The duke smooths his expression as he regards me. “I am.”
“How—”
“My dear, I am sorry for intruding, but we must make haste,” a voice says.
I turn to see my mother standing on my other side. I have been so dazed by everything, I did not even hear her approach.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the carriage awaits, and I fear our modest repast grows cold.”
“Of course, Lady Denham.”
My mother takes my hand in hers—the same hand upon which the Prince had placed his kiss upon—and gives it a squeeze. “You are radiant, my dear. We shall speak more at home.”
Then she is gone in a swirl of skirts, and I watch as she joins my father, who does not spare me a glance. My heart flutters wildly, and my stomach tightens. I long to go with them, as I always have done, but I know I cannot. I look to theduke, wondering what kind of husband he will be—what kind of father?
“Your mother is most correct. Shall we take our leave? You must be close to being faint with hunger.”
I shake my head, but when he offers me his arm, I take it. Even that slight contact causes me to feel as though the world sways beneath my feet. I draw a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm as befits my station.
“Are you truly not hungry?” the duke inquires for my ears alone as we head from the room with slow, measured steps.
“I… I broke my fast and overindulged.” I offer the lie in the hope of stopping this conversation.
“Even so… you need to be sure to keep up your strength.”
I examine his face. Does he attempt to lord his newly given authority over me so soon? But despite my fervent search, I find nothing but soft concern. He meets my eyes, and an unfamiliar pang seizes my breast so that I hurriedly avert my eyes and allow him to lead me out.
Duke Gregor
“What a lovely bridal breakfast.”
My new lady wife gazes resolutely out the carriage window, apparently determined not to converse with me. She has not spoken a word since we entered the carriage to depart from her family home, no matter what I say in vain hope to engage her.
She truly is a sight to behold. Her posture is perfect, and though she does not honor me with her discourse, I take pleasure in being able to observe her as long as I please. I follow the beauty of her angelic face to her neck, long and swanlike, andam drawn to the sight of her bosom swelling over the top of her gown.
Tonight, I shall be free of this madness.It is a relief, and yet, I have been carrying the sickness of unrequited want for so long, I can scarcely recall life without it. My shaft, quite hard and trapped within my breeches, cares not for any future beyond plunging into her intoxicating depths.
“We shall arrive soon. I dare say you will be most pleased with your new home.”
This does not seem to merit an answer, either. I study her, a picture of loveliness itself, and yet her mute tongue gives me pause. I have never found Freya coy or given to silence, which must mean this display of deliberate coldness is for my benefit. The only question is how I will choose to handle it.
The lady leaves me the entire course of the journey to weigh the matter. I study her ceaselessly, pondering the object of my desire.
After two long hours, the horses pull the carriage over the final hill that reveals the wide expanse of land that is now mine. It is field after field of vibrant green, and the sight has, thus far, never ceased to stir something inside me. The horses’ hoofs clop onward—they move faster now, for they also seem to long to return to the serene majesty of Fairwynd.
“We are home, my lady,” I murmur, glancing once to my new wife before looking back out of the carriage window. As soon as the great house itself comes into view, I feel a swell of pride. Much as I imagine I shall feel when I introduce the newest duchess to her household—whether she speaks to them, or no.
The coachman calls to the horses, and then the carriage stills. Boots crunch on the gravel, then the door is swept open, and the footman bows deeply. Sparing one last look for Freya, who is doing her best to appear bored and unaffected, I emerge fromthe carriage. The house’s honeyed walls gleam exquisitely in the late-afternoon sun.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
I nod to my footman, and then inspect the line of the household staff. They stand stiffly in their finest clothes, waiting for a word from me. “I see Fairwynd is well ordered. You have my thanks.”
The instant I am down the steps I turn to offer my hand to Freya. I can feel her hesitate, but she puts her gloved hand in mine and emerges from the carriage, her gown rustling with every step. Her hand in mine, she descends the steps and together we approach the line of staff awaiting our arrival.
“Welcome to your new home, my lady,” the butler murmurs.
“I… I thank you.” She glances to me, then away again, as though she fears she has lost the game she’s been playing.
