For Love of the Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 2) (22 page)

He’d not even had the decency to secure a lady’s maid for her.

She marched onward, content to trail after his broad-backed frame.

Why, she hadn’t had, a…a…

“Wedding night,” she muttered.

Jasper spun so quickly she stumbled into him.

Katherine would have surely tumbled down the stairs, but he caught her by the arms. “Have a care, Your Grace,” he commanded in the same way a governess might scold a recalcitrant child.

She pressed her lips together, and jerked free of his hold. She proceeded to march ahead until she reached the main level of the keep. It mattered not that she didn’t know down which long hall her chambers happened to be. She’d rather knock on every other blasted door than bear the bluntness of his angry gaze.

“Right, madam,” he drawled from behind her with the faintest trace of amusement lacing his directions.

Oh, the dunderhead was enjoying this.

Katherine tossed open the first door. Again, those crisp white linens covered the furniture and portraits that adorned the spacious parlor. She closed it and moved to the next. A drawing room.

Next. Her fingers grasped the handle.

“Do not.”

She spun around.

Fury snapped in his eyes. “Do not.”

Katherine turned and glanced back at the door, filled with a sudden urge to press her fingers to the handle and see what dark secrets were hidden beyond the thin wood panel.

Instead, she pulled her hand back, and then followed him in mutinous silence, wondering that he could be so entirely different people; the man who’d given her the last edition of Wordsworth, and now this threatening duke.

He stopped at the end of the hall, and flung open a door. “Your chambers, Katherine.”

Your chambers.

Not
our
chambers.

Of course, they would keep separate rooms.

Especially when he had no intention of consummating their marriage.

With a tentative step, she walked inside, and did a turn around the space. The residences Katherine had considered home through the years had never been modest, smallish places, and yet, she could fit several of her bedchambers into this one. Resplendent in dark Chippendale furniture, from the four-poster bed to the armoire, a king or queen could comfortably sleep here. Yet, with the brocade wallpaper in deep green shades and matching curtains, the room was devoid of cheer.

Jasper pulled off his gloves and dusted them together. “I hope the room meets with your satisfaction.”

“Undoubtedly so, Your Grace.”

How very stiffly polite they were.

He gave a satisfied nod, and started for the door.

The reality that when he stepped out of the room, she would be completely and utterly alone in this dark, foreboding house, filled her with a sudden trepidation. “You are going?”

Jasper swung back around.

She curled her toes inside the soles of her slippers. Who knew embarrassment could sting worse than the bite of a vicious hornet? “That is to say…”

I don’t want to be alone.

I want a real marriage with you.

I care for you.
Her eyes slid closed.
Oh, God, I am a complete and utter fool.

“Katherine?”

Her eyes snapped open. “Well, that is to say I thought we might sup together or that mayhap you’d show me around the manor, or even stay to discuss…” She wracked her mind.

He folded his arms across his broad chest. “To discuss, what, Katherine?”

“The weather,” she blurted. “Or perhaps the Christmastide festivities.”

“There will be no celebrations for the Christmas season.” The harsh pronouncement bounced off the otherwise still room, echoing around them in cruel mockery.

She settled her lips into a mutinous line, and took several steps toward him. “You’ve taken me from my family, at the holiday season no less.” She jabbed her finger at the air as she advanced. “You forced me to leave my home at the Christmastide season, my sisters and brother. You provided no maid.” She jabbed her finger again, and stopped in front of him, so close she had to tilt her head back and strain to see him, so close their feet brushed. Katherine stuck her finger into his bearish chest. “You will
not
take away my holiday season. Is that clear, Your Grace?”

Oh, what she wouldn’t trade to have just another several of inches or so with which to boldly face down his impossibly tall frame. She jabbed at him again.

“And what was that for, Your Grace.”

“For being so blasted tall,” she muttered.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“For being so bloody foul,” she amended, for that might make more sense to her surly ogre of a husband.

He captured his chin between a thumb and forefinger and rubbed it contemplatively. “I’d rather thought you said—”

“You’re wrong,” she cut in. Her eyes narrowed. “And you’ve deviated beyond the point, Jasper. We will celebrate Christmas.”

“I do not—”

“You do now, husband. So accustom yourself to the very thought of it. Now,” she marched over to the door and pulled it open. “If you will? I have matters to attend.”

With his unreadable gaze, he did a cursory search of the barren room.

If he so much as mentioned the absence of any trunks or material possessions that constituted things she could attend to, by God, she’d plant him a facer.

Jasper stood there, a firm set to his intractable lips, and then took those remaining paces out into the hall, pausing a moment to turn back.

He opened his mouth, and Katherine closed the door. She turned the lock with a satisfying click.

Through the years, as the Duke of Bainbridge, Jasper had come to expect certain deferential treatment where he was concerned. Hardly, obsequious on his part, but rather demonstrated through the actions and words of those who’d crossed his path since he’d been a surly babe in the nursery.

He knew he stared, and had lost track of how many minutes he’d now stood rooted to this particular spot staring at the door his new wife had closed in his face.

And locked, the devilish imp had locked it as well.

Because he’d become so accustomed to those certain deferential treatments afforded his status, he found himself quite flummoxed by being shut out of a room, in his own manor.

He supposed many of the previous Dukes of Bainbridge who’d lived within these dank walls, many, many years ago, would have taken the door down with their hands.

The other Dukes of Bainbridge surely would have been too occupied by their mistresses to either know or care that said door had been locked.

