Chapter Three
Ashley sat in the swaying hackney, her hands trembling as she clutched her reticule.
The loss of the weight of the five pounds she’d just spent felt insignificant compared to the magnitude of what she’d just done.
She’d actually visited a brothel! Spoken with a madam.
Discussed her marriage bed—or rather, the complete absence of one—with a woman who made her living from men’s desires.
And she’d revealed her face. Would she live to regret that?
The elegant townhouse with its bright red door grew smaller behind her, but the memory of Madam Chloé’s knowing eyes remained vivid.
Nothing about the establishment had been what Ashley expected.
Where she’d imagined vulgarity, she’d found refinement.
Where she’d anticipated judgment, she’d encountered understanding.
The woman had treated her not as a naive duchess slumming in the underworld, but as one intelligent woman helping another navigate an impossible situation.
“Men are remarkably simple creatures beneath all their complexity,” Madam Chloé had said.
But if that were true, why couldn’t Ashley understand her own husband?
Why did Raven remain such an enigma, polite and distant, treating her like a cherished piece of porcelain rather than a flesh-and-blood woman?
The hackney hit a rut, jolting Ashley from her thoughts.
Through the grimy window, she watched respectable London roll past—merchants’ wives hurrying about their errands, nursemaids pushing prams, gentlemen striding purposefully toward their clubs.
All of them living their proper, uncomplicated lives while she sat here, a duchess who really wasn’t a duchess.
They had not consummated their marriage.
What would the gossips do if they learned that truth?
But what choice did she have? Three months of marriage, and she was no closer to becoming a mother than she’d been as a spinster.
Worse, she was beginning to fear that her situation might never change.
That she would spend her entire life as nothing more than an ornament in Raven’s house, beautiful and useless and utterly alone.
The thought of Madam Chloé’s scandalous suggestion made heat creep up Ashley’s neck. Return one evening and observe. Watch fallen women ply their trade, learn their secrets, see how they captured and held men’s attention. The very idea made her stomach flutter with equal parts horror and…curiosity.
Ashley pressed her gloved hands to her burning cheeks. What kind of woman was she becoming, that such a proposition didn’t send her fleeing in virtuous outrage? But then, what kind of woman sought counsel from a brothel madam in the first place?
A desperate one. That was what kind.
The hackney slowed as they approached her neighborhood, and Ashley realized she would need to compose herself before facing her household.
She couldn’t return home looking as though she’d just committed the scandal of the century—even if she had.
Her lady’s maid, Petra had attended with her, but she was loyal, having come from her brother’s house with her upon Ashley’s marriage.
“Allow yourself to be softer,” Madam Chloé had advised.
“Touch his arm when making a point. Sit close enough that he can catch your scent.” Such simple suggestions, yet they felt revolutionary.
Ashley had been raised to be a perfect lady—proper posture, measured words, careful distance from any impropriety.
The idea of deliberately brushing against her husband’s arm, of letting her nightrail be glimpsed in the hallway, seemed like stepping into an entirely different world.
But wasn’t that exactly what she needed? Her current approach—patience, propriety, and hope—had yielded nothing but three months of solitary nights and growing desperation.
As the hackney drew to a stop around the corner from the duke’s mansion, Ashley made her decision about the evening ahead.
She would implement Madam Chloé’s immediate advice.
Tonight, when Raven returned home, she would find a reason to seek his company.
She would ask about his day, show interest in his concerns, allow herself to be… softer.
The thought terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.
But what of the woman’s other suggestion?
The idea of returning to that elegant establishment, of hiding in shadows while women practiced their arts of seduction.
Ashley’s pulse quickened just thinking about it.
Such knowledge would be invaluable, yet the risk was enormous.
If she were discovered, if anyone recognized her despite whatever disguise she might contrive…
She shuddered, imagining the scandal. It would make her previous disgrace look like a minor social stumble.
The Duke of Blackstone’s wife caught observing prostitutes at their work.
