Chapter 3 #2
“Cannot, or will not?” the Duke countered, his blue eyes narrowing.
“Philip wrote to me about many things over the years. Yet, suddenly, he decides to marry, and the lady in question remains a mystery to me until the very day of the wedding. Then, just as suddenly, he vanishes. Such circumstances invite speculation.”
Beatrice’s patience, already strained by the events of the past few days, finally snapped. “Is this an interrogation, Your Grace? For I was under the impression I had married a duke, not a magistrate.”
The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that held no warmth. “Merely an observation, Duchess. Philip’s behavior seems most out of character.”
“As does yours,” she retorted before she could stop herself. “I was not aware that confirmed bachelors with notorious reputations suddenly developed such a keen interest in matrimony.”
“My interest is not in matrimony, but in truth,” he replied coolly. “Philip barely mentioned you, then planned a hasty wedding, only to disappear on the day itself. It strains credulity to suggest you had no foreknowledge of his intentions.”
The accusation, now laid bare, struck Beatrice like a physical blow. “You believe I assisted him? That I willingly subjected myself to the humiliation of being jilted at the altar?”
“I believe there are things that you have chosen not to disclose,” he replied evenly.
“Why on earth would I orchestrate my own ruination?” Beatrice scoffed, anger overcoming her customary reserve.
“Do you think I desired the whispers, the pitying glances, the speculation that will follow me through every drawing room in London? Or perhaps you think I schemed to trap you into marriage instead?”
The Duke’s expression remained impassive, though there was a brief acknowledgment in his critical gaze. “Philip’s letters spoke of many things, but never of you or marriage. Then he offers to marry you, but vanishes on the day of your wedding. The sequence of events is peculiar.”
“That does not mean I wished to be a jilted bride,” Beatrice countered, her voice quieter now but no less intense. “Nor does it mean I wished to be married to you, Your Grace.”
A tense silence fell between them, the only sounds the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of the carriage as it trundled along the country road.
The Duke regarded her with renewed interest, as though seeing her clearly for the first time.
“I am not overjoyed with our arrangement either,” he said finally, though his tone lacked the bitterness she’d expect from such a declaration. “I had no intention of marrying anytime soon, and certainly not in such haste.”
The frank admission surprised Beatrice, who had anticipated further accusations rather than this acknowledgment of their shared predicament. She studied his profile as he gazed out the window—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows.
“Then perhaps we can agree to make the best of our circumstances rather than making baseless accusations,” Beatrice suggested, her voice softening despite her lingering indignation.
“After all, Your Grace, you were the one who proposed this solution in the chapel. I didn’t solicit your intervention, regardless of how grateful I may be for it now. ”
The Duke eyed her carefully, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. Then, he leaned back in his seat and cleared his throat. “We shall arrive at the estate soon. I trust you will find the accommodations satisfactory.”
“I am sure they will be more than adequate,” she replied with careful politeness.
“You should know,” he continued, “that I value honesty above all other virtues, Duchess. I would advise you to remember that in our future interactions.”
“And you should know, Your Grace,” Beatrice responded, meeting his gaze, “that I do not take kindly to being treated as a suspect rather than a wife. Regardless of the unusual nature of our union, I believe I am entitled to basic courtesy.”
A brief smile touched his lips, gone almost before she could register it. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that, Duchess. But if you’re keeping anything from me, I will trace just the right spot… with just the right pressure… until it all spills from your lips.”
Her breath caught. She had no clever reply, no daring words, only the quiet, overwhelming sense that no one had ever looked at her like that before.
“I… I am not keeping anything from you, Your Grace,” she forced out, trying her best to keep her voice steady. “I wouldn’t do such a thing to my husband.”
A slow smile curved his lips; it was the first time Beatrice saw his imposing demeanor shift. Yet his eyes were dark and intent as they met hers.
“I can see you are a good girl, wife,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But I’ve learned that the quietest girls often hide the most delicious mischief.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, warm blood rushing through her veins.
A shiver danced along her spine before settling low and insistent.
Her breath, although slow, came with difficulty as awareness bloomed behind her ribs, bright and urgent.
The simple tilt of his head, the deliberate calm of his gaze… it all sent a thrill through her.
Her fingers itched to move, to reach, to touch—or flee—and yet she remained frozen, acutely aware of the heat between them, of the promise lingering in his low, measured tone.
“Your Grace,” the driver called out from the front of the carriage, drawing the Duke’s attention, “we’ll be arriving at Stagmore Manor shortly.”
“Thank you, James,” the Duke responded.
Beatrice looked out the window, desperate to cool the heat inside her. As the carriage crested a hill, she caught her first glimpse of what must be Stagmore Manor in the distance.
It was an imposing structure of pale stone set amid meticulously landscaped gardens, its windows catching the golden light of the setting sun.
“Your new home,” the Duke announced.
“It looks most impressive,” she acknowledged.
“It has been in my family for generations,” he said, a hint of pride evident in his tone despite his customary reserve. “The east wing was added by my grandfather, though the central section dates back to the reign of Elizabeth.”
Beatrice nodded, attempting to envision her life within those ancient walls. “I look forward to becoming better acquainted with the estate.”
“And I look forward to becoming better acquainted with my mysterious Duchess,” he replied.
As they approached the long drive leading to the manor, Beatrice turned her face away, unwilling to let him read her expression.
“You will find me disappointingly transparent, I fear. I am neither as mysterious nor as intriguing as you seem to believe, Your Grace.”
Her body tensed as she spoke those words, for they weren’t entirely true. She was keeping secrets from him. But how could she possibly tell him anything? She barely knew him.
“That,” the Duke said evenly, “remains to be seen.”
“Your Grace,” she replied, her cheeks warming, “one might suggest that a gentleman with a rake’s reputation may be tempted to justify his cynicism by expecting the worst of others.”
The moment the words left her lips, she regretted them. He wasn’t entirely wrong about her, but perhaps he was wrong about her intentions. She only wanted to protect Philip’s secret, while heaven knew what the Duke thought of her.
A curious stillness settled over the Duke’s features as his eyes darkened with anger. Beatrice flinched, averting her gaze from the weight of his stare.
Then, with startling swiftness, he leaned in, closing the distance between them. His hand rose to cradle her chin firmly yet gently, guiding her face until her eyes met his.
“Say that again,” he commanded, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.
Beatrice remained silent, suddenly conscious of the warmth of his skin against hers and the scent of sandalwood that seemed to envelop her.
When she offered no response, the Duke released her and settled back into his seat, his expression once more unreadable.
“Back to being a good girl, are we?” he said, his lips quirking up. “Very well, wife. But remember, I know how to push this game further than you.”
Before she could reply, he rapped sharply on the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to halt. Swiftly, he opened the door and stepped down onto the graveled drive, leaving her alone in the carriage as he walked the rest of the way toward Stagmore Manor.
Toward her new home, and the domain of the enigmatic man who was now her husband.