of her ledger.
“Ah. The Marlow accounts must be quite compelling,” Tristan’s voice boomed.
Cathy nearly knocked over her inkwell as she startled. When she looked up at him, she was relieved that he was at least dressed. His rumpled, stained shirt was back on. However, some buttons were still popped, revealing the hard ridges of his stomach.
“Yes... yes! They are,” she said, trying to be firm but coming out as breathy. “What is it that you want, Your Grace?”
The Duke did not reply immediately. He leaned toward her, so close that his face was mere inches from hers. He was so close, and she could barely breathe. Then, he pointed a finger at the log table.
“I am certain you have been focused,” Tristan said, his voice even and reasonable. “However, you do have to check your aim, Duchess. You may want to refill your inkwell, too.”
Cathy looked down at her makeshift table and gasped. She was shocked to see that she had not been writing in her ledger at all. Her ink had completely missed the parchment for the last few lines. She had apparently written on her log table, instead.
“I, uh, I was just...”
“Were you?” he began, his hilarity increasing, and his smile widened. “Were you listening for my ax? Or did you leave your little table to spy on me? Do not be embarrassed, Duchess. I have been told it is merely a physical reflex. It could have happened with anyone.”
Cathy’s cheeks were hot from humiliation as her own words were thrown back at her. Breathless, she scrambled to her feet while also gathering her papers and inkwell. She tried to hide the shaking in her hands, but to no avail.
Without looking at him, she mumbled, “I have to go.”
The following breakfast, everything was quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were the clinking of silver and the ticking of the clock.
Cathy’s eyes were planted firmly on her toast as she spread butter on it.
She did not want to acknowledge his undeniable presence.
Thankfully, dukes were not allowed to eat their meals without their shirts on.
He looked completely decent, not that she was looking at him.
But even if she was not, she could feel his movements, smell his clean, slightly smoky scent, and hear his little rituals at the table.
They had not known each other intimately for long, but she had already guessed what he would do for his breakfast: take a slice of bread and dab it with butter before adding a generous dollop of marmalade.
Then, after eating his bread, he would go for the egg next.
Everything would be done with the help of tea.
It was distracting how her mind followed his steps, but she would take it if it meant he was predictable.
Alas, he did not plan on being predictable that morning either.
“We have received an invitation,” he announced suddenly.
“How lovely,” she replied drily, still not looking at him. Her bread looked all too pretty, with what was beginning to feel like decorative butter. It was time to take a bite.
“This particular invitation is from the Marchioness of Hertford,” Tristan continued, as if he did not notice her tone. “It is for a ball on Friday.”
Cathy finally met his questioning gaze, frowning. Why was he telling her this?
“We do not have to be there. We can send our regrets, and I will be happy to write it myself. I am sure the Marchioness will understand that we have just gotten married and are currently settling into this new life. Nobody expects us to be socializing already.”
“On the contrary,” Tristan said pleasantly. “Everyone expects precisely that. The ton has been waiting with considerable anticipation for their first proper look at us as a married couple. Every day we delay gives them another day to fill with speculation.”
“Let them speculate,” Cathy said, reaching for her tea. “We know the truth of the matter.”
“Do we?” he asked. “Because from where I sit, the truth of the matter is that we were found together behind a church, caused the scandal of the Season, and have since barely been seen in the same room together. That is not a picture of domestic harmony, Cathy. That is a picture of two people who deeply regret what happened.”
She did not have an answer for that.
“Your sisters will need to be introduced eventually. Madeline has a Season to salvage. Selina has a debut to make. Every whisper about this marriage reflects on them directly.” He paused. “You know this already.”
Tristan was right. Although a part of her believed that there was no saving their reputation after the scandalous way the ton found them in the churchyard, staying quiet was giving in.
It was telling everyone that they were right.
Madeline, Portia, and Selina needed their eldest sister to do the right thing, to promote them in society despite what their father did to them.
What was holding her back?
It was him. The very thought of being close to him in a crowded ballroom felt suffocating.
She would not be able to escape his scent and heat, not when people were watching them.
The ton would be eager to inspect every flinch and startle.
It would be difficult to deal with everyone else when she would be trying not to react to his mere presence.
However, he was right. They needed to be out in society as a united front.
“You are right,” she said at last, with as little resignation in her voice as she could manage. She picked up her toast again and looked at it rather than at him. “We must go.”
“That was considerably easier than I expected,” he said.
“We must do what we must do,” she said, trying to take away the resignation from her voice.