Page 21 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

“Enough of that,” Oliver dismissed. “No business talk at the table.”

“This is serious!” Graham insisted.

“As is what we were speaking about,” Oliver said rightly, enjoying the way Graham bristled. “Can’t you see, Henry is distraught at the moment. Trapped in a loveless marriage that?—”

“Enough!” Henry snapped at his friend, who grinned his response.

“Loveless marriage?” Graham frowned. “Who the devil cares?”

“He does.”

Graham scoffed. “You should know better. Marriage has nothing to do with love—if it did, I dare say nobody would marry. It serves one purpose and one purpose only.” He looked at the two and raised an eyebrow. “Lineage. Put a son or daughter in the woman and be done with it.”

Oliver grinned. “You know what, I have to say that I agree with Lord Talbot. Maybe not in the crass sense that he presented it, but the point is the same. Have you considered the obvious solution for your woes?”

“What are you talking about?” Henry sighed.

“The simple solution, one that you really ought to have thought of by now, is to take her to bed. Make a woman out of her. Remind her she is your wife, and if she doesn’t behave…” Oliver pumped his eyebrows and growled. “She’ll get what she deserves.”

Henry eyed his friend warningly. “You will do well, Oliver, not to speak that way about my wife.”

Oliver was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. Sensing the shift in tone, realizing that in this instance he had overstepped the mark, he held his palms out in apology. “Just a thought.”

“In this instance, perhaps it’s best if you keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“You haven’t slept with her yet?” Graham gawped, completely unconcerned about the way this discussion rankled Henry. “Henry Elkins, the lady killer? Had more women in his bed than bed bugs, they say. But he hasn’t even slept with his own wife? Why the devil not?”

“That really isn’t your concern,” Henry said coldly.

Graham rolled his eyes. “It is if you’re going to behave this way every time I see you. If it affects your ability to work! What I suggest is that at the very least you find another means to expel this pent-up energy.” He looked at Henry, and Henry frowned. “Take another woman to bed. The Lord knows you need it.”

“I’m a married man.”

“So?”

Henry fixed his cousin with a final glare, one that told him this conversation was over. “So, I will not besmirch my name and the name of my wife all for the sake of more pleasant conversation the few times that you and I are forced to talk to one another.”

Graham scoffed. “Have it your way, then.”

Have it your way. A fair enough sentiment if Henry even knew what his way was. That being what he wanted.

The truth was, he’d thought often these past few days of what it might be like to sleep with Charlotte. And after what had happened on their wedding night… well, he didn’t get much sleep that night, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. But he had meant what he said about this being a white marriage, and despite the attraction that he felt whenever he saw her and those hips sway before him, when those lips of hers began to move and the only way he could think to quiet them might be to kiss her… he refused to give in to his most base desires.

There had to be some way to get her under control. One that didn’t involve taking her to bed. As to what that was? Right now, all Henry could think to do was drink as much as he could bear, vomit it all up, and hope that at some point, an answer would come to him.

This marriage was turning out to be a heck of a lot more work than he could have ever predicted.

ChapterSeven

Charlotte spent the night trying to convince herself not to be angry. From about the time that Henry didn’t return for supper right up until she went to bed—with Henry still having not returned home—she told herself again and again to keep her temper.

She shouldn’t care, she reminded herself. She should be happy, she repeated over and over again. It wasn’t as if his being here would improve her night. She should have been thrilled when he didn’t come back from “drinking,” as he’d so eloquently put it. Despite these reassurances, when he didn’t come home, and when she finally retired to bed, fury was her bedfellow.

It became worse the next morning when she woke up to find that he had still not come home.

She didn’t know why she was surprised. After what she had heard about the man, likely he had taken another woman to bed and spent the night with her! And while she knew she had no reason to begrudge him the fact… she was still his wife, he was still her husband, and the least he could do was curb his rakish desires and not sleep his way through London.

It was afternoon when he finally stumbled into the foyer. She was in the library, making an account of the books they owned, thinking to add to it because a bustling library was a sign of a healthy homestead. She heard the door open and rushed to meet him, readying herself for the assault that was sure to happen.

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