Chapter 9 #2
“Come to me, my lord,” I murmur, before turning and leaving the drawing room, my gown rustling along the floor. I enter my bedchamber and though the tightening in my stomach would normally demand I pause, I ignore it and move with soft, measured steps, to the grand four-poster bed.
There is light from sconces on the dressing table, and when at last I turn to see my husband, the whimsical glow upon his face steals my breath. He is a fiercely handsome man, so much so, I cannot imagine how I paid him so little heed prior to his coming to my father.
“You are… quite well, my lady?”
“Yes,” I reply, my throat so tight, my thoughts so scattered, I cannot manage more.
He steps nearer, the definitive thud of shoe echoing the pounding of my heart.
I am no longer able to control my countenance. I can scarcely think on it. The air seems much too thin, and all I can manage is to recall is how to breathe. That, too, comes with difficulty as I gaze upon his face.
His dark eyes do not miss a single movement, and his lips curve in a smile that threatens my balance.
I am most grateful to stand with my back against the bed which steadies me somewhat. I reach behind me and grip the coverlet for much-needed support.
“You have never invited me into your bedchamber, Duchess.” His voice is a soft whisper that seems to be a song to my ears—a most dangerous lullaby that is a menace to my very ability to reason.
“I… I have not.” I speak with great difficulty through lips that feel frozen and useless.
Another step closer. Then another, and the duke is directly in front of me. “Why have you issued an invitation this evening, my lady?”
How is it possible that I can answer such a question when I feel as incapable of thought as I do of speech?
His smile broadens—if His Grace is troubled by my lack of response, no trace of it appears on his face. “Do you have something to ask me, my lady?”
My throat tightens most painfully, for the flicker of candlelight has just revealed a dimple in his chin I have not yet seen before.
My gaze is fastened to it, and I find myself spellbound.
Yet, my knees tremble, and I grip the coverlet with all my might.
My jumbled thoughts scarcely untangle enough for me to comprehend his words.
“To… to ask you, my lord?”
His smile brightens once more, and it takes all my remaining strength not to yield to the floor that seems to call me.
He reaches for me, his gloved finger trailing along my cheek, leaving a warmth that only serves to intensify the ache inside me.
“Or something to confess, perhaps? I assure you, I shall be most eager to hear anything you wish to say, Duchess.”
Suddenly, it’s as though I have been doused in water drawn from a stream at the height of winter. The light-headedness is gone, replaced with something just as potent. “Do you desire me, Your Grace?”
My lord husband cannot hide his surprise at the sudden sharpness in my voice. “This is not the question at present.”
“But it is, my lord.” My voice has returned, and with it, a frustration I find most difficult to manage. “It is the inquiry I put to you. Do you desire me?” My gaze latches onto his, and I force myself to hold it, refusing to melt.
“I would have you make your feelings known, my—”
“Why?” It is a bold inquiry, particularly since I have interrupted him. “Why must it be I who speaks first?”
His gaze moves to and fro, and his brow wrinkles. He is surely wondering how this evening has gone awry.
I am merely thankful I recalled myself in time—if I had yielded to him, I do not trust I would have ever been able to forgive myself.
“My lady—”
Shaking my head, I stop whatever protest he might make, or the entries he might hold aloft to ensnare me once more. “I confess, Your Grace.”
His expression hardens, as my tone has. It is clear he knows I do not intend to reveal the feelings he would desire.
“I confess I do not understand you. If I am being forthright, you seem to me a most cruel man indeed.”
Surprise flickers across his features. “My lady, I assure you, this is not the case.”
“Truly? Then prove your empty words and consummate our union.” I lift my chin, despising the strong emotions within me that cause it to tremble.
The Duke regards me with a shuttered expression, and I know I shall receive no satisfaction from him on this score.
Loathing rises to fill my being, and I am not sure which of us deserves the larger portion. “I confess once more: I have discovered what game you play, Your Grace.”
He blinks, appearing in this moment to be nothing more than an oblivious man. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, you may beg,” I snarl with rancor that threatens to consume me as longing had mere moments ago. “I shall never grant you my pardon. Now, do leave before I lose my senses.”
