The moment the coach began to pull away from the chapel, the Duke let out an enormous breath. His shoulders slumped forward, and a look of weary defeat fell over his face.
Gemma pressed her lips together and speared him with cold blue eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was not his fault. Not really. After all, he had acted on impulse when he had sought to stop her from falling. But surely,surely, he could have tried harder to prevent this…debacle…from occurring. Surely he could see the way the Dowager Duchess had interfered in their lives.
And now what? Now we have the whole rest of our lives to regret one sorry moment?
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I am sorry.”
Gemma let out a cold laugh. Was there any more fitting phrase he might have uttered as their first words as a married couple?
She nodded tautly.
“Is that it then?” he asked after a moment. “You are not even going to speak to me?”
“And say what?” Gemma demanded.
He laughed humorlessly. “You are right. There is nothing to say.” He turned to look out the window, rubbing a hand across his creased forehead. After a few moments, of silence, he turned back to her. “I imagine you do not wish to partake in the wedding breakfast?”
The suggestion was so ridiculous that Gemma almost laughed again. Instead, she shook her head brusquely. “Of course, I do not wish to partake in the wedding breakfast arranged to celebrate your marriage to Miss Henford.”
The Duke nodded wordlessly, then turned to look back out the window. His jaw was clenched tightly and his blue eyes were hard, his knuckles white as they curled around his knee.
Gemma looked away from him, watching as the gray streets of London rolled past the window. “I shall need all my belongings brought to Larsen Manor,” she said finally. “At once. And my lady's maid, Ivy. I have no intention of letting her go.”
The Duke nodded brusquely, not looking at her. “I shall see to it as soon as possible.”
Gemma clenched her hands together and they fell back into wordlessness. She realized she was bouncing her feet up and down beneath her skirts. This stilted silence was almost unbearable.
“Your Grace,” she said after a moment. He turned to look at her. But with her husband's eyes on her, Gemma fell silent again. She had no idea what she had intended to say anyway. After all, the Duke was right. There really was nothing to speak about. Nothing that could undo this. Nothing that could make this anything beyond a nightmare.
Chapter Eleven
Larsen Manor was a palace. Two, perhaps three, times bigger than Volk House. As the coach rolled through the imposing black iron gates, Gemma found herself staring up at the enormous white-painted house, with its forest of chimneys, and rows and rows of gleaming windows. A neatly manicured lawn spread out in front of the manor, lined with flowers in all colors of the rainbow. Though she could see little of the garden from the front of the property, Gemma could tell it was expansive and full of trees.
At least I will have a beautiful home.
It was a small positive, but at least it was something.
Nonetheless, the sight of the manor made the pounding in Gemma's chest intensify. Because she was suddenly, painfully aware that she was the lady of the house now. And while the Duke's grandmother might have been somewhat pleased about it, she knew his mother would be anything but. The Duchess, Martha, had handpicked Henrietta Henford as her son's wife. It was no secret that she looked down on the Volks.
And now she had one as her daughter-in-law.
The coachman pulled open the door, nodding at the Duke as he leaped from the carriage. He waited at the stairs, offering his arm to Gemma. Her eyes narrowed at him, but she reluctantly accepted his hand, lest she fall again.
Not that falling again could possibly get me intomoretrouble.
The Duke glanced at her as he led her up the front steps. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to decide against it. Before Gemma could ask him to spit out whatever it was he had intended to say, the front door opened, revealing a butler dressed in a neat black suit.
“Your Graces, I—” His eyes widened at the sight of Gemma, his words dying away.
“Do not just stand there, Fielding.” The Duke's voice was clipped. “Welcome the Duchess into her new home.” He shot the butler a glare that clearly told him to ask no questions.
Fielding straightened obediently. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Grace. Of course.” He turned to Gemma. “Your Grace. Welcome to Larsen Manor.”
“Thank you,” Gemma managed. Regardless of her feelings toward her husband, she would take his lead on this outlandish situation. Do her best to ignore the surprised stares of the household staff, who were lined up ready to welcome the new duchess into their home. She noticed several younger maids exchanging quizzical glances. Noticed an older woman she assumed was the housekeeper shooting down their unspoken questions with a glare fierce enough to quieten a raging bull.
The butler turned to Gemma with a slight bow. “May I introduce your household, Your Grace?” He rattled through a list of names that Gemma, in her chaotic mental state, knew she would never remember. The maids dropped into curtseys, and the men made awkward bows.
“Fielding.” The Duke turned to his butler with a business-like look in his eyes. “Have the footmen sent to Volk House to collect the Duchess's belongings. And her lady's maid, Ivy.”
