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Everything was immaculate. Clean. Rich. Antiques and family heirlooms decorated fireplace mantels, sideboards, and walls. She was afraid to move the wrong way and bump against something, smashing it to pieces.

Rose Cottage was full of constant chatter, laughter, and the bustling activity of her family. In contrast, the calm silence at Rath Hall was eerie, punctuated only by the ticking of a clock or the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty corridors and rooms.

Her family had left the day of the wedding. So had the duke’s sister, Chastity, and his aunt, who had both moved to Rath’s London house to give the newlyweds privacy.

They truly didn’t have to. These newlyweds weren’t spending any time together to need privacy.

She hadn’t talked to her husband since the day of their wedding, and yet, she could sense his presence in every little thing. He was in the dark stone walls, in the exquisite ancient furniture, in the portraits of his ancestors and the priceless art. He was even in the feminine style of her own quarters, silently pointing out how little she belonged there.

Her bedroom was an opulent prison with high ceilings and heavy antique furnishings. The air was still, holding the faintest scent of lavender and wood polish. A massive four-poster bed, draped with silky sheets, stood against the wall. The fireplace loomed, tall and cold. She was sure she could ask Mrs. Knight to have one of the maids light it, but she didn’t dare. How could she command anyone?

In the mornings, Patience stood at the window, her breath hitching as she watched the duke spar with his trainer. Watching his hard, shirtless body move was the highlight of her day. Even from her window, she could see the rippling muscles of his chest and back play under his glistening skin. The jabs of his bulging arms were fast and unexpected, the powerful grace of his movements obvious. Like Ares, the god of war, he didn’t hold back, wasn’t afraid, just kept moving, concentrating on every step and maneuver. From time to time he massaged his gloved hand; it must have still pained him. But he never removed the glove.

It wasn’t just his physique that drew her in. As he moved with lethal grace, she felt a pang of longing. Not just for his touch, but for the ease with which he inhabited his world. He was the master here, powerful and direct, while she was a prisoner, trapped by an obligation to her family and overwhelmed by a life she barely understood.

The emptiness of her bed, the silence of the rooms, the constant reminder that she was alone. It was too much and not enough. Seeing him, so vibrant and alive, only intensified her yearning. She wanted to be part of his world, to share his strength, to feel as free and confident as he did.

But all she could do was watch and wish, something within acutely interested in the cold man who seemed so far out of reach.

Then he’d pull a shirt over his sweaty torso, mount a black horse that looked massive and intimidating, and with an Irish wolfhound at his heels, he’d gallop away as though the devil chased him. After a while, she saw him dive into the pond near the house, and stay under the water for a long time, emerging all wet and exhausted, before walking back into the house.

Patience was in the sitting room, staring out of the window, when the housekeeper came in. Mrs. Knight was a woman in her late fifties, with a spare figure, a long, thin face, and gray hair in an immaculate knot at the back of her head.

She began shooting out questions, and Patience stood with her mouth gaping open while Mrs. Knight waited for her answers.

Patience smiled because she had no idea what the difference was between a velouté sauce and a hollandaise sauce, or which her husband preferred.

Whether she’d like Canard à l’Orange or Tournedos Rossini for dinner. And for soups, would she prefer Bouillabaisse or Potage à la Reine?

And for the next week’s menu, would she like to include the duke’s favorite dish?

Favorite dish? Goodness, Patience didn’t know a single thing he liked, just what he didn’t like.

Her.

Anywhere near him or the garden.

She threw a longing glance outside.

“Whatever you think best, Mrs. Knight.”

The housekeeper’s response was a barely noticeable pursing of her lips. Patience had just opened her mouth to ask what the duke’s favourite dish was but closed it. Perhaps that was something a wife of five days was supposed to know, and this would be yet another way to show Mrs. Knight how unfit Patience was for the role of duchess.

“Perhaps Your Grace would like some new clothes?” asked Mrs. Knight as her gaze dropped very slightly down Patience’s blue dress, which she was wearing again after cycling through the other two gowns. “I took the liberty to ask Lady Buchanan’s modiste from London to come and take your measurements tomorrow. Would that be fitting?”

A blush hit Patience’s face. Even the housekeeper knew better than she what should be done.

She smiled, her only shield against judgment. “Um. Of course. Thank you for being so considerate, Mrs. Knight.”

Mrs. Knight made a little surprised jerk with her body as though something small had hit her. Was she not used to compliments? “You’re quite welcome, Your Grace.”

Patience grinned. “Oh, and my bed is so soft and has been exquisitely made every morning.”

The only problem was, Patience couldn’t sleep in it because she felt so alone and so small in that huge bed. At home, there were always noises around the house, someone talking, or laughing, singing, cleaning, floorboards creaking under someone’s feet. But in Rath Hall, it was so quiet at night, she started imagining noises. Little scratches in the dark corners, distant heavy footsteps, an uneven, soft knocking against the windowpanes. She lay tense and on edge, her skin crawling despite the soft, clean sheets that smelled like lavender and soap.

But that was certainly not Mrs. Knight’s fault.

Mrs. Knight cocked her head, little nets of wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. “I’m pleased to hear that.”