Page 33 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

Now he was beyond harsh, he was being cruel, and he almost felt ashamed for the words that came out of his mouth, but he needed her to leave. He was ready for the accusation, and he tried to mentally prepare for tears.

But if there was one thing that Marigold was good at, it was surprising him. So instead of all the reactions she could have manifested against such malice, she giggled. Brandon froze. Not only was his plan not working, but it was now turning against him. Because now, he was the one confused and feeling the need to flee this situation by running.

“Your Grace, you are absolutely right,” she said, looking up at him with glee. “I did sell myself, didn’t I? I never thought of it that way.”

Brandon simply looked down at her for a moment. The room had gone absolutely still, and he could register everything from the fire crackling to the clock ticking. He was recalibrating reality around him while she smiled at him. A real smile, like the one that he had never mastered, soft and strange and utterly disarming.

“We had a negotiation, Your Grace,” she said simply.

Then she did something completely unexpected and unthinkable. She raised her hand softly and placed it on his chest.

“I am very lucky it was you that bought me, then,” Marigold said, her hand still over his beating heart.

For a moment there, he was stunned, his mind blank, empty, ready to be rewritten, all because a woman touched him. But this was not just a woman. It was she, and she was his wife now, his duchess. And then that void was filled with what he recognized as need. But there were two emotions that were so overwhelming that they drowned that need. Rage and shame rose inside him at the same moment.

Her saying that so innocently, so simply, clarified everything for him. He was no different from Donny and his gang. They, too, had threatened to sell her. He had used her as a product that had a price. He just purchased her at a higher price for her information and her womb, telling her so shamefully.

He got up from the bed instantly and moved to the other side of the room, putting distance between them. He was no better than them. And she needed to be protected from him.

Marigold sat up on the bed, sensing the shift, and that made her distraught.

“Your Grace, I was merely jesting, I am sure you⁠—-”

Brandon forced his expression to go cold, as if she meant nothing to him, and that was enough to stop her in her tracks.

“I realized that what you said was true,” he said, each word deliberate. “I indeed bought you. And you said it yourself: you are mine. So, I believe I get to choose when I want to play with my new toy, can I not?”

Marigold flinched. That was the reaction he had wanted all along, so that was good. Then why did it feel like a wound? He ground his jaw and decided to keep his mind in the game.

“And tonight, I do not feel like playing with you, so leave me.”

Marigold swallowed this time to hide her pain. Her body straightened even more. She climbed off the bed, her old nightgown clinging to her legs. Her eyes fluttered as if she were trying to control whatever tears were welling up inside them. She made her way to the connecting door, and she stopped, her hand on the latch.

“Have a good night, Your Grace,” she said, and somehow her voice did not break.

She left. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the room. For a few moments, he just stood there, the fire burning low and the bed still unsettled by her body. Then he walked to the table in the corner. He always had a decanter of whiskey there. He poured himself a drink. He drained it in one gulp and then poured another, looking down at his glass and then staring at the closed door.

He made his way to the armchair closer to the fireplace and sat down with a deep sigh. The room was silent, and the door was still closed.

“Blast it!” he hissed into the silence of the night, but it was too late for regrets.

CHAPTER 11

PIECE OF EARTH

Aweek later, Marigold wore one of her many new gowns and walked down the stairs to the breakfast room. For the past seven days, she had been doing the same thing, descending the stairs precisely at half past eight. She was sure that, like every morning, the Duke would already be seated at the breakfast table with the morning paper in hand and his coffee already served. She entered the room, and everything was as expected.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Marigold said, starting the word count of the day.

It was a little game she played with herself, counting the words that she and the Duke exchanged in one single day. She was surprised to find that, more or less, the word count was the same unless she initiated a new subject which she gave up after the fourth day.

“Good morning,” he replied without looking up from his morning paper. “Did you sleep well?”

Marigold was surprised to hear that question. Perhaps they were going for a record that day after all.

“It was a peaceful sleep, Your Grace.”

The maid came and served her favorite tea and a different kind of cake. Marigold was also keeping a tally of how many different cakes she would be served before they started to rotate again.