“My lady, I assure you, I do not know—”
“You do!” I fling myself at him and stand on tiptoe so we are nose to nose. “You know exactly what you aim to do to me—to my child! I regret it took me so long to realize! You are the most loathsome cur to ever descend upon the ton!”
His eyes widen, rewarding me with a flash of pleasure at having drawn blood from him at long last. It is but a mere moment, his expression only giving me a glimpse of the fire my words have ignited, before it is gone.
“I fear I have no comprehension of what you imply, my lady. And I shall thank you to keep such remarks to yourself—it is far beneath your upbringing. They sully such a sweet mouth, and I fear if I should hear such again, it would force me to employ measures to ensure my lady wife only speak in a manner befitting her title. Measures you would not enjoy, I feel certain.”
I do not heed the warning in his tone, or in the rigidity of his posture. “If you will not consummate our union, then set me aside! Allow me to find another who will give me a future since you clearly do not intend to do so!”
His dark eyes grow darker still and I see a flush in his face I have never observed before. “No.”
I blink in confusion. “Simply that? Simply ‘no’? I do not understand you, my lord! If you do not mean to make this an honest union for my sake, for my child, then—”
He puts a firm finger on my mouth and his eyes brim with fury. Yet, his voice is quite calm as he says, “You are my wife. You shall never be with another while I draw breath. Is that quite understood, my lady?”
I do not know what to feel, and I certainly do not understand. “You are quite right, my lord.” My voice has softened, though my disposition has not. “I spoke in haste.”
He regards me stiffly for a moment before he says, “Pray continue, my lady.”
“You did not descend upon the ton. In truth, I have no idea how you managed it, for your birth deems you unworthy, and every day, you prove your birth true, whatever title you may now possess.” I throw my head back, haughty in my fury.
But as soon as the words have fled my mouth, I realize their folly.
One does not intentionally anger one’s husband, particularly when there is so much at stake.
The skin along my bottom quivers, and I am besieged with a vision, recalling with sudden clarity the feeling of his knees pressing into my stomach, and the coolness of the afternoon air as it caressed my naked buttocks.
I fear my recollection must play across my face, but if he sees it, the duke gives no sign.
“I shall leave for but a moment, my lady. Until my return, I wish you to sit and rest. You are clearly overwrought from the excitement of the evening.”
My lips part to protest, to insist I am no such thing, but his sternly pointed finger, the quiet determination in his eyes, compel me to obey.
He watches, and as soon as I have sat upon the very edge of the armchair he has indicated, he withdraws. I can hear the quiet murmur of voices, though I cannot discern a single word.
Even when the speaking ceases, he does not return. I do not know what will happen next, only that whatever it is, I fear I shall not like it. My stomach is a mass of fretful knots tied so tightly, I can scarcely breathe.
How can I have been such a fool? Now I shall never have what I am after, and I truly cannot blame him. What man would ever wish to lie with a woman who says such things?
More than that, as my ire cools and reason deigns to return, I realize a far more shocking truth: I did not even mean it.
Though His Grace may not be of noble birth, he has never said or done a single thing to deserve the remarks I’ve made.
Though he persists in infuriating me with his demand, he has never allowed himself to become angry at me for my refusal.
Yet I, a highborn woman of a most respected family, flew into such a fury I insulted a man who has only been good to me.
Yes, it would seem I became quite committed to my folly.
When the duke enters the room once more, I am quite chastened.
“I am pleased you saw fit to follow my instruction, my lady.”
Even now, his voice is soft and genteel, and though he must certainly still be angry with me, nothing in his countenance or voice suggests it.
“My lord… if you would allow it… I would like to ask your pardon.” I long to hide from the burn of his gaze upon me, but I know if I am to make amends, I must not attempt to do so. I draw my breath sharply, release it slowly, and force myself to lift my head and meet his eyes.
There is no admonition to be found. He looks back at me, waiting.
“What I said… I…” I cannot help but cringe to recall my words, and shame washes over me anew. “It was beneath me, just as you said, but… more than that, it was not warranted. It… it was I who was cruel, Your Grace. I do not suppose you might be willing to forgive me, in time?”
My husband closes the distance between us and shocks me further by kneeling in front of the chair. “Look at me, Freya.”