Page 39 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

Chapter Twelve

Laurel bristled withanger at her new husband but knew better than to take their argument public. No servants had been present, for which she was thankful. She drew in several deep breaths, composing herself, and then continued through the dressing rooms. She reached her own bedchamber and saw Retta already there, bustling about as she unpacked.

“Your tea just came, Your Grace. I had it placed in your sitting room. Do you know what you wish to wear to dinner this evening?” her maid asked.

“Just finish unpacking, Retta. I don’t think I’ll be going downstairs for dinner tonight. I’m very tired after the wedding and the journey to Linwood. Tea will suffice.”

Her maid gave her a sly smile and Laurel realized what the servant must be thinking. Instead of protesting, she kept silent and went into the other room. She poured herself a cup of tea but had lost her appetite. She sat contemplating what the rest of her life would be like.

Linfield had certainly proven himself to be a typical member of theton. His behavior shouldn’t have surprised her. A man would do or say whatever it took to get a woman to wed him. Once she had, she was powerless. At least when Laurel had worked for Mr. Cole, she earned her living. Now, though, she was dependent upon her husband for everything. The food she ate. The clothes on her back. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t own anything. Even the hefty dowry Jeremy had settled upon her would have gone to Linfield.

Frustration filled her. She hadn’t asked for this life or marriage to a duke and now she felt trapped. What upset her even more was, despite her husband’s high-handed manner, she had begun to develop feelings for him. She hurt for the little boy, one who had suffered a lasting trauma that had closed him off from the world. She ached for the young, idealistic man who had gone to war, only to have his soul shattered by the very actions that had allowed him to survive. Even worse, this duke stirred her blood in a way that might crush her. She didn’t want to love him. She would refuse to do that. His kisses certainly made her desire him, though. She must separate the physical want from any emotional attachment. Surely, she could do so. Members of society did it every day. They wed. They came together to make a child. Then they led separate lives beyond those few minutes in the bedroom. She could do the same. She was made of strong stuff, else she never would have survived in her former life as a Wright.

Retta appeared. “Everything is unpacked, Your Grace. When do you wish me to return to ready you for bed?”

Laurel only wanted to be alone so she said, “You may do so now. I will not be leaving my rooms until tomorrow morning.”

“So, the duke will come to you then,” the maid observed. “Very well.”

She held her tongue, not bothering to protest. The duke certainly wouldn’t be coming to her tonight. Not after the scene between them.

Following Retta to the bedchamber, she allowed the maid to remove the wedding dress, which had been meant for a ball. She would wear it again later this Season and try not to think of this day and the disappointment it had brought.

Retta replaced it with a filmy night rail, which had been a gift from Catherine, as was the silk dressing gown the maid helped her slip into.

“You look lovely, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” she replied, feeling hollow inside.

“Thank you again for allowing me to come with you. It’s an honor to serve you. Good night.”

Laurel paced restlessly once her maid left. She finally went to the desk and found parchment and ink. She wrote to Luke and Caroline of her marriage and how she was eager to see them and their baby come June. She set the letter aside to be posted in the morning and retreated to a chaise lounge, her thoughts so muddled that they made no sense. Finally, she went to her bedroom to retire. She was weary, both physically and emotionally, and hoped the mattress was comfortable and that she would fall asleep quickly.

Retta had already turned the covers back and Laurel stared at the large bed. She would spend time with Linfield in it at some point. It would be here they would make a child. Hopefully, more than one. Her eyes misted with tears, thinking she’d mucked up things between them with her flash of temper and wondered how she could apologize.

A soft knock sounded, so faint she almost didn’t hear it.

It came from her dressing room door.

Gathering her courage, she crossed the room and opened the door.

The Duke of Linfield stood there, wearing a dark maroon dressing gown. No coat or waistcoat. No shirt or cravat. She could see a bit of his throat and bare chest. The sight caused her mouth to go dry. She stepped back and he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“I said not to come,” Laurel said stubbornly, not ready to yield control to him, though she knew it would be a losing battle. He had rights over her in every way.

Including her body.

“I know,” he said softly. “I hoped you might have changed your mind.”

His hands went to her waist. His thumbs began stroking her ribcage. Laurel shivered.

“I know you want a child as much as I do. Do you think we can set aside what happened before between us?”

“I suppose so,” she said begrudgingly. “But I don’t want to kiss you.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

She swallowed. “It has nothing to do with making a baby.”

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