Chapter 3 #2
“Why did my father think it necessary for you to travel to Scotland? I don’t recall you mentioning it before you left.”
Her husband sipped his tea, frowning. “He wanted me to confer with the architect directly. There is a great deal of history at Fernross Castle, and we often differed over what we would change and what we would restore. Your father requested that I remain there for the first few weeks, to at least make certain all would progress well.”
Of course, her father had his hands in this.
She might have known. After all, he and Wentworth had arranged the marriage settlement and betrothal without Lillian’s participation.
Some of the hurt that had been festering within her at her husband’s month-long absence faded.
But still, it had been Wentworth’s choice to remain in Scotland for as long as he had. To leave her in London.
She raised a brow. “My father required you to remain there for a whole month?”
“There is much to be done at the castle in preparation for the visit from your parents next summer. Besides that, it had been some time since I had ventured to Scotland. I met with my steward, toured the estate, spoke with tenants.”
Meanwhile, she had spent the duration of her time in England alone, muddling her way through her new duties, homes, and servants while trying to live up to the expectations of her mother. It was difficult not to be insulted that he had chosen to travel to Scotland alone.
“I don’t understand,” she said, summoning what remained of her patience. “It sounds as if you had a great deal to occupy you at Fernross Castle. Why did you journey here to Wentworth Abbey?”
“Because you’re here.”
His dark eyes burned into Lillian, holding her captive.
There was somehow an underlying intimacy in his voice, in his stare. It sent something sharp and warm through her, a sensation she’d experienced before, when he had kissed her. One that she had ruthlessly tamped down and banished in an effort to guard her ever-fragile heart.
One that had been easy to forget in his absence and was proving difficult to ignore, given his current proximity.
She took a deep breath and dismissed all unwanted feelings. “Forgive me if I fail to see what my presence here has to do with anything.”
“You’re my wife.”
“I am aware.” Painfully so.
He smiled, and his dimples emerged. “It’s time for me to attend to my husbandly duties.”
All the air fled her lungs. The teacup and saucer fell from her suddenly numb fingers. They clattered together on the faded Axminster, chips of porcelain flying as her tea darkened the patterned wool.
Blast.
This reunion with his wife wasn’t unfolding as he had hoped it would. This was the second time she’d spilled tea in one quarter hour.
But could he blame Lillian? He had all but announced his intentions to shag her over tea.
“I’ll ring for a maid,” Alaric announced, feeling foolish as he abandoned his cup and crossed the room to the bellpull.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, leaping from her seat as if it suddenly caught flame. “I don’t know why I’m being so clumsy.”
“It would seem I have that effect on you,” he offered, trying to make a jest of the miserable situation in which they had found themselves.
Over the course of their betrothal and marriage, Lillian had been guarded, aloof, and painfully polite to him.
And although he had learned the reason when he’d unintentionally discovered the letter from her erstwhile suitor, Alaric hadn’t realized that the notion of bedding him would be so distressing to her.
He had hoped that swallowing his pride and giving her time and distance would help to ease her into her new role as his duchess.
It would seem he had been wrong.
“Surely you agree that we must spend time together as husband and wife,” he added in a softer tone when she said nothing, simply stared at him as if he had sprouted into a mysterious creature before her.
“I had no wish to spend Christmastide in a draughty castle with an architect when I can spend it here with my wife.”
That was not precisely the truth.
He hadn’t come here to hang mistletoe and gather presents around a tree. He hardly expected domestic bliss and undying devotion from Lillian, given that she harbored feelings for someone else.
He had come to Wentworth Abbey because he was obligated to do so.
Because he had been a husband for an entire month, and he had yet to consummate their marriage.
And if he didn’t consummate the marriage, he couldn’t have an heir.
And if he couldn’t have an heir, he would have failed past and future Dukes of Wentworth.
The line would die with him.
He couldn’t allow that. Familial duty flowed in his blood.
“Of course,” his wife said faintly, wearing an icy mask of indifference.
He wondered what, if anything, moved her.
Would she lie silently and rigid as a board in bed?
God, he hoped not. There had been the fiery promise of the kisses they had shared at their betrothal.
But the promise had faded like an autumn bloom after first frost when he’d discovered that bloody letter.
A chambermaid entered the room, efficiently taking care of the spill and sweeping up the shards of porcelain before quietly excusing herself.
Alaric waited until she had gone and was firmly out of listening range, the silence between Lillian and himself hanging heavier than a pall at a funeral.
The door closed quietly.
His wife stared at the tea tray. What was she thinking?
There was surely a more eloquent, perhaps even charming means of announcing his intentions.
But then, she also had to realize that theirs was not a marriage in name only.
She must have known he would require an heir at some point, and that there was only one means of securing his line.
Ensuring he had heirs was one of the two practical reasons he had married her. The third, wildly impractical reason had been that he had fallen in love with her, never mind that his feelings were not returned. But that was a secret he intended to take to his grave.
He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t my intention to distress you, Lillian.”
She summoned a smile he suspected was for his benefit. “You haven’t distressed me, Your Grace. I’m more than aware of my duties.”
He didn’t prefer her to think of him bedding her as a duty.
But there they were, joined by their mutual familial obligations.
He wished he could unlove her, but unfortunately, there was no civility in emotions.
They were like wild, rampaging beasts, doing as they willed without regard for repercussions.
“Excellent,” he managed tightly in response. “You may speak with Mrs. Greaves concerning the preparations for Christmas. Decorate as you see fit.”
“Did your mother decorate?” she asked.
The question, though an innocent one, spurred a stab of lingering anguish deep within him. “She did, yes.”
Alaric’s mother had been a wonderful woman.
She had also been flighty, with a propensity for spending money as if it were water.
After his parents’ deaths, he had learned that much of the recent ducal debts had been caused by her affinity for French gowns and jewels.
Those long-ago Christmastides with his mother had been laden with gifts, festooned with garlands, and decked with mistletoe.
There had been carols and singing, sweets and tales by the fireside.
He had never particularly cared for the season after he had lost the entirety of his family to the tragedy.
“I am sorry,” Lillian said now, pity flashing over her expressive face. “It wasn’t my intention to dredge up painful memories.”
“We will forge new memories here at Wentworth Abbey,” he said stiffly. “Together.”
“Of course,” she repeated.
And then they sat in silence once more, as politely miserable as two married strangers could be, his imbecilic love for her glinting as brightly as all the stars in the night sky combined.