Chapter 3
Lillian prepared the tea while the duke watched in flinty silence. His dark eyes followed her every movement. Was he judging her? Finding her unaccomplished? Woefully lacking in the genteel arts required of a duchess? Or perhaps waiting for her to make a mistake?
She didn’t know.
His expression betrayed nothing of his feelings.
He was impervious as stone, his jaw hewn of granite.
If she could describe the Duke of Wentworth in a word, it would be brooding.
His thick, dark hair was neatly cropped.
His jaw bore a shadow of whiskers, as if he had last shaved yesterday or perhaps even the day before.
His lips were almost too large, though well-formed.
She had kissed them.
Once.
It had been so many months ago now that those soul-altering kisses might never have happened.
But they had, and she hadn’t been able to control her body’s reaction to that wild moment when their mouths had met.
She had gasped, shocked at the way heat flooded over her, by how pleasant his lips had felt, warm and firm on hers.
And then too quickly, he had stepped away, the betrothal had been sealed, and she had never again glimpsed the passionate man who had stolen her breath so thoroughly.
The ardent lover had been replaced by a removed stranger, one who hardly smiled and who never touched anything more than her hand.
One who had married her only to leave her.
Lillian’s hand trembled slightly as she passed her husband his tea.
His fingers, now bereft of gloves, grazed hers as he accepted. “Thank you.”
His voice was deep and pleasant, and although she tried to remain unaffected by his aristocratic accent, it was an almost impossible feat.
He could have uttered something as crass as cow dung, and it would still somehow have sounded sensual.
How could he remain so unmoved when his mere presence made the world feel as if it had tipped.
She forced a smile that likely more resembled a grimace. “You’re welcome, Your Grace.”
“Alaric.”
She flicked a glance in his direction, poised to pour a cup of tea for herself. “I beg your pardon?”
“It seems unnecessary to insist upon formality,” he explained. “We are husband and wife. You may as well call me by my given name, and I shall call you Lillian.”
It was the first time he had spoken her name instead of the stiff and proper Miss Penrose or madam.
Hearing it in his mellifluous baritone felt oddly intimate. She liked it far too much, and she didn’t trust herself where Wentworth was concerned.
“I will defer to your preferences in the matter.” She poured, distracting herself.
Lillian had no notion why the duke had come to Wentworth Abbey. Nor why he had insisted upon a private tea together. And she certainly didn’t understand why, after a month of absence, he had reappeared in her life, requesting that they call each other by their given names.
His presence in her life was an unprecedented sea change. It made her nervous. And foolishly hopeful, even if she had no reason for it.
“Have you no preferences?” he asked.
She glanced up at him. He stared at her in an unnerving way, as if he could somehow see into her.
He was incredibly attractive, the man she had been forced to marry.
Little wonder he was England’s most eligible bachelor.
His family name was well-known, the history spanning centuries.
But more than that, the Duke of Wentworth—Alaric—was handsome.
Not just handsome.
Despicably handsome. Maddeningly so. He was the sort of handsome that seemed impossible. He possessed the kind of good looks that made matrons and debutantes alike swoon over him in the ballroom. Kittens and puppies probably wept at his feet.
Lillian’s cup ran over, jolting her from her thoughts.
Hastily, she jerked her gaze from him.
He was to blame for her lack of grace. He was so lovely to look upon she couldn’t even pour a proper cup of tea. She was badly flustered as she reached for a cloth serviette and hastily sopped up the hot liquid.
Why was he here?
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, feeling as if she had failed her first test as a duchess.
This was the longest they had been in a room together since they’d married.
“Here. Allow me.” His hands suddenly took hers, gently moving them away as he carefully blotted the tea.
She hadn’t expected him to offer his assistance. Lillian sat stiffly as she watched him make short work of cleaning up the mess she had made.
“There we are,” he announced with a smile that showed off his dimples.
Twin, perfect dimples that bracketed his mouth.
She yearned to throw one of the cucumber sandwiches arranged on a tray between them at his head.
She didn’t give in to the temptation, however.
Instead, she played the part she had been taught so well—dutiful wife.