The ton would never recover from such delicious gossip, and neither would she.
Any chance of her husband falling in love with her… In love? Was that what she wanted?
Yet as Ashley paid the hackney driver and began the short walk from around the corner to her front door, she found herself considering it seriously.
Madam Chloé had been right about one thing—Ashley possessed very little knowledge about the art of seduction.
Perhaps it was time to remedy that deficiency.
She paused at the corner, looking up at the imposing facade of her husband’s house.
Her house now, though it had never felt like home.
Inside those walls, Raven was probably locked away in his study, buried in ledgers and correspondence, carefully maintaining the distance that had defined their marriage from the beginning.
“He may worry that taking another woman to his bed would be a betrayal of that love,” Madam Chloé had suggested, speaking of Raven’s grief for Kitty.
Ashley could understand such loyalty, even admire it.
But surely three months was sufficient time for any reasonable man to begin accepting his new circumstances?
Unless he wasn’t ready to accept them. Unless he planned to keep her at arm’s length indefinitely, treating their marriage as nothing more than a convenient arrangement that preserved both their reputations while requiring nothing deeper from either of them.
But he’d need an heir, wouldn’t he? Definitely. He had no brothers.
The possibility that he’d prefer to remain childless sent a chill through Ashley that had nothing to do with the autumn air.
She’d agreed to this marriage to escape complete ruin, but she hadn’t truly considered that it might become a different kind of prison.
One where she was fed and clothed and housed in luxury but forever denied the fundamental human connections she craved.
No. She wouldn’t accept that fate. If Raven wouldn’t come to her willingly, she would have to find a way to draw him. And if that meant learning from women who understood men’s desires better than any innocent lady ever could, then so be it.
Ashley straightened her shoulders and walked toward her front door, her mind already racing ahead to the evening’s possibilities. She would begin with Madam Chloé’s simple suggestions—conversation, attention, subtle touches. And if those proved insufficient…
Well, she would face that decision when she came to it. For now, she had a husband to seduce and a marriage to transform. The thought should have scandalized her.
Instead, for the first time in months, it made her feel truly alive.
*
Ashley heard the front door open just past seven o’clock, followed by the low rumble of Raven’s voice as he spoke with Henderson, their butler.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she smoothed down the silk of her evening gown—a deep sapphire blue that brought out the color of her eyes.
She’d chosen it deliberately, remembering how Raven’s gaze had lingered on the low neckline the one time she’d worn it before.
Be softer. Show interest. Sit close enough that he can catch your scent.
Madam Chloé’s advice echoed in her mind as she positioned herself near the drawing room doorway, arranging herself on the settee with studied casualness. Not too eager. Not too obvious. Just…present.
She heard his footsteps approaching—he would be heading to his study as he always did—and she rose, moving to intercept him in the hallway.
“Raven,” she said, pleased when her voice came out steady despite her racing pulse. “You’re home earlier than usual.”
He stopped, surprise flickering across his handsome features. His cravat was slightly loosened, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less austere. “Ashley. Yes, the meeting at the club finished sooner than expected.”
“I’m glad.” She stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something else, something uniquely him. “I was hoping you might join me for dinner this evening. We haven’t dined together in nearly a week.”
Something shifted in his expression—was that guilt? “I’ve been rather occupied with the shipping venture. The paperwork alone—”
“I understand you’re busy,” she interrupted gently, reaching out to touch his sleeve. The contact sent a jolt through her arm, and she wondered if he felt it too. “But surely you must eat? And I confess, I’ve been dreadfully lonely dining alone every evening.”
His green eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw something there—concern, perhaps, or was it longing? But it vanished so quickly she couldn’t be certain.
“Of course,” he said finally. “I would be pleased to join you. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Perfect. Perhaps we could have drinks in the drawing room first? I’ve had Cook prepare your favorite—roasted pheasant with that wine reduction you enjoy.”
A genuine smile tugged at his lips, transforming his face. “You remembered.”