Page 12 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

The word sounded wrong, and heat rose to her cheeks.

The Duke averted his gaze, looking at the ceiling instead of her. “You are extrapolating a great deal from a single missed dinner.”

“Am I?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and her eyes caught the sliver of skin visible due to the loosened cravat. There was a slight red tinge to it beneath the dark hair curling on his chest.

“Is that the only reason you knocked on my door?” he asked. His voice had dropped, roughened at the edges. “To deliver a lecture on the symbolic importance of shared meals?”

The question hung between them.

Alice felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She swallowed, the sound audible in the quiet room.

“I…” She stopped. Started again. “It is our wedding night.” Her voice was far smaller than she would have liked.

The Duke stiffened. His eyes moved over her slowly, calculating. His mouth opened, then closed again.

When at last he spoke, his voice was gruff. “No, we… we…” He cleared his throat. “We are not doing that.”

Alice bit her lip. Was she truly so vile to him that the thought of consummating their marriage made it difficult for him to speak?

He stepped back and began to close the door.

“Wait…”

“It is late. I have work. Goodnight, Duchess.”

The door closed with a soft, definitive click that seemed to echo in the chamber long after the wood had settled into its frame.

Alice stood motionless before the closed door.

Of course. Of course he did not want her. Why would he? She had seen his face when the door opened: that momentary widening of the eyes, the swift reassessment, the adjustment downward.

She knew she was not what a gentleman wanted. She was not what he wanted.

He had wanted her sister instead. Thin. Graceful. Accomplished. Everything she was not.

She had one purpose here. To care for his children. To provide the stability his household required. To stand in the space his first wife had left and make herself useful without expecting anything in return. Her purpose wasn’t companionship nor conversation over dinner. Certainly not the warmth of a husband’s bed.

The rejection settled into her chest with the familiarity of an old injury. She had been preparing for this marriage for two days. She had told herself that she understood its terms. That she was entering it with her eyes open, without the dangerous expectation of affection or desire.

She had lied to herself. Somewhere beneath the practical acceptance, beneath the determination to make the best of a situation she had not chosen, a small foolish hope had taken root. The hope that perhaps, in this strange forced union, she might find something she had never been granted before: the simple, uncomplicated fact of being wanted.

The hope was ashes now. Cold, familiar, and exactly what she should have expected.

Chapter Four

Kenneth was three paragraphs into a letter to his steward regarding the spring planting when Mrs. Finch appeared in the doorway of his study. He set down his pen.

“Your Grace, Her Grace has arranged dinner for the family this evening. In the dining room. At seven.”

Kenneth stared at her for a while, then pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose.

“The children eat in the nursery,” he said. “As they have for seven years.”

“Her Grace was quite insistent, Your Grace. She wishes the entire family to dine together. She has been consulting with Cook since midday.”

Kenneth released a sigh as he felt a headache begin its insistent tap behind his right temple.