“Thank you,” Lillian told him politely. “I must confess, I was surprised when I learned you would be joining me here at Wentworth Abbey. Had I known you intended to be in residence, I could have stayed in London.”
Her husband took a sip of his tea, and even the way he drank was mesmerizing. She watched the dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
“When you informed me of your plan to pass the Christmas season here, I decided it would be most expedient to join you.”
So, he had intended to come here, knowing she had planned to isolate herself in the country. She couldn’t begin to imagine why. They had spent nearly the entirety of their marriage apart thus far, aside from the passage across the Atlantic, which Lillian had largely spent in seasick misery.
“And yet, you only saw fit to inform Mrs. Greaves of your plans,” she pointed out, unable to keep her irritation to herself.
The housekeeper had known, and she had not. How little he must think of her.
“There wasn’t sufficient time, I’m afraid.”
Her husband appeared to think nothing was wrong with his actions. Lillian didn’t know why she was surprised. He had also thought it perfectly proper to abandon her in London upon their arrival and to flee to Scotland.
They hadn’t even had a honeymoon. He had simply gone.
“But there was enough time to send a message to your housekeeper,” she said.
Mother would have been horrified with her for being so bold.
Lillian was to hold her tongue and allow her husband to treat her as he liked.
It was his prerogative, and certainly, it was what she had done with Father.
But she found her patience growing ever thinner.
She had been a dutiful daughter first and then a dutiful duchess, even when she’d had no wish to be one.
He stilled, staring at her intently. “You’re displeased.”
“I didn’t think you would be here.”
That was unkind of her to say, even if it was true.
His dark brows drew together. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know,” she bit out, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice. “Where else have you been this last month?”
“Only at Fernross Castle, of course. Scotland was where I was needed, thanks to your father. I don’t suppose he might have been more judicious in his timing, but perhaps it worked out for the best.”
Lillian remembered their conversation a month prior, during which the world had still been rocking like a ship beneath her.
She had been dreadfully out of sorts for an entire week after their arrival in England, waking each night to a strange bed, her surroundings cloaked in darkness, the earth seemingly shifting as if she were yet upon the sea.
She recalled lying in bed, her lady’s maid bringing her tea she hadn’t the stomach to even drink. Her husband had come to her, aloof as ever, politely inquiring over her welfare.
She’d reassured him that she was well, merely still recovering from the ordeal of transatlantic travel.
He’d expressed a need to do something her father required of him—perhaps a meeting with the architect, though her memory remained as foggy as London.
Their honeymoon would have to wait, he had said.
There were far too many tasks awaiting him.
She had agreed.
But it had been his parting words that had stayed with her, the ones that had felt a bit like a dagger sinking into her tender heart at the time.
Some time apart will be just the thing, my dear. We both need time, I suspect, to adjust to this marriage.
The time he’d required had been a day, then a week, until it had finally become an entire month.
Lillian had begun to think his defection would last forever.
The duke’s somewhat cavalier treatment of her wasn’t supposed to have hurt, and yet, her coat of armor hadn’t been capable of withstanding such blows.
“My father is only judicious in matters of business, I’m afraid,” she said. “Likely, he was more concerned with the visit he and Mother intend to pay us. She is overjoyed at the prospect of her daughter living in a medieval palace that once housed kings and queens.”
“Yes, I can see that she would be. Your mother is quite unashamed of her social aspirations. No doubt she plans to rub the noses of friend and foe alike back in New York after her visit.”
Lillian smiled faintly. “I’m sure it has already begun. She has been writing to me, overjoyed at the prospect. I do hope that there will be a room large enough for the fifty trunks she plans to bring with her.”
“I’m afraid there is only sufficient room for thirty or so.”
Lillian stared at him, uncertain if he was making a joke or serious.
But then he smiled faintly, and his dimples reappeared, and she tried not to notice. “I hope you were overestimating the number of cases Mrs. Penrose brings with her on her trips.”
“I was,” she said, keeping her expression carefully blank. “By perhaps one or two.”
He chuckled and they settled into an almost companionable silence. Lillian thought again about the month he had been gone. Each week that had added upon the last had chipped away at her patience, until it had grown brittle and thin.