Page 40 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
Marianne’s back remained rigid, her gaze fixed pointedly on the landscape.
“Are you upset? You have been quiet the whole time,” the Duke finally noted.
“I assumed that you may want me to remain quiet, Your Grace,” Marianne replied. “A wife who doesn’t bother you.”
“Is that what you think, little doe?”
Marianne pulled back. She didn’t care for it when he called her that—at least, most of the time. And yet something about the way his voice dipped when he said it made the name feel… less objectionable than it ought to have been.
On occasion, it was more than tolerable. His voice had an irritating talent for slipping beneath her skin, leaving an unwelcome thrill in its wake.
“I am not certain about your wishes, Your Grace. You’ve never made them clear. You asked my father for my hand, and, as with all things from him, it came as an order. I was given no choice in the matter.”
“I thought I made my wishes clear,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “when I asked to marry you.”
Marianne glared at her new husband because how could it be so simple for him?
“I still do not understand. Yes, you declared your intention to marry me, but there is any number of debutantes who would have leaped at the chance. You could have chosen any of them.”
“Debutantes are always performing, never sincere. I’ve seen enough masks to know when someone is playing a part,” the Duke said without much feeling, but she could see something else in his eyes.
Fire.
“What am I, then? A novelty? A test of your tolerance, Your Grace?” she asked, shaking her head with a bewildered laugh. “Was it amusing to you, choosing the lady no one else wanted? The one who eschews meat and lectures on the mistreatment of animals?”
“I’ve never been interested in easy prey,” he whispered darkly, leaning so close she could feel his breath on her face, blended with his masculine scent.
Mint and spice. So intoxicating she had to remind herself to breathe.
“You’re a brute,” she snapped, heat rising in her voice. “How dare you think of me as prey?”
“Don’t you like it, Duchess?” he murmured. “Being pursued. Cornered. Seen.”
Marianne’s breath hitched. She should have moved. Should have turned away. But something about him—his voice, his eyes, the quiet certainty in his words—held her fast.
“You don’t know me well enough to assume what I like,” she said sharply, leaning back but keeping her gaze steady on him. “And don’t flatter yourself by comparing me to some game you hunt for sport. I am no quarry, Sir. I am yourwife.”
The Duke’s eyes darkened, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“My wife, indeed,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “Yet you speak too soon, dear. I think you’ll enjoy the chase. Even crave it.”
Her breath caught. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. He edged closer still, closing the small distance until the warmth of his body reached hers. Her heart hammered in her chest, every instinct screaming at her to pull away—and yet she was rooted to the spot.
His gaze dropped to her lips, slow and deliberate. Time seemed to slow down, the world narrowing to just the two of them.
A breath, a pause. His hand reached for her cheek?—
Then, the carriage jerked to a halt.
The Duke pulled back and straightened his coat, now back to his formal self.
“We have arrived at Oakmere Hall,” the coachman announced.
Marianne released a breath.
Oakmere Hall loomed over the moorlands, its silhouette sharp against the bleak sky—especially to Marianne, newly arrived and unsettled. To her, it seemed less like a house and more like a sentinel guarding the vast, desolate estate. She couldn’t help but wonder how much of the Duke’s nature had been shaped within these walls.
The estate looked curiously foreboding and compelling at the same time, with ivy climbing the walls and large trees forming a protective mass around it, dangerous and large enough to engulf its visitors.
