Page 17 of The Duke Who Claimed Her

“Then why not tell me?”

“Because I wished to see how you would react.” He started toward her, taking slow, purposeful steps. And not once did he look away. “As I wished to see how he would react to you.”

“I know little about children.”

“That makes two of us.”

“A mother…” She laughed awkwardly, and she leaned back as the Duke reached her. “I doubt I will be any better at it than you.”

“Your main duty, if this marriage goes ahead, will be to act as a duchess should, as it will be to look after Timothy where I cannot.” Standing just a foot before her, the Duke’s expression was no longer hard, as it was no longer combative. For the first time, she saw him for who he was and realized what he wanted.

She met his gray eyes. She did not balk. She did not look away. And as their gazes held, she felt that same sense of safety and confidence she experienced several times when around this man she hardly knew. It was as if he gave her the power to feel secure.

Yes, he was a little cold. Yes, he was a little commanding. But he cared for his nephew, and despite everything else, he was just trying to do the right thing.

She needed to believe that.

“Does that mean…” She swallowed as her pulse quickened under his stare. “Does that mean I still have a choice?”

“You do,” he said. “But I suggest you make it quickly.”

It was a small gesture, but his willingness to give her a choice spoke volumes. She had never been offered one before. She had never been told her opinion mattered. That alone was enough to push back her doubts and fears… even if only a little.

It was the illusion of a choice that she was given, one that sounded as if she could do what she wanted, while the truth was far from that reality. She did not know the Duke, or anything about him, and words were one thing, but at the end of the day, this situation was one forced on her, and it was not nearly as freeing as she liked to believe.

She looked up at the Duke. Those eyes. The handsome face was both commanding and comforting. Her pulse kept racing. Her mind spun. It was crazy… It was absurd… And no matter how right it felt, it was intertwined with a sinister motive she could not shake.

“I will marry you,” she said. “I will help you to raise your nephew.”

“Good,” the Duke said, not smiling. “Then let us begin.”

Chapter Six

The following week passed in a blur.

As the Duke procured the special license that would see them both married, Arabella was sent back to her home, forced to spend the week with her father. She expected him to be angry with her. She expected him to be petty and cruel. What she was given instead was indifference.

At first, Arabella assumed that he was biding his time. She remembered how powerless he had seemed in the face of the Duke and the Dowager, how humiliated also, and she had no doubt that he blamed her for it. What was more, she figured that he would want to remind her that even though she was set to leave him, he still owned her.

Oddly, such behavior never occurred.

Her father avoided her. He hardly spoke to her when they were in the same room. And while she was certain that it was her imagination, it was almost as if he feared her.

Perhaps not me, but my husband-to-be.

While Arabella was still uncertain about her marriage and what was to become of it, she decided that the positives outweighed that sense of unknowing. And as the week stretched on and her father continued to avoid her, she found a sense of strength building inside that she had not known she was capable of feeling.

That was until the night before the wedding ceremony arrived.

She had just finished eating supper when her father’s steward asked her to see him in his study. It was the first time her father had sent for her all week, the first proper talk they would have, and she could not guess what he might want.

But Arabella was feeling confident. She knew that, come tomorrow, she would be free of his clutches once and for all. There was nothing more he could do to her, so she went to his study with that same feeling of bravery and confidence that had steadily built all week.

Typically, it lasted all of ten seconds because no sooner did she take a step inside of her father’s study than Arabella was reminded of the man who had raised her, why she feared him so, and why he would never fully release her from his grasp.

The study was dim; a single lantern sat on the edge of his desk, and her father leaned back so its light would not reach him. The room was cold as well, and she started trembling once the door closed. Through the darkness, her father’s glare felt as if he had reached out and wrapped a hand around her throat.

“So, tomorrow is the big day,” he said, his voice a low rumble like a storm building on the horizon.