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She blinked. “Why?”

There was no need to tell her about the “out of spite” part of his reasoning. He’d tell her the other part that he fully believed in.

“Because I think a woman should be able to do anything she has an ambition to do.”

A smile bloomed on her face, so beautiful his heart stopped. Once again, and this time so much stronger, he didn’t feel sorry he’d married her.

Because, somehow, she had brought light and life into his dark and lonely existence.

Ever since that dreadful day when Spencer had flown through the glass and lay in the pit with blood oozing from dozens of cuts, Preston had known he wasn’t like the rest of his family. They were all cheerful, normal people.

He had pestered and pestered Spencer, tried his parents’ patience, and rebelled, jealous of all the attention Spencer received.

And then, that had happened. Even though Spencer had taken the first swing, it was Preston who had egged him on. And Preston could have been the one to finish it, to apologize and walk away. But his stupid, stupid pride had kept him swinging his fists and pushing his brother.

So it was only fair he’d taken the blame and was sent up to the Mackenzie Boys’ School. Away from his well-behaved brothers and sister. Away from his loving mother and father. Away from sunlit green fields and his mother’s garden and the pond where Spencer, Papa, and he used to fish.

Instead, with other delinquent and unwanted aristocratic sons, he was sent into the cold, rough Highlands of Scotland, where it always rained, and Eilean Donan towered somberly, a dark castle on a small island in the loch, surrounded by mountains.

Where he’d learned to protect himself by hardening his heart and keeping others at a distance.

“Fill this dark house with more of your landscapes,” he said. “The peonies, the roses, the tulips. I like this place better with those old, gloomy paintings gone.”

She blushed. “You noticed?”

“I noticed.”

“And you don’t mind? I thought you’d give me another speech about rules and such.”

Didn’t mind? He liked coming home to the sight of flowers instead of gray landscapes and dour portraits.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, still smiling from ear to ear.

Something lightened in his heart, seeing her joyful like this. Damnation. That was another thing he liked immensely—putting a smile like that on her face.

And he certainly shouldn’t.

The best thing would be to get this wild desire for her, these feelings for her, out of his body and his mind. Surely, once he tasted her, once he had her, he’d forget about her.

That had always worked with other women.

It was time. The seven days he’d given her had passed. He would deflower her tonight. She had fallen apart so deliciously against his fingers three days ago. He’d bring her that again and again. He wanted her to be his.

Porter entered the room and marched directly to him. He leaned close to his ear and said quietly, “Your Grace, there’s someone at the servants’ door at the back of the house waiting for you.”

Preston threw a glance at his wife, who frowned at him with curiosity.

“Who?” Preston asked, keeping his voice low.

“I would never have let him stay, but the man said you’d want to see him. He’s very distressed and says it’s about Lord Beckett.”

If this was about Lord Beckett, it could be only one person. His witness.

And if he came here, risking his own confidentiality, it must be serious.

His stomach sank. As much as he had looked forward to this night, as much as he burned to make Penelope his, it may need to wait. He may need to leave and wouldn’t know when he’d return. He didn’t want her to wait for him and then be disappointed. He wanted to take time for her. Take it slow. Make her ready.