“Have you forgotten that you married me?”
He tugged her closer, knowing it was a mistake even as her proximity singed into him. “I have wished to forget nothing more since that occasion,” he said, and she raised a brow. “I have one source of grief in my life, and it is standing right before me.”
Hurt flashed across her face, and he had never felt like such a cad. This was the entire point of being cruel to her: so she would forget about this ridiculous marriage and move on with her life. Then he would be able to move on with his. Really, he was doing them both a favor, especially if he kept his word and did not allow himself to consummate the marriage. Until that point, an argument could be made that they were not, in fact, married at all!
Yet although he could see the sting his words left behind, she did not appear to be intimidated by the way he loomed over her, or the tight grip he had on her wrist. If she was aware of all the multitude of ways he could hurt her, she did not seem to care. And if she did not know—well, there was only one way he could think of to fix that, and it would involve crossing one of his lines.
Cruelty was one thing, and he could contemplate that with fair ease. But the idea of harming her in a physical sense went against all his morals, few of them that he had.
“Damnation,” he muttered, releasing her. “Do not look at me like that, Eleanor. I had no wish to marry you, and now we are married, I have no wish to know you better. And I have no wish to be reminded of your presence every time I enter a room because you have seen fit to make alterations. Leave such business to myself, if you please.”
Her chin rose. “And if I do not?”
“Then I will make your life far worse than it is now,” he promised. Her eyes met his, and he bit back another curse at thelook of expectation in them—as though she hoped for something other than what he had to give. And damn him, for a moment he was tempted. “And not in the manner you are imagining. Perhaps I will lock you in your room so you may never escape. How would you like that, wife?” He took hold of her neck, careful not to grip her tightly enough to bruise. No one could see the remnants of this. But before he could help himself, he felt his thumb swipe up across her throat, up to her jaw. No one could have denied the tenderness of the action, but he could not have stopped himself if he had wanted to. “You think I would treat you well just because we are joined under the eyes of the law? You would do better than to cross me, and I beg you will remember that.”
A frown touched between her brows, and he brushed his thumb over the divot of her bottom lip, before finally stepping back and giving them both space. Space they needed if he was to keep up this mask of indifference and cruelty. He could still feel the plump softness of her lower lip against his thumb. His blood pounded in his veins, eager for everything he had no intention of giving. If he was not careful, he might kiss her here and now, and that would be foolish indeed. Already, it felt as though the soft skin of her neck had burned itself into his palm. He could feel all the tendons, the low throb of her veins.
And by God, he wanted her as he had scarcely wanted anyone else.
“Tomorrow, we will be attending Lady Rochester’s ball,” he said shortly, making to leave the room. “See to it that you are properly dressed and that we will make the appropriate impression.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and another dark wave of lust nearly overcame him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He did not correct her as to his title when he left the room. Truth be told, he liked the way she said it, and he despised himself for that weakness, along with all the many others he showed around her. The sooner she came to her senses, the better.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Abigail pinned the final white flower into Eleanor’s hair and stepped back to appreciate her handiwork. Eleanor admired herself in the mirror. This was the first time she had ever attended a ball in a dress that she had, herself, chosen. And, moreover, it would be her first presentation in Society as a Duchess.
The Duke might wish to keep their lives separate in private, but in public, for whatever reason she could not fathom, he viewed it as imperative that they were seen together. The previous day, she had attempted to gain the Duke’s attention, first by touching his arm and initiating conversation, and then by making alterations to his house. Both had resulted in his threatening her.
And yet—she could not quite put her fingers on it—but there was something about his threats that rang hollow. Oh yes, he said them, and sometimes there was enough grimness in his voice to suggest that he did mean them. And yet… And yet they did not terrify her the way Margaret’s threats had.
Perhaps it had something to do with the manner by which they were given. Aside from her attraction to him, which could not merely be dismissed, there was the matter of the threats themselves—vague and unsubstantiated, and often accompanied by a gesture that made her heart race for reasons other than the ones he intended. The way he had stroked her throat, and how he had run his finger across her lip. His body belied his words, rendering them almost meaningless.
That hesitation, implicit but always present between his words and under the harshness of his voice. No matter what he pretended to her, he did not mean it. Margaret’s threats had always been cold, sharp little comments that dug under her skin and ate away at her self-confidence. The Duke had threatened to shut her in her bedchamber, but she doubted he would enact such a thing without being all the while present there. After all, she was his wife.
But Margaret had directed her to the kitchens to help with the cooking when they were low on servants, and it always felt as though they needed extra help when Eleanor had done something to offend her stepmother.
Once, Isabel had taken a pair of scissors to all but the dowdiest of Eleanor’s dresses, and she had been forced to wear the same one three days in a row, all to different social events where people stared and pointed. Margaret had not permitted her to purchase new dresses, and she had to wait until one of the girls was done with an old dress before having the chance to try something new.
Compared to that level of callous cruelty, the Duke’s means of intimidation had no chance of working.
“You look wonderful, ma’am,” Abigail chimed, offering Eleanor a shy smile. “Doubtless he won’t be able to keep his eyes from you.”
She hoped so. The elegant satin gown was a burgundy that brought out the flecks of red in her brown hair, and was certainly far more daring than any she had worn out before. The color of a married woman than that of a debutante.
She drew her gloves up to her elbows and took hold of her reticule. “Thank you, Abigail. I shall see you later on tonight.” Unless, of course, she was particularly lucky and attracted her husband’s attention enough for him to bring her back into his bed that evening.
No point in getting ahead of myself.
First, he would have to admit to either of them that he wanted her. And although Olivia had been certain that if he did not immediately, he would soon, Eleanor felt less convinced. The way he had spoken the previous day made it sound as though he wanted nothing less than to kiss her again; the only appeal had been that of the chase, and he no longer had to chase.
Unless, of course, he felt as though she was not so much of a sure thing as he presumed.
Another of Olivia’s techniques, delivered with the certainty of someone who had a mere assumption it might work.
“You must make him jealous. That way he will find it imperative that he claim you as his own.”
