Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Theodore returned to Ashmere well past midnight, his muscles protesting the punishing pace he’d maintained from London. He’d pushed himself harder than necessary, driven by something he refused to examine too closely, because it felt dangerously like need.
The castle was dark and silent. He made his way to his chambers without summoning servants, wanting only to collapse into bed and pretend John’s words hadn’t burrowed beneath his skin like splinters.
But as he passed Cressida’s door, he noticed light beneath it.
He stopped. Every instinct screamed at him to continue walking, to maintain the careful distance that had become his armor. Yet he found himself standing there, one hand raised as though to knock, imagining what he might say.
That he was sorry for avoiding her? That proximity terrified him more than any battlefield ever had? That the sound of her laugh yesterday in the library had made him forget how to breathe?
He lowered his hand.
This was madness. He’d just spent hours riding through the darkness to escape her pull, and here he stood, drawn to her door like a fool.
He forced himself onward, into his own chambers, where he stripped out of his riding clothes and stood before the connecting door that led to her rooms.
Locked. From both sides. As he’d instructed Mrs. Agnes.
He pressed his palm against the wood, imagining he could feel her presence beyond it. Imagining she might be doing the same on the other side, separated by mere inches and an ocean of fear.
Then he turned away and called for cold water, determined that physical exhaustion would drive out the want that had taken root beneath his ribs.
Cressida woke before dawn, restless energy driving her from her bed. She’d spent hours the previous night staring at the connecting door, wondering if Theodore had returned, if he stood on the other side thinking of her as she thought of him.
Now, dressed in a simple morning gown, she found herself wandering the castle’s corridors in the pre-dawn darkness. Her feet carried her toward the conservatory, the glass-walled room where Mrs. Agnes had mentioned Theodore did his morning exercise.
She told herself she was simply exploring. That she had every right to walk her own home at whatever hour she chose.
She told herself she wasn’t hoping to encounter him.
The conservatory doors stood open, candlelight spilling into the corridor. Cressida approached quietly, some instinct making her pause at the threshold rather than announce herself immediately.
She froze.
Theodore stood in the center of the conservatory, stripped down to the waist, a sword balanced in his hand as he moved through what appeared to be practice forms. Candlelight gleamed off sweat-slicked skin, illuminating the play of muscle across his shoulders and back as he executed each movement with lethal grace.
Cressida’s breath caught. She’d known that her husband was well-built—his coats fit too perfectly for any other possibility—but knowing and seeing were entirely different matters.
Theodore was magnificent. Scars marred his torso—thin white lines that spoke of violence survived, battles fought. His movements were fluid despite their precision, each shift of weight revealing the controlled power that probably made him formidable in combat.
She should leave before he noticed her presence, before she was caught staring like a love-struck girl at a man who’d made his disinterest abundantly clear.
But Cressida found herself rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the mesmerizing dance of blade and body, candlelight and shadow.
Theodore completed his form and lowered the sword, his chest heaving with exertion. Then he turned toward the windows to set the blade aside… and saw her.
They stared at each other across the conservatory. Cressida watched his pupils dilate, saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the rapid rise and fall of his chest that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with the charged air between them.
“Duchess.” His voice was rough. “I didn’t expect—you shouldn’t be—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Cressida said, surprised her voice emerged steady when her heart was hammering so loudly she could hear it in her ears. “I was exploring. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. This is your home.” Theodore reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier, and Cressida felt absurd disappointment as he pulled it on, hiding all that skin from view. “I fence most mornings. To clear my mind.”
“Does it work?”
“Not lately.”
Cressida saw him regret the brief lowering of his guard that revealed too much.
The silence that followed felt weighted with all the things neither of them was saying.
Cressida’s gaze traveled over him, cataloguing details she hadn’t been close enough to notice before.
The way his hair curled slightly at his temples, the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly, the way his hands flexed and clenched as though fighting the urge to reach for her.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re half-dressed in the middle of the conservatory,” Cressida countered, lifting her chin. “Where else should I look?”
His jaw clenched. “Anywhere that doesn’t make me forget why I’ve been avoiding you.”
“And why is that, precisely?” She stepped into the conservatory properly, closing some of the distance between them. “Why have you spent two weeks fleeing to London and hiding in your study rather than simply speaking to me?”
“Because speaking to you is dangerous.”
“How terrifying I must be. A woman who wants nothing more than civil conversation with her husband.”
“You want more than conversation.” Theodore’s gaze raked over her, leaving heat in its wake. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Cressida’s breath hitched at the raw honesty. “And if I do? We’re married, Theodore. Society expects—”
“Society expects an heir and the appearance of marital civility. Nothing more.” But his voice lacked conviction, and his eyes betrayed him, dark with want he couldn’t quite hide.
“Is that truly all you want?” Cressida took another step closer, emboldened by the hunger she saw in his expression. “A cold arrangement where we produce children and live separate lives?”
