Page 40 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

Really, kissing her husband should not feel so very wrong, but there it was: it felt wrong. This was not the marriage she had agreed to.

For weeks, she had wondered what it would be like if he kissed her, and now she knew. All her curiosity could be put to rest.

If only the restless, unfulfilled pleasure in her body, this hollow wanting, could also be put to rest, she would be happy.

Finally, Andrew turned, adjusting the lapels of his coat. His face was utterly inscrutable. “I apologize.”

“No, I—” She had encouraged him in a fit of madness. “There’s no need to apologize. But this… it shouldn’t happen again.”

“No,” he agreed. “No, it shouldn’t.”

“Our focus is on William. And if we…”

If they were to get distracted together, how could their focus remain as it should be?

“We mustn’t,” she finished.

“Yes, I understand.” He stayed where he was a few minutes more, not fully facing her, looking out across the trees as though they fascinated him.

Finally, he offered her his arm, which she took in silence.

Neither of them looked at the other for the entirety of their journey home.

Chapter Fourteen

Jessamine threw herself into planning the christening. The entire purpose, aside from officially giving William Andrew’s name, was to eradicate any lingering rumors about his origins or what his place might be in their family.

Thus, unlike her wedding to Andrew, she arranged it to take place in a large church close to Westminster itself, and invited many members of the ton as guests. Her friends, of course, along with Lord Mirthby as the other godfather, but also other lords and ladies to whom they wished to introduce William.

It was paramount that the world knew who he was and accepted him as such. Having so many attendees be in support of them all would only help. Once this was over, she hoped the only rumors would be ones about how dedicated they both were to William, and how wonderful it was that they had adopted his deceased cousin’s child to be his heir.

Nothing more. Nothing else.

Certainly no mention of Rebecca.

On the day of the ceremony itself, Jessamine dressed in the gown she and Andrew had selected together, staring at her reflection in the mirror. So long as William did not regurgitate any milk on her shoulder—not a certainty—then she would look like the most gracious of duchesses.

“You look lovely, Your Grace,” her maid said, giving her curls one final bounce and stepping back, heated curling irons in her hand. “Everyone will think you are the most beautiful duchess.”

She didn’t want the world to think she was the most beautiful duchess; she wanted Andrew to think that. But considering the fact he had been ignoring her since that wonderful, awful, terrible kiss, she doubted he was much inclined to be impressed by her beauty.

Lucy came in carrying William, and Jessamine took him, the nursemaid following behind as she descended the stairs. Andrew was already there, checking his pocket watch and scowling.

The scowl fell away as he beheld her for the first time.

A little of Jessamine’s nervousness fell away at the sight of his upturned face, a little of his shock slipping through. And some of that same emotion she had seen on him when viewing her in this dress for the first time.

Heat splashed through her as she recalled his mouth on hers, the urgent way he had pressed her against the tree as if he wanted nothing more than to consume her.

At least he did still think her pretty, even if he wanted nothing more to do with her.

William gurgled in her arms, and she glanced down at him, smiling at his tiny, perfect little head. “There now,” she cooed. “What a smart, strong boy you are.”

When she next glanced up at Andrew, his expression was inscrutable once again. “Shall we go?”

“The church awaits.”

His hand grazed her lower back, and she bit back a shiver.