Chapter 11
“What, pray tell, is the full definition of boredom?” Cassian asked himself aloud.
Newly married and already at odds with his bride, Cassian found little appetite for the diversions that had once filled his evenings.
The Turkish baths and transactional pleasures, such as those found in The Arrangement, felt like dalliances of the past, or at least that was how it seemed.
Cassian did not expect to be on his honeymoon with his ledgers, but it was the most reasonable turn of events.
At least the numbers did not stare at him with icy disdain.
His bride seemed to have a perpetual frown etched on her face whenever she saw him. And given that they avoided each other so much, an outside observer might think the marriage had never happened. After all, they were behaving like two ghosts haunting every space they occupied.
“Talking to myself like a common fool,” he muttered as he leaned back against his chair.
His study was too chilly today, with the draft seeping through even the room’s heavy velvet curtains. He had a mind to have something done about it.
Still, being alone was preferable to being observed by members of the ton, especially his friends, when he was this befuddled.
His mind kept returning to his new wife, who had made her feelings about him quite clear.
Yet, he did enjoy seeing her flustered far too much.
It brought a rose color to her cheeks. For him, it was a kind of wicked entertainment he could not admit enjoying.
One afternoon, though, he needed a heated distraction from the throbbing ache in his hip that had traveled down his leg.
It was a hot, white pain that felt like a serrated blade digging into his muscle.
He sought the one place in his house that could provide him with soothing without enclosing him in a space far too dull.
The sunroom was where Cassian sought refuge from the persistent ache in his leg. Whenever the heat soothed his pain, he found some clarity. The room was encased in floor-to-ceiling glass, where sunlight streamed in, creating dazzling kaleidoscopic patterns on the walls.
His copper tub, especially crafted for him, was placed in the center of the room. There, he submerged himself up to his chest. The water sparkled with sunlight, as was intended in the tub’s positioning. The sides had extra handles to help him maneuver.
As he dipped his body into the water, he let out a long, ragged breath. He bent his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain had become part of his life, an undeniable shadow that had wrecked his leg and heart. The latter had other reasons, ones he would rather not dwell on at the moment.
He groaned as the near-scalding water soothed his muscles, and the wintergreen scent of the salts and oils made him inhale deeply.
On days like these, he would succumb to at least an hour of slumber.
While it soothed him, it also stripped him of his identity as a carefree rake who dared not even bring a woman to his ducal estate.
He could remember what he had endured and what made the winter nights intolerable, as if his leg were a rusted iron rod, wreaking havoc within him.
Except this time, he brought home a wife.
“Your own wife hates you, Stonevale,” he muttered. Perhaps, this would become a new habit: talking to himself. “Well, as she should.”
Cassian reached for his honeycomb sponge, his muscles flexing.
His arms were strong and honed, especially from the constant pressure he had to exert on his cane to steady himself.
His thoughts quickly returned to Juliana, the wife who should have been part of a revenge scheme against the Hawthorne name.
The sweet taste of the young baron’s comeuppance was what he had hoped for, but he could taste only ashes every time he saw her flustered in his presence.
Yet, those same blushing cheeks awakened constant arousal in him. He was a rake, a libertine according to some, but he could not account for the persistent fever only she could ignite in him.
He closed his eyes. It was the best way to fully appreciate the soothing effects of the hot water on his aching leg. However, his mind could not rest. He could not banish her image. Juliana. He was thinking of his wife.
She was a paradox. One might have thought she was weak, blindly supporting her brother’s whims. Yet her blue eyes flashed with determination and wit.
Even when they stood face-to-face, her medium height seemed taller because of the sheer force of her will.
Her lips were full and soft, prone to forming a stubborn line.
He wondered what sounds would escape them if he were to give her a proper kiss.
Cassian had been fully aware of how her chest heaved when she was angry.
She was a woman hiding a smoldering heat she had not yet explored.
He wondered how finally taking her to bed would transform her stubborn loyalty to her brother into a physical entanglement with him.