Lest he be discovered by his rather limited household staff gaping at a door like a nannypanny, Jasper spun on his heel and strode with determined steps through the house, until he at last reached the library.

People didn’t defy him, and yet, this small slip of a lady had not only defied him but commanded him, insisting he celebrate the Christmastide season.

Jasper shoved the heel of his Hessian boot against the door. He relished the reverberations as it shook in its frame.

Lock the door on him, had she.

Jasper stormed over to the floor-to-ceiling-length shelving of books, and tugged free a white sheet draped across the leather volumes. It danced to the ground in a noisy, wrinkly heap. He stepped over it, and furiously scanned the titles of books he’d not touched in years.

He pulled out a collection of Coleridge’s poems and tossed it to the floor. The disregarded sheet dulled the solid thump of book hitting floor.

What had she expected of him?

Jasper pulled out one of Byron’s works. His eyes skimmed the title, and then he dropped it atop the forgotten Coleridge works. Considering the fury thrumming through his energized frame, Jasper would sooner burn the romantic work of Byron than read it.

She’d been clear that theirs would be a marriage of convenience and that she carried no real affection for him. His brow wrinkled. Or, he’d not believed she’d mentioned anything where emotion was concerned.

His Katherine was practical and logical and not the heady, flighty creatures flitting around London.

Only in the two days and a handful of hours since they’d been wed, she’d shown herself to be a highly emotional creature, and he didn’t know how to handle such feelings. Especially not with the years he’d been shut away from Society. And especially not with Katherine, the one person who’d managed to infiltrate the fortress he’d constructed around his heart.

He preferred the cool indifference he’d carried toward not only life, but to anyone who crossed his path.

Jasper didn’t want to worry about another being hurt, or injured, or even happy, for that matter; because all of those sentiments required something of him, and he didn’t want to give anything, because frankly—he didn’t have anything left to give.

Or he’d thought he had nothing left to give, no warmth or joy or interest—until Katherine.

He reached slowly, absently for another book and stared unblinking at the title.

She’d forced him to accept the disquieting, uncomfortable truth.

He cared.

Somehow, she’d shattered the lie he’d made of his life since Lydia’s death.

Wordsworth.

Jasper reared his arm back to toss the volume atop the copy of forgotten books, but froze. He lowered it, and studied the title a minute. An hour?

He walked over to the leather sofa, creased and weathered from age and wear and sat with Wordsworth’s book on his lap.

Before Lydia, he’d considered himself a sensible gentleman. He’d possessed a reputation amongst the
ton
as a ruthless, emotionless man. Then Lydia had shown him happiness could exist.

With her death, he’d realized happiness was nothing more than an illusion and so he’d retreated from Society and buried himself in the solitude of his castle to lick the wounds left by his misery.

Now, with Katherine she’d opened his eyes to the staggering truth—he lived; he lived, and still felt desire and all other sentiments he’d hoped to keep buried.

Jasper shoved the book atop the pile of misbegotten books where it fell open upon its spine.

He rested his elbows onto his knees and stared down at the floor, as he acknowledged the truth: he did not,
could not
resent Katherine. Rather—he hated himself. For seated there, he couldn’t dredge forth Lydia’s face. Not the color of her hair, or the sound of her laughter. Nothing.

In his mind’s eye, she’d been replaced by a woman with tight brown ringlets, a tart tongue, and a husky alto laugh. A woman unimpressed by his title who challenged him on every score.

His gaze landed on that open page.

And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,

An undistinguishable Throng!

And gentle Wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wanted him to again celebrate Christmas, and though it seemed the ultimate betrayal of Lydia and his unborn babe, Jasper was fast finding it nigh impossible to deny Katherine anything.

~20~

Katherine walked a circle around the massive, stone foyer, hands propped upon her hips. She angled her head and studied the white sheets draped over the tapestries hung on the stone walls. She’d expected the servants would have removed the coverings, and yet, in the light of a new day, the draperies remained.

Katherine nibbled at her lower lip, and wandered closer to the nearest sheet. She really couldn’t see to the proper Christmastide trimmings with the castle in its present state. Arching on tip-toe, she made a grab for the corner of the covering.

“Might I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

Katherine screeched and spun around to greet the butler. She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “No. I was just…”

He angled his head.

Katherine’s lips flattened. “Actually, yes, Wrinkleton you can be of assistance. I’d like to take this down.” She pointed up at the sheet. “And that one.” She waved her finger over to the next covering. “And all of them. If you would be so good as to send several footmen.”

The servant blinked like a night-owl. “Remove them?”

Ahh, it would appear they were up at the duke’s urging, and not merely because Jasper had been in London. “Remove them,” she said with a nod.

The older servant shuffled back and forth upon his feet. He held his hands folded in front of him, wringing them in an agitated manner. “His Grace would—”

“Want me to do as I see appropriate with the household furnishings.” She crossed her fingers and hid them in the folds of her skirt.

A bead of sweat dotted Wrinkleton's brow. He removed a kerchief from within his jacket and dabbed at his head.

“If you’d speak first to the duke, and ascertain if that is to his pleasure, I’d most surely assist, Your Grace. It is just…” his words trailed off. “What are you doing, Your Grace?” he blurted, in his seeming nervousness forgetting his status. Or mayhap it was merely that he feared his employer that much.

She’d forgotten that whole Mad Duke nonsense.