“You needn’t knock every time you wish to enter a room,” Evelyn’s voice came.
“How did you know it was me and not one of the footmen?” he asked.
“Your knock is especially vexing,” she said, looking up from the newspaper. The atmosphere between them had been icy for the last two days. No, actually since the ball. Since they had been almost caught… doing what, exactly? What had he intended to do?
Kiss her? He sighed because that had been precisely what was on his mind at the time. Evelyn’s mere presence had ignited something in him that he couldn’t quite describe. He wanted to shake her on one hand, but draw her into his arms on the other. And he had given in to that impulse. Not to shake her, of course—although in hindsight, that might have been a better alternative.
No, he had felt a desire to hold her, kiss her—and he hadn’t pushed it away. If Lady Charmaine had not entered, he might have kissed her.
If Lady Charmaine hadn’t entered, their situation would be very different now. Would it be better? He couldn’t be certain. Maybe it might be clearer. Perhaps if he had kissed her, he would’ve known if she truly wanted him or not. But as it stood, they had been found out. And no matter how hard he had worked to try to convince people that Lady Charmaine was nothing but a gossipmonger, it hadn’t worked.
The next day, the scandal sheets had been full of her discovery. The elusive Duke of S and the Duchess of S had been caught ina steamy embrace, lending credence to all the whispers around town that had suspected a secret love affair. And if that part of the rumor was genuine, what of the rest? Had it been a secret ploy all along? Had this been the Duchess of S’s plan to snatch the man? And so on, and so on, and so on.
Fortunately, it only lasted one day. The very next day, their wedding was announced. That had sent the scandal sheets into more raptures, but this time, instead of speculating about all the hidden secrets that may have been concealed, the papers were raving about this wonderful match—a young woman who had been so tragically widowed, and a young dashing man who never had hopes of being heir… It was as though the entire town changed its opinion about their relationship within twenty-four hours. They had gone from evil conspirators to a beloved pair to be admired.
He scoffed as he sat in his chair.
“What is funny?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve told her what he had thought, and she would’ve made some cynical, sharp commentary that would’ve been so accurate it would’ve sent him into a fit of laughter. But they weren’t talking anymore. They weren’t conversing. She barely even looked at him, and he had avoided her as much as possible.
Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know what to do or say. She had made it quite clear that she didn’t want to marry him, which was what he had expected. But hearing herdeny him the night he had proposed had pierced something in him. He had understood that she genuinely did not feel the same way about him as he did about her.
Perhaps in hindsight, it was good that he hadn’t kissed her then.
However, what was even worse was that he could see how miserable she was. She’d been miserable when he had proposed, she’d been miserable when they stood before the altar, she’d been miserable at the wedding breakfast. And what was more? She was still miserable now. He could tell by the dark circles under her eyes, by the way her fingers twitched and drummed against the newspaper in an anxious motion.
He had somehow managed to ruin everything.
He pressed his lips together as he grabbed a roll, slicing his knife through the fresh bread, which cracked and then filled the air with a lovely yeast scent that would have normally made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.
Today, it did nothing. He didn’t even want to eat. But he knew he should.
The worst thing about this entire situation was how useless he felt. He was a duke, a rich and powerful one. He shouldn’t feel like this—small and useless.
And yet he did. And he knew he had nobody but his uncle to thank for that. His uncle had always made it clear that he was thesecond choice. Not good enough for the post… Maybe his uncle had been right. Maybe he wasn’t meant for this. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a duke. Least of allherDuke. But what was done was done.
“Do you have plans for today, Your Grace?”
“Meeting my sister and aunt,” she said without looking up. “You?”
“Julian,” he said, and placed the knife down.
“Very pleasant indeed,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, looking down at the plate. Steam rose from his roll, and he reached for the butter, aware of every passing second. He was certain that if he lit a match right now, the entire room might erupt in flames—so poisonous was the air between them.
“There are things we need to discuss,” he said, smearing butter on his roll.
“I do not think there’s anything left to say,” she said.
“There are many things left to say,” he replied. “We need to talk about your father.”
“He understands that the jointure is mine and that he has lost control. He understands he cannot mistreat my sisters without answering to you.” She paused and looked up, their eyes briefly meeting over the table. “I do thank you for that.” Then she looked away again and turned to her newspaper.
“We need to discuss the future.”
“There is no future to discuss,” she said, and she placed the paper down. “If you were thinking about asking me for an heir?—”