Page 62 of The Duke and the Accidental Bride

Duncan levelled a warning gaze at his grandmother. She raised her own challenging eyebrow back. Then, he shook his head, even smiling, as Isabella sensed that this was a common way for the two to speak to one another. “You look beautiful, Isabella.” He smiled as he turned to face her. “As my grandmother says, very pretty.”

“Thank you,” Isabella said appreciatively. Then she did the same to his grandmother. “And thank you, my lady. And for reminding your grandson that it does not hurt to pay a lady a compliment every now and then.” She side-eyed Duncan. “Genuinely, that is.”

Lady Martell nodded her head rightly, proud of herself for coaxing the compliment, and then busied herself for a moment on her plate of food; a thick cut of meat, far too thick for one her age. She struggled for a short time until a butler standing over her shoulder stepped in and cut it for her.

A beauty in her time, Isabella had no doubt, the older woman was shrunken and wrinkled by now, and certainly a little slower than she once had been. But she had a presence about her even still, a woman of experience and wealth whom Isabella could not help but respect.

“I was being sincere this time,” Duncan spoke softly, so that only Isabella could hear.

“Excuse me?”

“What I said just now. About you and the dress. I was...” He shook his head at himself, as if suddenly feeling foolish. “I was being genuine. For a change,” he added.

“Oh.” She blinked. “I... I know you were.” She blinked again, knowing she should say something else but not sure what to. “It is appreciated.”

He smiled with appreciation, pleased with himself, and then went to his plate of meat. Still smiling softly as he cut into it and then tore into the flesh in ways that made Isabella shudder just a little bit.

That was twice this evening that Duncan had paid her a genuine compliment. Which also happened to be the first two times he had done so since they had started sleeping together. The ones he used to give her were simply a means of keeping her placid and complacent, which was the exact opposite of how he liked her nowadays.

Until tonight. Which suddenly explains why he is choosing to be so nice. Typical.

Lady Martell put her knife and fork down and reached for her cup of wine. She took a long sip and then cleared her throat noisily. “You Grace, I would be remiss if I didn’t comment on how much happier my grandson seems since the two of you wed. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Isabella chuckled, thinking it to be a joke. “Just doing what I can.”

“I do not joke, Your Grace,” she said without a hint of humor. “Ever since that girl of yours – what was her name?” Duncan’s eyes widened at his grandmother and his face paled, but she didn't seem to notice. “Andrea? It is not important what it was. What is important is that I do not think I have seen you smile this much since before that nasty business came about.” She sighed and looked appreciatively at Isabella. “You’ve done a fine job on him, and for that I thank you. His mother certainly won’t,” she then chuckled to herself.

The table was dead silent.

Isabella didn’t know quite what to say. What girl? Who was Andrea and what had happened? And why did Duncan have a look on his face of such overwhelming dread that suggested his grandmother had asked for personal tips and demonstrations on how his wife had managed to make him so happy.

But it wasn’t that.

It was that name. The girl. A clear indication that whoever she was, Duncan did not want her mentioned or spoken about.

“Grandmother...” Duncan began with a stern look. “That is not something that we have discussed.” He continued to look warningly at her. “Nor should it be spoken about at the supper table.”

His grandmother frowned. “Have you not...” She looked between the two and sighed. “Do you want my advice to a successful marriage?”

“I would rather you did not,” Duncan said.

She ignored him. “No secrets. As soon as one of you starts keeping secrets, the entire foundation crumbles like a castle made on sand.” She picked up her knife and fork and began to cut at her meat again. “Or what do I know,” she mumbled. “I was only married for fifty years...” And again, a butler stepped in to help her cut through the meat.

Duncan was grimacing at Isabella, apparently distraught with worry that she might want to know more about what had happened and who that girl was. That she might even be angry with him!

The truth was confronting for Isabella because she knew deep down that she should not have cared one way or the other. It was not as if she and the Duke had a relationship that revolved around secret telling and personal revelations and deep conversations. They didn’t share. They were not open with one another. Why, try as she might, Isabella could not think of a single instance where it might have been appropriate for Duncan to tell her one of his most intimate secrets.

She should not have cared… but she still did. Yes, their relationship was volatile and aggressive and without real substance, but it was also more than that. Her mind wandered to those intimate moments the two always shared after their aggression. When Duncan would hold her and care for her and make certain that she was comfortable and that he hadn’t gone too far.

It was hard to admit but a part of Isabella coveted these moments. Yes, it was easy to pretend that all she wished for was the passionate sex that had become a staple of their marriage. But the softer side of her husband was, in her mind, the real him. That which came out once the beast had been properly sated. A side of him she didn’t know nearly well enough.

This marriage was surface level. Isabella frowned at the thought as she turned and looked at her husband – he was concentratingon his food now, determined to pretend nothing had been said. A brooding figure, large and intimidating in stature, classically handsome features, and a darkness to him that she did not know nearly as well as she might have liked.

It was in that moment when Isabella decided this to be a problem, and she needed to do something about it. The only question was, would her husband even want to?

“So, Your Grace,” Lady Martell began suddenly. “What is it that you do?”

“Excuse me?”

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