Page 47 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

We lay there in a tense silence as I wait for my knot to deflate so I can pull out of her. My brain continues to race, wondering how everything has gone so wrong. But whatever it is, it’s certainly not on my end. If anything, this harridan has only wanted my seed, an heir to secure her place.

If that’s all she wants, then that’s all she’ll get. I grit my teeth together, loathing the closeness when we’re so far apart. Some romantic part of me thought coming together might fix everything. Such nonsense. I should have stuck with my original thought of just fucking her and keeping all emotions out of it.

But, unfortunately, now that I’m joined with her, part of me wants to try to make this work, to feel that erotic push and pull of an Alpha with their willing wife. There was a spark there, something more than just mere dynamic. I couldn’t have imagined it. A moment where she let herself go and just felt.

Anger burns through me as she continues to lie there, her fingers fluttering about as if she’s unsure of where to place them, as if we hadn’t just shared a passionate experience.

Eventually, my knot shrinks, and as I pull her up and off of me, I note the wince. No doubt she will be sore for a day or so. If she hadn’t been so willful, so wanting to be free of my presence, I could have aided her, eased the discomfort. But no. This is all her own doing.

Ignoring her gasp as our combined fluids splatter out onto the bed, I extricate myself from her embrace. Soon, a servant will come in to clean it up, taking away the proof that we were ever together. Knowing Teresa, she would prefer it that way.

“Understand this, though your body is mine, I will respect your wishes. For now. Soon, you will go into heat, and then you will not be able to resist the lure of my body. You better pray I answer your need and not just keep you in agony as you beg for my cock.”

She looks down at the mess between her thighs, her cheeks tinging with pink. “I am quite sure that will never happen.”

Unable to keep the rage at bay any longer, I wrap my fingers around her arm and haul her from my bed. Tug as she might, she’s unable to free herself from my grasp. I drag her, naked as the day she was born, to the door separating our bedchambers.

“Gather your things from your house and prepare to spend your season here.”

“But, Your Grace…” I growl at the title she refuses to drop, but she doesn’t even react. It’s as if I no longer hold any terror for her, an oversight I long to correct. “Moorbury-”

I cut her off, not wishing to hear any more from her. “Is for wives that satisfy their husbands. It was to be our retreat away from the world while we explored ourselves. Since you are no longer inclined to share my bed, there is no need for a special trip. We will remain here for the season.”

I turn, not wishing to look upon the woman who dared to make me hope, to make me feel. “But, Your Grace-” Her soft voice is pitiful, pathetic really.

“You will only attend whatever balls I deem necessary. No, you are not getting any more dresses. Yes, you will be confined to this house unless accompanied by a keeper of my choosing. And you best believe, dear wife, that they will report any activity you do directly to me.”

Her face turns pink again, but this time, it’s anger lighting her eyes and not embarrassment. Good. Let her be angry. No doubt it will be but a fraction of the rage I feel simmering below the surface.

CHAPTER 23

Joseph

My heart thumps painfully in my chest as she walks into her room and slams the door. Even now, she’s probably calling for her maid to draw her a bath, no doubt wanting to rid her body of my scent. And I let her. For all the possessive feelings that swelled up earlier, I let her walk away.

I’m not the cad she thinks I am. I’m not in this marriage because I wanted her body. Hell, I didn’t even want the marriage. It was forced upon me, and that’s what I have to keep reminding myself of.

Teresa is a snake in the grass, only doing things for her benefit. If she doesn’t want to engage with me sexually, then that’s fine. There are plenty of women at The Rose and Thorne that would love to be under me. But even as their faces pass in my mind, I know I won’t engage with any of them.

It’s not because I’m a good man. I’m not. It’s because part of my soul is irrevocably tied to the one woman who doesn’t want it. Damn her. Damn her conniving ways. Damn me for falling victim to them.

With a loud roar, I slam my palm against the wooden frame of my bed, drawing in that discomfort, that hurt, using it to shore up my defenses. Striding over to the wash basin, I wipe myself down, removing all evidence of her virginity from my body.

At least one thing about her was true. I was her first, and I will make sure I will be her last. Once I’m clean, I ring for my valet, refusing to look at the soiled bed linens while I wait for him to appear. Right now, I want no reminders of what took place, and if that means I have to burn my ropes, so be it.

In a fit of anger, I storm over to the bed and yank the ropes from where they lay, limp against the covers, and chuck them into the roaring fire, setting my jaw to clench as I watch them go up in flames.

“Burn the linens on the bed,” I bark out as the valet slips into the room. “And I wish to go out. Assist me first and then destroy everything on that bed.”

I can’t abide even the scent of her arousal right now. I’m far too enraged to keep a calm head. Facing the mirror, I watch the valet as he bustles about the room and prepares me for leaving. Before I go, however, there is one final thing I must do.

Adjusting my cufflinks, I make my way downstairs where my friends remain milling about, snacking on cakes and delicacies. The moment they see me, they burst into cheers and jeers, jabbing at me with ribald felicitations and well wishes. I allow them, not wishing to bring any further scandal by admitting that my new bride wants nothing to do with me.

With tense smiles and stiff handshakes, I engage with each of them before pushing past and making my way toward the one person I need to speak with. My mother stands in the dining hall, ordering the servants about with a grace and ease that comes with time and practice.

It should have been Teresa there, with my mother standing with her for guidance. But no, the selfish chit wants to run and hide, licking imaginary wounds I’ve somehow left on her. Sending her to her room shouldn’t have precluded her from actually learning how the household runs. And so, like the self-seeking woman she is, she’s leaving the duties to someone else. Walking up behind my mother, I catch her elbow and pull her aside.

The moment we are out of earshot, she looks up at me, her brows drawn together in censure. “It is not even night yet,” she scolds, a hint of pink staining her cheeks. “All in attendance heard you. Could you have not waited until they left?”