Page 50 of His Haunted Duchess
Frederic sat back, staring at her. Caroline resisted the urge to fidget. She stared back into his eyes, trying to plumb his thoughts. They were—as proved most dark wells—inscrutable.
“No,” he said finally with a finality that surprised her. “No, I do not.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you certain?”
Caroline’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. Perhaps she had been wrong to ask in the first place.
A wry smile flitted across the duke’s face but didn’t quite chase the concern out of his expression. She rather wished it had.
“I’m quite certain. But—” he said with a searching look, “I wonder both at the boldness of the question and the root of its source?”
“I—my aunt—” Caroline flushed. “I had understood that an heir might be something—expected. Part of my duties as—your wife.”
The last two words stung her like a bee in spring. Frederic nodded understandingly. He didn’t seem infused with an inordinate amount of surprise which consoled Caroline at least in a small degree.
“In many cases, it must be admitted that a man—particularly in my position—may expect an heir from his wife.” He stood and made his way to the window, turning his back to her. “Iam, however—and you are, I suppose—fortunate that no such demand from me is necessary.”
“In the case of my premature demise, Philip would be qualified to assume the responsibilities of the estate, thus freeing me from the obligation of producing an heir. And?—”
A bitter spasm, like a bolt of sour lightning, twitched up from his mouth and into his eyes. “In any case, I have no intention of having an heir for reasons particularly my own.”
Caroline looked at the pattern stitched into the carpet, or feigned to look, while her thoughts and feelings sorted themselves into intelligible places.
“I—If I understand correctly, then,” Caroline began, “I am to be your wife in name only? Not as?—”
Frederic shook his head. The light in his earlier eyes had snuffed out like a candle enveloped by night, replaced by the expression she had come to recognize from the past week.
“Our marriage is the result of an accident. One from which we have fortunately recovered, but—” He turned back to her. “I would never force a more intimate relationship upon either one of us. It shall be as it began—a rescue from scandal, nothing more.”
Caroline sighed with relief. Then the question of a child wasn’t hers to ask. The curse, at least, would have no power to influence her progeny, even if it had some hold on her present.
Behind her relief lurked something: a pang of regret. Her arms would not hold a baby as had her mother’s and Aunt Olivia’s. Her hands would not lead little fingers and faces forward into a wondering and open world—not, at least, for children of her own. Somewhere, a piece of her heart wilted like a flower without sunlight. Perhaps, in another life, she would have liked to be a mother.
For now, in her case and situation, she recognized the wisdom in Frederic’s words—appreciated it, even. Neither of them had entered into the marriage expecting love or intimacy beyond the usual, transactional amount. A week ago, she would have been relieved beyond measure for the opportunity.
Now—- She studied the scar on the back of her hand. Now, at least, their positions were clear.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I shall endeavor to fill my new role to the utmost of my abilities.”
“I have no doubt you will do so well. And—” He struggled for a moment, “—please do not underestimate my gratitude for your understanding and your cooperation. I deeply appreciate your willingness to abide by my inclinations and hope that they also gratify yours.”
“I will inform Your Grace should my inclinations change.”
He smiled at her, bowed, then led her to her room.
It was large and amply and tastefully furnished. A long, round mirror sat in the corner like a beneficent eye, reflecting back the polish and richness of an ornate wardrobe. Oscar meowed as she opened the door. She gratefully took him in her arms before cuddling peacefully on the bed.
The afternoon passed dreamily as she considered the day’s events. The ceremony, the breakfast, the dance—they blended in her thoughts like notes in a music box, and her feelings danced to the melody.
She thought with pleasure about her aunt and Winifred’s beaming faces and staring into Frederic’s deep, handsome eyes as Mr. Kirkham read the wedding vows.
Perhaps, she admitted to herself, she had been wrong. The brightness in Frederic’s face had not been a particular sign of regard. More accurately, it was a simple effusion of his contentment, a beam of general happiness of which she had been fortunate enough to catch a glimpse.
She sighed over it but acknowledged the rightness of Frederic’s adherence against demanding an heir. It aligned too well with her own inclination to maintain distance—civility, still, but distance and safety foremost.
The face of Lady Felicity floated through the jetsam along with Esther’s wish and warning. Had there been more between Felicity and Frederic? She realized she knew almost nothingabout his past—his paramours, his preferences. It widened the gap between them just a few hairs farther.
At dinner, Esther and Philip had been engaged to dine elsewhere and were absent from the table. The meal was a silent affair. Frederic ate, bowed, and departed, leaving Caroline alone at the long, polished dining room.