It seemed so easy to imagine her silky brown hair sliding through his fingers.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, breaking his reverie.
He did not move from his tub, assuming a servant had come to ensure his comfort and safety. Sometimes, a young maid would come and coyly pretend that she thought she had been called to bring tea. They knew that he would just smirk and receive the tea, anyway.
“I did say I was not to be disturbed,” Cassian muttered, trying to be serious about it this time.
He did not really care if people came in while he bathed. Let them watch. However, this particular day, it would help if he could have some rest. Some reprieve.
Instead of a maid giggling or the butler’s heavier footfalls, he heard the soft thud-thud of slippers and the sound of a page turning. Yes, he always thought that sound distinctive, but he expected it in libraries and—
Cassian opened one eye.
Juliana was walking toward a plush settee near a cluster of potted palms, engrossed in a leather-bound book.
She managed to balance a small plate of biscuits in her other hand.
She looked like she intended to settle in the sunroom for quite some time, fully unaware of the presence of the room’s primary occupant.
The said occupant was even steaming in his copper tub, mere feet away.
Her appearance seemed utterly and devastatingly domestic, with her hair tied up in a regal updo, revealing her elegant neck.
While she might be completely antagonistic most of the time, she was at least wearing one of the new gowns he had bought for her.
He remembered personally choosing it to complement her eyes.
His wife was engrossed in her book, her guard lowered because she believed herself alone and unobserved.
He supposed the sunroom was large enough that she would not feel the thick steam from the tub.
She was chewing a biscuit and about to set the plate on a side table while she settled on the settee.
It seemed that when she had a story to keep her mind occupied, her movements were slow and tentative.
“Is your book truly so riveting that you have no mind of your surroundings, Duchess?”
Juliana jumped as if he had fired a pistol, and her plate clattered to the floor.
Her eyes bulged when she finally deigned to look at him.
The poor biscuits slid to the floor, and the fine porcelain shattered.
Even her book flew from her hand and fell to her feet.
His wife seemed to be destruction incarnate.
“W-what are you doing bathing in the sunroom?” she spluttered, as the full scenario finally dawned on her.
Cassian leaned back, not the least bit ashamed. In fact, he felt a smirk splitting his face. He puffed his chest out and made no effort to cover himself. The various liquids offered modesty, though only barely.
“What is so shocking about taking a bath in my house? This is my sunroom. I can do… anything in it.”
Juliana’s face shifted from pale to crimson in a heartbeat.
He noted with pleasure that her eyes were fixed on him, her gaze traveling from his slicked-back hair to his broad shoulders.
Her bold stare dipped lower to his chest and then…
Well, it looked like she shook herself from whatever trance she had fallen into.
“S-still, it is a sunroom,” she protested weakly.
“But why not here? The light here is agreeable. Do you want a poor, crippled duke to wallow in his sorrow in a dark, cold room? If you had asked the servants, they would have let you know that I am here during these hours and that I shall not be bothered.”
“I did not hear anything about a planned bath, Your Grace,” she said, using his title, but not in a manner that suggested obeisance.
“So, you found a naked duke because of that,” Cassian drawled.
Earlier, he was goaded to the brink of desperate want when she was nowhere to be found.
In her presence, he could not help but shift in the water.
She did not have to know her effect on him.
Instead, he wanted to tease her the way the mere thought of her teased him.
“Is it safe to say that this might become a habit of yours, then? I am beginning to believe you have a penchant for watching me bathe. Are you thoroughly enjoying it? Is it your guilty pleasure?”
“Do not flatter yourself, Your Grace,” she hissed, but she did not leave the room. “I would rather watch a dry desert than have my eyes linger on your arrogant visage.”
“Oh, truly?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Instead of answering, Juliana went down on her knees, trying to scrape together the pieces of the shattered plate. It seemed that her pride stung at the thought of making a mess in his presence, or so he would like to believe.
“You should not have startled me so, you know. Now look at this mess!” she exclaimed, sounding very annoyed.
