Page 51 of The Duke's Inconvenient Bride
He didn’t. And for some reason, the rejection stung.
CHAPTER 13
Vaughan heldhimself stiffly as he knocked on his wife’s bedroom door the following morning. After a night with very little sleep, he was ready to finally arrive home.
The door swung inward, and when Emma appeared in the frame, he momentarily forgot to breathe. She peered up at him with puffy eyes, bloodshot from… dear God, had she been crying?
It was official. Day one, and he was already a terrible husband.
But what had he done?
Yes, perhaps he’d been a little short with her in the carriage yesterday, but she’d seemed fine at supper. He’d stopped for the evening when his preference would have been to drive until they reached Ashford Hall, and he’d made sure she had a separate room so she wouldn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable on their first night together.
So there was the little matter of ignoring her knock last night. His head had been killing him, and he’d been certain that if she really needed him, she wouldn’t have given up before he’ddragged himself out of bed. She’d shown herself to be forceful when the need arose.
“Are you ready for breakfast?” he asked, debating whether to inquire as to her state. But women didn’t like it when men suggested they looked less than their best, did they? His mother certainly never had.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Her tone was oddly emotionless.
Guilt prickled in his gut. He must have upset her. He just didn’t know how.
She stepped into the hall and closed the door, then locked it and tucked the key away. He took her arm, and a punch of lust hit him as he breathed in her sweet scent. She smelled as though she’d been baking cakes, though he knew that was ridiculous.
He escorted her down the stairs and into the dining room. This time, they were seated in front of the window. He glanced out, noting the empty road outside underneath cloudy skies.
Mrs. Lemmings served them tea, and Emma asked for sugar. Vaughan made a mental note of that. He may not want to live in his wife’s pocket, but surely it could do no harm to know a few of her personal preferences. One of the staff presented them with two plates with a little of everything on them.
“Thank you,” Emma said, with a smile for the server but not for Vaughan.
He sank his knife into a lump of butter and was about to spread it onto a piece of toast when she spoke again.
“I was surprised not to see you last night.” She raised her eyes to his, and the furrow between her brows suggested she was confused. “I thought you would come to my room.”
He stared at her for a moment, shocked by her forthrightness, but then his stomach plummeted. Was that why she’d been crying? She thought he’d rejected her?
She couldn’t be more wrong. He ached to make her his wife, and that in itself was the problem. He’d never wanted to be attracted to the woman he made his duchess.
“I didn’t want to disrespect you by claiming our wedding night in an inn,” he told her.
That was only partly true. He’d also desperately been trying to gain control of his libido, which wanted him to kiss on her soft, pink lips and not let her out of the bedroom for days.
“I would have liked to know that was your plan,” she said, biting into that luscious lip before taking a sip of her tea. Her tongue flicked out to catch a droplet, and heat rushed through Vaughan in response.
“My apologies, Emma.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on the one she wasn’t using. “I didn’t think to mention it.”
Her gaze darted from his hand up to his eyes, and her pupils dilated. He smothered a groan. Damn, the last thing he needed was for their attraction to be mutual. That would make it even more difficult to let her go once he’d gotten her with child.
“You’re forgiven.” She turned her hand over so that their palms met. The touch was so unexpectedly intimate that his insides quivered.
Fortunately, she pulled her hand away and picked up her cutlery. As she began to eat, he surreptitiously calmed himself. Gentlemen did not leap across tables to grab their wives. Even frustrated ones who had robbed themselves of a wedding night.
Vaughan hardly noticed the fact that he was eating his own meal until his fork clinked against an empty plate. He’d been absorbed by Emma and the small sounds of enjoyment she’d been making. She seemed to have liked everything they’d been served, and he got the impression she was someone who loved food in general.
Good. The cook at Ashford Hall tended toward making simple meals. He could cater for society dinners if needed, but for the most part, their fare wasn’t fancy, and he’d been worried she might turn her nose up at it.
The silence stretched between them, and it occurred to him that most dining companions would have tried to make conversation by now. He wasn’t the chattiest person around, but nor did she seem to be, so hopefully she hadn’t taken the omission personally.
“Do you like to travel?” he asked, deciding this was as easy a question to begin with as any.
