Page 45

Tyrone flinched. Despite his anger with the mothers of the world, he was the one who had failed his wife, not her mother.

He was her husband. It was his job to look after her now. Having never looked after anything in his entire life, and not having been looked after himself, he doubted he would be able to assume the role of husband very well.

Perhaps he should have thought twice about a decision made in his drunken haze to get married in order to keep his mother at bay. There were other more obvious and logical ways to dissuade her from approaching him. But logic was never at the forefront of his mind in his drunken state.

It was possible, however, that his mother wasn’t the only reason he’d chosen to marry now—to marry her.

Maybe in the back of his mind, he’d known that he needed a tether, something tangible to get him out of his despair and apathy. Someone to help him claw his way from the coffin in which he’d locked himself together with the memories of his father.

Or perhaps, despite his protestations, he just didn’t want to part with the woman who’d ignited a spark in his heart from the very first time they’d met. And his mother was just an excuse to do what he’d wanted to do in the first place.

Claim his wife as his.

Whatever his reasons, this woman now depended on him to be a reliable and competent husband. A duke.

She was strong and independent, and if he left his dukedom and all his assets in her name, he was certain she would fare far better than he ever did.

There was a big enough load on her fragile shoulders, however, and something within Tyrone wanted to help her lift it.

They reached her room, and he ushered her inside, pausing at the threshold. He hadn’t been in this room since the morning after their wedding. And he had a hard time recognizing it.

“Have you changed something here?”

Throwing a quick glance at their surroundings, she hurried toward the hearth. “Nothing significant. I have just moved the furniture around, placed some flowers, and replaced some pictures on the wall. Why?” Was that it? This room, like every other room in the house, used to fill him with dread. Perhaps, more so than other rooms. Now it felt warmer somehow—and it had nothing to do with the fact that they had just entered from the cold. It felt… cozier, brighter, more welcoming. Tyrone walked over to her bed, took the coverlet, and spread it before the fire. “Sit,” he commanded as he took his cloak off her shoulders.

She complied and shifted closer to the fire, her hand still clutching the torn fabric at the shoulder.

“Do you have another nightgown?” he asked gruffly.

“I do. But I am too cold, I don’t want to get it yet.”

“I can—”

“Ow…” She hissed and moved her hand just enough for him to see a red scratch on her shoulder.

He frowned and knelt beside her. “Let me see.”

She shook her head. “It’s just a scratch.”

Tyrone dismissed her words and brushed away her hands. He gently removed the fabric from her shoulder, letting it drop, revealing a view of her silky skin down to her breast. He didn’t let his eyes wander, concentrating on the scratch, probably from the same nail that ripped her nightgown. The scratch was angry red, but it hadn’t penetrated the skin.

He sat still, all his concentration going into not peeking lower at the tantalizing expanse of her skin.

“Is it that terrible?” She looked at him, a smile in her eyes. She was teasing him. And he still couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Not even a scar could ruin the perfection of your skin.” His voice was low and hoarse. His entire body was taut, his breath shaky.

A glance at her bare shoulder was enough for him to start losing his mind. The sweet, floral scent of her perfume, mixed with the scent of her skin, only added to his confused state.

For one mad moment, he wanted to lower his head and lick her wound.

He moved to get up, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stay with me tonight.”

She looked at him, her eyes vulnerable, beseeching him to stay. Women had used different techniques of seduction with him. Mostly, their flirtations were coy and playful. His wife, however, was direct. Calm. And somehow it aroused him even more.

“Do you know what you are saying?”

She nodded. “Yes. I am asking my husband to stay the night with me.” She licked her lips, her cheeks turning crimson. The fire roared in the hearth, bathing the entire room in warm colors, heating Tyrone to the depths of his soul. “I am asking you to make me your wife… completely.”