flooring. The ducal town house was more like a palace than a home. A cold place, full of stiff formality.
His shoulders tensed as he turned to face her. In this light, the slightly cruel cast of his thin lips gave his golden good looks an aura of decadence. A devil disguised as an angel.
Yet every time she saw him, his cold beauty made her heart skip a beat.
One blond eyebrow arched in question, his grey eyes silvery in the light of the huge chandelier above the staircase.
Her blood heated as the realisation struck her anew. This glorious apparition was her husband.
The footman retreated to his place beside the door.
Servants were everywhere and that was part of the reason she had such difficulty approaching him about anything. The lack of privacy drove her to distraction. She was terrified of making a fool of herself in front of his people. Likely they already scorned her for her ignorance with regard to running such a grand household. Thank the heavens they did not know exactly where he had found her or they might refuse to serve her at all.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Your Grace?’ She barely managed the words, in the light of his obvious impatience.
‘If you must?’ As always his voice sounded icily polite. And bored.
‘In private?’ she whispered, with a quick glance at the footman.
With a huff of breath, he gestured for the man to take his redingote and followed her back into the drawing room. He closed the door.
She twisted her hands together, her courage deserting her in the face of his wintery gaze. A golden David as cold as the marble from which the statue had been carved.
His expression changed to one of concern as she hesitated. ‘What has happened?’
She took a quick breath. ‘If I have offended in some way, I wish you would tell me.’ Oh, she sounded so weak, so tentative, but her first husband had found her very existence offensive. Ultimately she’d been afraid to address him, unless he spoke first, but at least then, she had known why he found her lacking.
Alistair’s eyes widened for a second, then a bored expression fell over his face like a shield. ‘You mistake, madam. I am not in the least offended.’
She gritted her teeth at his indifference. ‘Can we not at least be friends?’
He recoiled. ‘You are my wife.’
One could not be friends with a wife? And why did he look so grim? She grasped the back of the nearest chair to stop herself from beating her fists on that wide impervious chest in frustration. How did one ask why a husband never came to one’s bed without looking like some sort of strumpet?
But was that not what she was? After all, he’d bid for her at a bordello while she’d stood on a pedestal practically naked. Her stomach roiled at the recollection. Clearly, there really was no way to keep one’s dignity after such a display. Likely every man he knew had also seen her that night, though as far as she was aware, none had recognised her, since she had taken the precaution of wearing a mask. And little else. She repressed a shudder of shame.
Still, he had known all this before they’d wed.
Anger trickled up from her belly. Her chest ached with a slow burn. ‘Why do you never come to my chamber?’ There, she had said it. Announced the desires that haunted her nights.
His expression shuttered, but not before she saw a flash of what she thought might be anger. ‘I am in no rush to saddle myself with a parcel of brats.’
Inwardly, she flinched. Should she tell him there was likely no hope of her ever having children, or did she continue to hide behind what little was left of her dignity? And an even smaller shred of hope.
And besides, what would it hurt to try? It wasn’t as if he could beget an heir with anyone else.
Perhaps he was now regretting his chivalry. Regretting it so much he disdained to have a child of hers inherit his title? Much as that thought hurt, it also rang true. The Duke was a proud man. Proud of his name and his title. She met his gaze and lifted her chin, unwilling to show how much the possibility hurt.
When she made no reply his mouth hardened to a cruel line. ‘Was there anything else you required of me?’
Crushed by his coldness, his deliberate scorn, she looked down and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Then if you will pardon me, I am late.’ He hesitated for a second, then turned and left.
Pardon him? If she could have picked him up, she would have thrown him out of a window to be rid of him. She also wanted to cry. Her knuckles whitened, her grip painfully tight on the chair back.
Finally, she let out a long breath. She needed to think with her head, instead of feeling with her heart. She wasn’t a fool. Something had sparked between them that first night. A very heated something. That was the reason she had dared marry him in the first place. The hope that the attraction they both felt could lead to more.
She was not going to give up that hope. Not without a fight. She’d had one dreadful marriage, she would not have another. She would not permit this man to destroy what was left of her spirit.
She wanted a proper husband and, should a miracle occur, a proper family. It wasn’t so much to ask.
Either they found a way to resolve what was coming between them, or... Well, she must, that was all. There had to be something she could do to rekindle the spark.
* * *
The next morning, Alistair stopped short in the doorway of the breakfast room. Never had he seen his wife up and about this early in the morning, nor had he seen her looking more delectable. Dressed in a riding habit of royal blue with black frogging closing the front, she perused the sideboard. The high ruffled shirt rising from the collar framed her beautiful face. A mischievous smile played about her lips and sparkled in her eyes as she glanced his way.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ She added a scoop of scrambled eggs to her plate.
Devil take it, he hated conversation before he’d had his first cup of tea. Why couldn’t she take a tray in her room like any other self-respecting noblewoman? Although come to think of it, none of the women he’d been around in the morning were at all self-respecting, or he would not have been there.
‘Good morning.’ At least that was what he intended to say. It came out sounding more like a grunt.
She took her place at the table adjacent to his normal seat. He marched across to the sideboard, loaded up his usual poached eggs and steak and set his plate down. He glanced at the newspaper which had been carefully ironed, folded and set beside his fork so he could glance at the headlines.
He gritted his teeth. Not today. One did not read at the table when one had female company. Even he remembered that from his youthful lessons in manners. His nursemaid, Digger, would be proud of him.
Maybe.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
He preferred to pour his own. ‘Thank you.’
She
