Page 23 of A Cursed Bride for the Duke
Kenneth raised his hands in mock surrender. “Very well, very well,” he conceded, his grin widening. “No need to get your breeches in a twist. I am merely jesting.”
Wilhelm’s hard gaze softened slightly. “Careful,” he warned, regaining his composure.
“Now, tell me, what do you propose we do with this information?” Kenneth asked.
Wilhelm paused, taking a sip of his brandy. The smooth liquid burned its way down his throat, a welcome warmth that spread through his entire body.
“Oh, don’t you worry, Gaverton,” he said. “We shall have plenty of uses for it.”
Chapter Eight
“Mrs. Hughes!” Wilhelm’s voice boomed from within his study as he put down his quill and inadvertently splattered ink across his desk.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and the sound of small, self-assured footsteps filled the room.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes said, her head bowed slightly as she stood before him.
“Have this cleaned up at once, please,” he said sharply. “Did you refresh the brandy in the downstairs library as I had instructed?”
Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Good,” Wilhelm uttered as he stood up and walked to the study door. Without turning, he added, “That will be all for this evening, Mrs. Hughes. You may retire.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes replied, her voice trailing behind him as he continued down the hall.
Wilhelm felt as though he had not slept in days, because his mind refused to stop jumbling up his thoughts and offering up each one for his inspection. He had tried to quiet his mind with warm cups of tea, a bit of light reading, and several shots of brandy, but his efforts had been fruitless.
He descended the stairs and came to a stop before the library’s engraved wooden door. He pushed it open with one swift motion and immersed himself in its peaceful symphony of rustling pages, the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate, and the faint scent of aged leather.
He scanned the library’s towering bookshelves and the plush armchairs nestled among them.
After spending countless days lost in the labyrinthine world of business, money, and revenge, his mind had become overrun by strategies and calculations. He now needed the comforting embrace of literature and a well-deserved glass of brandy.
As he ventured into the library’s hushed depths, he stumbled upon an unexpected sight.
Curled up in a plush wingback armchair, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, was the sleeping form of the Duchess.
She wore a soft, flowing white nightgown, its delicate fabric clinging to her curves and pooling around her feet. A warm woolen shawl was loosely draped over her shoulders, but it did little to conceal the enticing bare skin of her neck and upper chest. A book lay open in her lap, its pages illuminated by the flickering flames, and a half-empty glass of wine rested on the table beside her.
Wilhelm’s breath hitched, his heart rate quickening as he took in the sight of his wife.
She looked breathtakingly beautiful. Though he had caught fleeting glimpses of her since their arrival at Ravenshire—moments in the hallways or across the vast dining table—the captivating scene before him was altogether different. This was Genevieve in her element—unguarded and at ease. A peaceful, translucent aura surrounded her and shimmered in the firelight.
Sensing his presence, Genevieve stirred in her chair, stretched out her legs, and opened her eyes. Startled by his sudden appearance, she bolted upright and tightened her shawl around her in an attempt at preserving modesty, to shield her body from his prying eyes.
“Your Grace,” she greeted in a sleepy voice. “I did not know that you would be coming here this evening.”
Wilhelm inclined his head, a subtle smile playing on his lips. “Nor I,Duchess, but I have had difficulty falling asleep these last few nights. I thought some quiet respite would be helpful,” hereplied, deliberately emphasizing her title, recognizing that she wanted them to remain formal with each other.
He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head in the direction of the vacant wingback chair beside her. “May I join you?”
Genevieve hesitated, her gaze darting to the book in her lap.
“I…” she breathed. “I was just about to retire for the evening,” she mumbled, closing her book and demurely smoothing down her nightgown.
She rose from the armchair and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her upper body, her nightgown still clinging to her curves, and took several steps towards the door.
Wilhelm’s instincts kicked in. He moved quickly to stop her. He blocked her path with his tall, muscular frame and smiled down at her.