Her dainty-looking hands began quickly collecting each sharp shard. She seemed intent on finishing the task down to the smallest powder.
“Leave it,” Cassian commanded, his voice becoming sharp. There was no room for teasing now. His bride should not have to pick up splinters and—
“Ouch,” she said softly. He knew she did not mean to exclaim for him to hear at all.
“I said leave it,” he said firmly, as he suddenly stood up. He startled himself with the swiftness of his movements, water droplets cascading down his body. His hand grasped for a drying sheet, which he wrapped haphazardly around his waist in the unfathomable absence of his robe.
Cassian stepped out of the tub, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he stalked toward her. His bare, wet feet streaked on the marble floor. His wife was still reaching for more shards, her eyes focused on the task. He reached for her and caught her wrist.
“A simple bell pull can have a maid rushing to do the task without the risk of you getting hurt,” he insisted. “Doing that with your bare hands is folly. You will cut yourself. Then, I will have to listen to your grandmother ranting about how I am mistreating my new bride.”
Juliana rose to her feet and met Cassian’s gaze. For a moment, there was silence. They were merely inches apart, and he found himself breathing hard at her proximity. She looked so much smaller, given that she had taken over his daydreams.
“You have trapped me here,” she whispered, breaking the fragile silence. Her voice trembled. “You bought me from Kit like another horse for your stables, a broodmare, perhaps. I am here merely so that you can see any Hawthorne grovel, am I not?”
“This again, woman?” he asked, and saw how thin and delicate her wrist appeared in his hand.
“If I had wanted you to grovel, you would be back on your knees like you were earlier. Instead, I asked you to rise and wait for the maid to come. I told you that had I not married you, you would have ended in some sleazy lord’s bed. ”
She turned fiery red at that, anger clearly blazing from within her. “You cannot pretend to be a doting husband or a savior with a mission. You did it for revenge.”
Juliana yanked her wrist away from him, stumbling backward but remaining on her feet, stubborn and strong.
“Do not lie to yourself, dear wife,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.
“You tell yourself you hate my countenance, but whenever you look at me, your chest heaves. I can almost see the pulse in your throat. Oh, do not look at me like that. You feel it better than I do, but I know.”
“I… I am agitated by your presence, which is normal for a bride subjected to a forced marriage,” she breathed out, though her eyes flickered down to his body.
Cassian could see the juxtaposition of her fire and her icy blue eyes. They were so close, he could feel her warmth against his wet skin. He could not help but rake his gaze down to her lips. Soft, plush lips. He almost groaned.
“Agitated?” he echoed. He released her, then, but in turn traced her jaw with his thumb.
So soft. Her skin was like silk. It was a shame that the same woman was related to Hawthorne by blood. They might be siblings, but they were nothing alike.
“Is that what we are calling it now?” he continued, lowering his mouth to whisper in her ear. His warm breath was so close that he felt her shiver. It was not a vague shrug but a violent tremor she could not deny. Her silence spoke volumes. Her shallow breathing screamed a desire that matched his.
“I…”
“Prepare yourself, Juliana.” His breath was still hot against her skin, torturing her—or perhaps, torturing himself. “I have been patient with you all these days, but you are my wife, and you have certain duties to fulfil.”
“W-what?” she asked, dazed.
He pulled her flush against the rigid planes of his body, sending her a message through the evidence of his desire for her. Her breath hitched.
“Sooner or later, I am coming for you. That is a promise. And when I do, we shall discover whether it is hatred you feel… or something else.”
He released her before his control fractured entirely.
Her eyes were dark, her composure splintered, fury and desire warring openly now. The sight lodged itself somewhere dangerous in his chest.
He turned away before he did something neither of them could undo.
Pain lanced through his leg as the adrenaline ebbed, a brutal reminder of the limits his body imposed even when his will did not.
He steadied himself without allowing the weakness to show, crossed the room, and tugged the bell pull with more force than necessary.