“You are my wife,” he continued, his gaze unwavering as it held hers. “Not a pawn in some petty feud, not a means to wound your brother, and certainly not a woman I intend to diminish. You are mine, and I do not take what is mine lightly.”
“And if I do not wish to belong to anyone?”
“Then you should not have married a duke.”
The sharpness returned. But it was strained now.
She yanked her wrist free.
“And you should not have married a Hawthorne.”
They stood facing each other, the space between them tight with tension. Whatever fragile understanding they had started to build disappeared under their pride and old grudges. He did not try to reach out to her again.
That night, Juliana lay awake long after the house had fallen silent. And when sleep finally claimed her, it was not the scandal at the ball nor her brother’s betrayal that lingered in her thoughts.
It was the memory of his hand around her wrist.
Chapter 11
“What, pray tell, is the full definition of boredom?” Cassian asked himself aloud.
Newly married and already at odds with his bride, Cassian found little appetite for the diversions that had once filled his evenings. The Turkish baths and transactional pleasures, such as those found in The Arrangement, felt like dalliances of the past, or at least that was how it seemed. Cassian did not expect to be on his honeymoon with his ledgers, but it was the most reasonable turn of events.
At least the numbers did not stare at him with icy disdain.
His bride seemed to have a perpetual frown etched on her face whenever she saw him. And given that they avoided each other so much, an outside observer might think the marriage had never happened. After all, they were behaving like two ghosts haunting every space they occupied.
“Talking to myself like a common fool,” he muttered as he leaned back against his chair.
His study was too chilly today, with the draft seeping through even the room’s heavy velvet curtains. He had a mind to have something done about it.
Still, being alone was preferable to being observed by members of theton, especially his friends, when he was this befuddled. His mind kept returning to his new wife, who had made her feelings about him quite clear. Yet, he did enjoy seeing her flustered far too much. It brought a rose color to her cheeks. For him, it was a kind of wicked entertainment he could not admit enjoying.
One afternoon, though, he needed a heated distraction from the throbbing ache in his hip that had traveled down his leg. It was a hot, white pain that felt like a serrated blade digging into his muscle. He sought the one place in his house that could provide him with soothing without enclosing him in a space far too dull.
The sunroom was where Cassian sought refuge from the persistent ache in his leg. Whenever the heat soothed his pain, he found some clarity. The room was encased in floor-to-ceiling glass, where sunlight streamed in, creating dazzling kaleidoscopic patterns on the walls.
His copper tub, especially crafted for him, was placed in the center of the room. There, he submerged himself up to his chest. The water sparkled with sunlight, as was intended in the tub’s positioning. The sides had extra handles to help him maneuver.
As he dipped his body into the water, he let out a long, ragged breath. He bent his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain had become part of his life, an undeniable shadow that had wrecked his leg and heart. The latter had other reasons, ones he would rather not dwell on at the moment.
He groaned as the near-scalding water soothed his muscles, and the wintergreen scent of the salts and oils made him inhale deeply. On days like these, he would succumb to at least an hour of slumber. While it soothed him, it also stripped him of his identity as a carefree rake who dared not even bring a woman to his ducal estate. He could remember what he had endured and what made the winter nights intolerable, as if his leg were a rusted iron rod, wreaking havoc within him.
Except this time, he brought home a wife.
“Your own wife hates you, Stonevale,” he muttered. Perhaps, this would become a new habit: talking to himself. “Well, as she should.”
Cassian reached for his honeycomb sponge, his muscles flexing. His arms were strong and honed, especially from the constant pressure he had to exert on his cane to steady himself. His thoughts quickly returned to Juliana, the wife who should have been part of a revenge scheme against the Hawthorne name. The sweet taste of the young baron’s comeuppance was what he had hoped for, but he could taste only ashes every time he saw her flustered in his presence.
Yet, those same blushing cheeks awakened constant arousal in him. He was a rake, a libertine according to some, but he could not account for the persistent fever onlyshecould ignite in him.
He closed his eyes. It was the best way to fully appreciate the soothing effects of the hot water on his aching leg. However, his mind could not rest. He could not banish her image. Juliana. He was thinking of his wife.
She was a paradox. One might have thought she was weak, blindly supporting her brother’s whims. Yet her blue eyesflashed with determination and wit. Even when they stood face-to-face, her medium height seemed taller because of the sheer force of her will. Her lips were full and soft, prone to forming a stubborn line. He wondered what sounds would escape them if he were to give her a proper kiss.
Cassian had been fully aware of how her chest heaved when she was angry. She was a woman hiding a smoldering heat she had not yet explored. He wondered how finally taking her to bed would transform her stubborn loyalty to her brother into a physical entanglement with him. It seemed so easy to imagine her silky brown hair sliding through his fingers.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, breaking his reverie.
