Chapter 3
Three
“Lady Gwen, this is Margaret,” the Duke said.
Gwen caught a hint of something in his voice. Was it pride?
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Margaret,” she offered honestly, looking at her future sister-in-law.
Or would the more appropriate term be ward?
Margaret seemed younger and frailer than an eight-year-old, but something in her eyes—a spark—made Gwen think that the girl had an intellect locked behind that quiet exterior. And she found herself intent on unlocking it.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Lady Gwen,” Margaret returned quietly, standing in the middle of the drawing room.
Still, the longer Gwen watched her, the clearer she saw that the girl had more of Victor in her.
The Duke’s ward not only eyed her with curiosity but also with suspicion. She tilted her chin up almost defiantly. No, it was not hostility. It was something more complex.
“Well, while I’ve just met you, the Duke has told me a few things about you,” Gwen said.
“Oh, did he?” Margaret asked, blinking up at her. “Did he tell you that I bite?”
“Margaret!” the Duke chided, sounding dismayed.
Gwen laughed, though, the sound slipping out unbidden.
She was right. There was something about this girl. Margaret was quiet, but not the type to let other people walk all over her. No, not this one.
“He didn’t tell me, but I wouldn’t be surprised. No wonder his pride has bite marks all over,” she said gleefully, glancing at Victor.
After all, what was that? Why would he ask her to marry him just like that and give up the life of a rake?
Her blood ran cold when a thought came to her. Was he the fool, or was she the fool?
Margaret’s giggle eased her feeling of doom. She wanted to stay at Carver Castle. She also wanted to be a mother figure to this little girl.
Mm. A mother figure?
“I like your humor,” Margaret said slowly, as if testing out the words.
“I try,” Gwen replied gently. “Although most people simply think that I am loud and have a tendency to prattle all day long, sometimes. May we sit together, Margaret?”
Margaret gave a small nod.
Gwen followed her to the sofa and let her sit first so that the little girl wouldn’t feel crowded. So that she would feel in control.
Once seated, Margaret picked up what looked like a half-finished embroidery of blue petals. It seemed like a very grown-up hobby for a little girl who looked even younger than her age.
Not far from the sofa, though, was a worn basket of dolls. It pleased Gwen to see that the Duke had started bringing some of Margaret’s things. It was a way for her to adjust to her new environment.
“You stitch very well,” Gwen murmured.
“I can do better. Or, I should do better,” Margaret said.
Gwen wondered if the girl was getting that attitude from her guardian—the need for perfection.
“My flowers need more work.”
“I am too distracted for good embroidery,” Gwen confessed. “I once tried to embroider a pretty red rose in the middle of a white cloth. After I was done, the cloth looked as if a tomato had been squashed over it. But perhaps I should try again, see if there is still hope in my trembling hands.”
Margaret’s mouth twitched. This time, she did not giggle, but a reluctant smile slowly formed.
Gwen’s heart fluttered with joy. She didn’t know that she’d feel this way around the Duke’s ward, and so swiftly.
“Cook made some butter cake this morning. Would you like to have some?” she offered.
“Ooooh,” Margaret gushed, “I would love that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen could see the Duke raising an eyebrow. He seemed as surprised as she was. She guessed that treats had a way to engage children, even someone like Margaret.
“Would you like me to call Mrs. Ebert? That’s the cook. You can call her Cook or Mrs. Ebert. She doesn’t mind either. She can prepare all your favorites. Just tell me what they are.”
“I love tarts and pie,” Margaret admitted, glancing down at her embroidery as if feeling suddenly shy.
“Well, let us see what we can get. How about you, Your Grace?” Gwen asked.
“Since we are about to get married, we can do away with the formalities, especially in front of our family and friends,” the Duke said, before heaving a sigh.
“Let us not discuss this yet, when the poor girl wants to see what we can eat at this moment.” Gwen turned back to the girl, who had set aside her embroidery as if ready to leave the drawing room.
“I didn’t realize you were hungry. You did not eat your food earlier,” the Duke noted, sounding perplexed.
“I like real food,” Margaret explained.
“Real food?” Gwen echoed.
“I like the things they said I must not eat much of, like porridge, cheese, and bread!”
“Oh, I like you!” Gwen exclaimed. “You know, Mrs. Ebert would love to serve you porridge, but not the way you know it. She does it so well that it tastes so much better than the fancy dishes from the last ball I’ve been to.”
Margaret followed her to the kitchen with a spring in her step. Meanwhile, the Duke followed closely but almost languidly.
Soon after arriving at Mrs. Ebert’s domain, the three were stuffed with various dishes, including the ones that Margaret requested.
“You were right, Lady Gwen,” she said softly, after they sat quietly at the kitchen table. “Mrs. Ebert cooks rather well. I would love to stay here. I thought I wouldn’t.”
“Oh. Well, I am glad to have changed your mind about Carver Castle. It isn’t just a large, dreary castle, but also a place where loyal servants who do very well at their jobs live. It’s a home. We have a family here.”
The girl simply smiled at that.
It was then that Gwen once again sensed the Duke’s quiet presence as he watched them intently.
“Are you good at cooking, Lady Gwen? You know what tastes good.”
Margaret’s question surprised her, for it sounded innocent. People never expected gently bred ladies to cook or bake. They would be ushered away from any possibilities of manual labor.
“I did try something when I was younger, although Mrs. Ebert was terrified that my mother or my uncle would find me working in the kitchen, as they might have called it. They never thought that a girl like me would want to experiment a little. I had no talent for it, though. I used salt instead of sugar once when I attempted to bake a cake. Mrs. Ebert was absolutely dismayed. She didn’t want my mother to think that it was she who baked the cake, but she was also afraid to tell her that I was in the kitchen! ”
Margaret laughed.