“It’s all I can afford to want.” His hands clenched again, that telltale sign of restraint fracturing. “Anything else leads to disaster.”
“Why?” The question emerged softer than she had intended. “What makes you so certain that caring for each other would be catastrophic?”
Theodore was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Because I’ve seen what happens when passion overrules reason. When people allow desire to cloud their judgment.” His voice was hollow. “I won’t repeat those mistakes.”
“Whose mistakes?” Cressida pressed. “Tell me, Theodore. I want to hear it from you.”
His walls slammed back into place. She watched it happen—the shuttering of his expression, the straightening of his spine, the careful distance reasserting itself like armor donned for battle.
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is if it’s the reason my husband treats me like a contagion.” Frustration bled into her voice. “I’m not asking for grand declarations of love. I’m simply asking for honesty. For an explanation of why you’re so determined we remain strangers.”
“Because strangers are safe.” Theodore moved past her toward the door, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm. “I’m going to bathe and dress. You should return to your chambers before the servants wake.”
“Theodore—”
“Cressida.” The single word stopped her. “Don’t push this today.”
The defeat in his voice fractured something in her chest.
She watched him leave, watched his shoulders hunch as though carrying a heavy weight, and felt the familiar ache of being so close to understanding while remaining fundamentally shut out.
The breakfast table had been set for two when Cressida descended several hours later. Mrs. Agnes’s doing, no doubt. Another attempt by the conspiring staff to force proximity where Theodore himself wouldn’t choose it.
But when she entered the breakfast room, she found it empty save for covered dishes and a folded note propped against her plate.
Duchess,
Urgent estate business requires my immediate attention in the east fields. I will likely take luncheon with the tenants there. Please don’t wait for me for dinner this evening.
Ashmere.
Cressida crumpled the note in her fist, fury and hurt warring in her chest. Urgent estate business. The same excuse he’d been using for two weeks, refined now to the point where he couldn’t even pretend to maintain basic courtesy.
“Your Grace?” Mrs. Agnes appeared in the doorway, her expression wary. “I’ve had Cook prepare your favorites for breakfast.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Agnes.” Cressida forced herself to smooth the note and set it aside with trembling hands. “You are excused.”
She stood there in the empty breakfast room after the housekeeper retreated, staring at the carefully laid table for two that would serve only one, and felt something fundamental shift inside her.
She’d been passive these past weeks, waiting for Theodore to come to her, accepting his pronouncement about separate lives as though she had no say in shaping their marriage.
But she was a Whitaker. And Whitakers endured—not through passive acceptance, but through determined persistence.
If Theodore wanted to avoid her, he’d have to work considerably harder. Because Cressida had just decided to stop making it easy for him.
That evening, she dressed for dinner with particular care. Not the lavender gown—that felt too much like trying—but a deep emerald silk that brought out the color of her eyes and hugged her figure in ways that were perfectly proper yet impossible to ignore.
When she descended to the dining hall at eight o’clock, she found it empty. No Theodore. No place setting. Just a tray laid for one, and another note from Mrs. Agnes explaining that His Grace had sent word he’d be dining in his study.
Cressida stared at the single place setting and made a decision.
“Molly?” She rang the bell, and her maid appeared within moments. “Please have my dinner sent to His Grace’s study. I’ll take my meal there this evening.”
Molly’s eyes widened, then a slow smile spread across her face. “Of course, Your Grace. Right away.”
Cressida made her way to Theodore’s study and knocked once before entering without waiting for permission. He looked up from the papers scattered on his desk, his expression shifting from surprise to wariness to something that looked dangerously like hunger before he mastered it.
“Cressida. What are you—”
“Having dinner,” she said pleasantly, settling into the chair across from his desk as servants filed in with a second place setting and covered dishes. “You’ve been taking your meals in your study for two weeks. I thought it was time I joined you.”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “That’s not necessary.”
“On the contrary, it is entirely necessary. Since you’ve made clear you won’t dine with me in the dining hall, I’ve decided to accommodate your preference for eating at your desk.
” She smiled sweetly as the servants finished arranging everything and withdrew.
“Now, shall we discuss estate business while we eat? Or would you prefer to maintain this stony silence while I enjoy Cook’s excellent roast? ”
She watched emotions war across his face—frustration, admiration, irritation, and beneath it all, that hunger he couldn’t quite hide.
“You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever encountered,” he huffed.
“You married a Whitaker. We endure.” Cressida lifted her wine glass in salute. “Now, eat your dinner, Duke. And prepare yourself for a great deal more of my company. Because I’m done sitting alone in that dining hall while you hide from me.”
Theodore stared at her across the desk, his papers forgotten, and she saw the exact moment his careful control began to fracture.
This was only the beginning.
And for the first time since arriving at Ashmere Castle, Cressida felt certain she would win.