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Bloody hell but she was lovely, standing at the window halfway turned to him and staring into the courtyard at the departing guests.

Alone with her in the dining room, Preston eyed the heaving bosom of his new wife, her small breasts rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, restricted by the bust of her dress.

He should not look at her breasts, damn it. He also shouldn’t notice how beautifully translucent her warm blue-gray eyes were in the sunlight coming through the windows. How the sun played in her silky hair the color of old gold with shades of bronze and silver sparkling in.

Why did she have to be so pretty, hell and the devil?

And what now?

She was Preston’s. The last, most precious possession of the man responsible for Spencer’s death. But getting his revenge by marrying Lady Penelope hadn’t turned back time and saved Spencer. And he had forever tied himself to the daughter of his enemy.

Earlier, Preston had noticed her studying the paintings on the walls, the busts, and other decorations. Was she estimating the wealth she’d married into?

That wouldn’t surprise him. She could now enjoy the opulent life she’d desired. This young woman, with her batting eyelashes and those strawberry-shaped lips that begged to be kissed, had led his brother on like no other. He hadn’t heard their conversations. But he knew enough about her type. He’d seen ladies pull those tricks. Making herself attractive, innocent, and honorable enough, and getting under Spencer’s skin to keep him coming back for more.

She was as responsible for his brother’s death as her father was. As Preston himself was…

The thought tasted bitter on his tongue.

And therefore, there was just one thing he needed to do. He stood up from the breakfast table and went to stand next to her to watch the guests depart. Through the old glass, he saw the blurry figures of Grandmama, Calliope, and Richard get into one carriage. Miss Alexandria Beckett and Lord Beckett climbed into the other. Sebastian and Emma’s carriage had already departed.

For a moment, he wondered if Penelope felt lonely now that her family had left and she was alone with him. He surely did, every day of his life.

How could one feel lonely in such a joyful and friendly family as his? With parents who’d loved each other and their children. With a grandmama who’d spoiled them rotten.

And yet, he was the only one of his siblings who hadn’t spent his whole childhood at the Grandhampton country seat. He had disappointed his mama and papa so much with his rebellious, reckless behavior, with his silly rivalry with Spencer, they’d felt like they had to punish him, or he’d never change.

So, instead of being tutored by a governor at Grandhampton Court, he had spent most of his childhood at a boarding school near Eilean Donan in the Scottish Highlands. It was cold. It was dark. It was miserable.

But the worst was to know he was so bad, so unworthy, that he was the only one of his siblings who’d been cast away. He’d been surrounded by people but always felt alone.

Even for a spare, he was a poor one. And especially now that he had to spend so much time in this temple of the Dukes and Duchesses of Grandhampton. Every day he felt how distinctly Spencer belonged here while he did not.

If Penelope felt anything remotely similar to that isolation, he felt sorry for her.

And yet the next moment, he shook the thought off. Even if she may feel lonely, she had brought this on herself. Her emotions should be none of his concern.

“You’re a duchess now,” he said, his voice sounding as if he’d eaten gravel. “I expect you to perform your duties. Do you understand what they entail?”

She nodded and raised her head proudly. “I know what’s expected. I’m the daughter of a baron. My mother taught me well.”

Her voice broke as she said that last part, as though there was a pain behind those words. Right. Her mother wasn’t present today.

Regret not to have seen his own mama and papa, as well as Spencer, stabbed him. Mama had died six years ago from fever and pneumonia, as many people had that year. Papa had worshipped his wife. He had been all about duty, and Mama, the daughter of a Spanish marchioness with blood ties to the Spanish branch of the Hapsburg dynasty, had brought life and joy into his world. When she died, Papa’s own health started to decline quickly, as though he gave up on life. Papa had died a year later from an apoplexy. One day, he was alive. The next, he fell down in a palsy. He was gone the next night.

Preston suppressed a wave of sadness. Was that how his wife had felt, too, when she’d lost her own mama?

No. Preston shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t pay attention to the little pains and hurts in her voice or if she found the whole situation—or him—agreeable.

And yet, he had to ask. “Your mother passed, didn’t she?”

She nodded. “Six years ago.”

“Just like my own,” he said, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, all animosity gone. “What happened?”