Gwen stole a glance at the Duke. Again, he was sitting a few feet away, but his eyes were fixed on them. She knew he was watching, but when she looked his way, he stared back at her, his jaw clenched. His grey eyes seemed to sear into her soul.
Nobody had made her look away like this before. Her fingers trembled a little.
Strange.
Victor Thornescroft was turned out different from what she’d expected.
Generally, he displayed polite detachment and well-mannered silences honed into him.
However, she’d experienced attentiveness in the way he listened and an occasional warmth he tried to repress.
It made her lean forward slightly whenever he spoke, wondering what other fleeting moment she’d catch.
The church was bathed in a golden glow, but the stained glass windows added a jeweled tone. The scent of roses, red and white, filled the air. The perfume Victor chose for her was so heavenly that even her stubborn self could not find the strength to resist.
It was a wedding that was undisputedly romantic, except her marriage would be anything but.
Agatha, Adalyn, and Ivy were all there, fussing over her.
Why fuss, though? she wanted to ask. The marriage was not real, not in the true sense of the word. All she needed was some help and advice.
“You’re a duchess, Ivy,” Gwen muttered. “Why are you fussing over me? You are supposed to sit on a cushioned chair and wait for my entrance.”
Ivy merely laughed.
Truth be told, Gwen was glad that all of her closest friends were there. She needed all the support she could get, and she didn’t have a family to witness whatever foolishness was about to happen.
Gwen Bellmond was getting married. Actually getting married.
She was doing it despite everything.
She’d sworn that she would never bind herself to any man. Her father was enough to make her dismiss the sanctity of marriage—a sanctity many men and women did not respect. A sanctity her father had soiled and torn apart.
“Do you truly think a man will let you become your own person? Don’t be foolish. Love makes women stupid.”
That was what her mother had told her when she was very young.
Still, even if her mother had not warned her, she should be aware of the nature of men. But here she was, getting married to a well-known rake. At least she was under no illusions that this was nothing more than a transaction.
Yet, instead of the cold, disinterested numbness she had expected, she felt dizzy. Nauseous almost.
You’re merely excited that you are not leaving Carver Castle after all.
“It’s time,” Adalyn whispered, touching her elbow.
“Thank you,” Gwen whispered back, before taking a deep, steadying breath.
She’d been practicing her breathing for when things get too much. Too stressful.
Then, the church doors swung open. The music swelled. Everything seemed hellbent on making her jittery instead of calm and collected.
Her gaze quickly found the Duke. He stood at the front of the church, his formal attire accentuating his broad shoulders and chest.
Were they allowed to dress like that? She had noticed his build before, but not this way. Not when he was waiting to marry her and was only a few steps away.
Her groom was not smiling. There was no frown on his face either. He merely watched.
It unsettled her.
She lifted her chin and walked toward him. She managed to tame her chaos, walking deliberately and, could she dare say, gracefully?
Once the ceremony began, it was nothing but a blur. They spoke vows she could not remember. They exchanged rings. Somehow, she had not flinched when his fingers brushed hers, and she prayed that he could not feel her racing pulse.
It was absurd, this marriage. Everything about it. The Duke was not a stranger. She’d danced with him before. They had talked. They had decided that this was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
“Is he asleep?” Gwen wanted to ask him about the priest, who was droning on and on, but she somehow held her tongue.
It was the Duke who leaned in instead and whispered through barely moving lips, “Do you think he’s dozed off?”
At those three words, Gwen snorted. It was not a ladylike sound, and she didn’t dare look at their guests to see if anyone heard.
“He’s dreaming,” she whispered back. “This might not be a real marriage at all.”
“We will have to sign documents.” He was back to being formal.
“It would not matter. He might have brought the wrong ones,” she said with a big smile.
“You know that you’re the one who will leave Carver Castle if that is the case,” the Duke reminded her.
“Ah, there we go. I feel like I will lose no matter what, anyway. Men who get divorced do not carry as much shame as women.”
“We are just getting married, and you are already talking about divorce?”
“Isn’t that your exit plan? Don’t tell me you have not thought of it? After all, how long can you last without a mistress?”
“Do you want to know?” he teased.
As they continued bantering in hushed whispers, their shoulders brushed. They were getting too close, almost like a real bride and groom who could not help but do so.
Heat flared from deep within her. She didn’t know she had an internal furnace.
Fear of her reaction made it cool just as quickly. People might think of her and chaos as synonymous, but she’d also been learning how to manage her emotions. Or so she thought.
“I pronounce you man and wife,” the priest declared, his tone not changing much.
Huh?
A pause followed. Should it be this long?
Then, there was that chaos she had been holding in and trying to avoid. Unpredictability. There was no warning glance. No questions asked. Still, the Duke tilted her chin up and seemed to study her face, possibly looking for a sign—a protest. Then, he leaned in and kissed her.
Wait. Had they talked about this?
The kiss was not the chaste kiss she had expected. It wasn’t dramatic, like one would share in front of a crowd. For some reason, it felt like a claim.
Gwen felt the air escape from her lungs. The Duke had pulled her close to him with his hand on her waist. The touch, the kiss, the claim, all happened within three heartbeats, and yet it was enough to make her toes curl in her slippers. It was enough to make her heart go wild.
They finally broke apart, the three heartbeats feeling like a lifetime. Stunned, she looked up at him, her lips tingling. She wondered what his own felt like at that moment.
Calm down. Calm down.
A whole conversation took place with no words spoken. Her eyes were questioning, and his own held a slight apology. When he offered his arm, she took it by instinct.
They faced the crowd as if nothing momentous had happened.
Even then, her heart was still racing.
Why won’t it stop?
She looked up at him and wondered if he felt the same way, or if it was merely business, as usual.
Because something in her had just clicked into place.