He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She’d been so…cool this morning.
Barely smiled.
Polite, yes…but distant.
And that request for her own room…
He closed his eyes, groaning softly.
He’d thought—foolishly, it seemed now—that suggesting she redecorate one of the wings would make her happy.
His mother adored decorating. She’d spent years fussing over wallpapers and draperies, thrilled to make the house her own.
Wouldn’t Georgiana want the same?
Apparently not.
He set his feet again and lunged hard, the foil biting deep into the straw.
Did she already regret marrying him?
He pictured her at the breakfast table, her lashes lowered, her hands delicate and still against the porcelain.
Her eyes had met his only once, and even then they’d been unreadable.
Did she already resent him? The thought struck him like a punch to the gut.
He pulled back and struck again, harder this time, the foil tearing a small hole in the burlap.
She probably thought he’d trapped her.
Which, if he was honest…he had.
At least in part.
She’d been cornered, humiliated by her family, her choices stripped away, and he’d swept in like some self-righteous savior, offering marriage as though it were some great favor.
And she’d accepted. But what choice had she really had?
He dropped the foil entirely, bracing his hands on his knees as his breath came heavier.
He didn’t want her to feel cornered. He didn’t want her to feel obligated. He wanted her to want him.
That realization hit him like a blade through his chest.
He wanted her to want him.
But how could she? She thought he’d married her out of pity and guilt. And maybe, in part, he had.
But that wasn’t the whole of it.
He straightened slowly, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead.
If she didn’t want him in her bed…well then.
He had no intention of forcing himself on a woman who didn’t want him there. Least of all his own wife.
