“Incredible.” Excitement bubbled in her chest. She might just love this place. That would certainly help her endure her time here, however long that may be. She’d have that view . . . that shoreline to walk whenever the fancy struck.
Gazing out at the water, she felt lighter. Buoyed. That sentiment only grew and solidified once she passed through the threshold and stood in the high-beamed foyer of the house. She oohed over the well-worn stone floor, rotating in a small circle as Marcus chatted with the caretaker, Mr. Shepard, listening with half an ear.
“Sorry my missus is feeling poorly. She would ’ave liked tae greet ye both,” Mr. Shepard was saying.
“No need. I assume the nearby village boasts able-bodied men and women.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The older gentleman looked between the two of them curiously. “Yer staying fer a spell then?”
Marcus nodded. “Yes.” He glanced around their surroundings as though firmly deciding he did indeed like the place. He shot her a glance. “As is my wife.”
My wife.
There it was then. He was claiming her as his wife again. This time not to a room full of strangers well into their cups. No. He was proclaiming it to the head of his household staff. According to him, she was the Duchess of Autenberry. And this grand home was hers as much as it was his.
She never felt more of a fraud.
She glanced around the foyer again, but this time her excitement had ebbed. In its place was a hollow sensation. She was his wife. He’d claimed her as such. Not out of love or affection but because of obligation. She brought nothing to this union and yet she was his wife.
If only it were that simple.
His saying it didn’t make it so. Marriage was more than that.
And she wanted more. No half measures. She wanted all of it or nothing at all.
The master and mistress of the house had their own adjoining rooms. Mr. Shepard showed them to their chambers together. Both rooms shared a balcony, which faced the sea. She lingered on the balcony, marveling that she would wake each day to a view of dolphins.
“I can rouse the kitchen girl, Helen, tae prepare ye both dinner,” Mr. Shepard called to her. “She’s a right fine ’and in the kitchen. Ken ’er way around a soup pot, she does,” Mr. Shepard offered as he hovered in the threshold, worrying his hands together before him. “It may no’ be tae yer normal quality—”
“We’ve been journeying for many days.” Alyse emerged from the balcony, cutting him off, hating that he thought she was some fine lady accustomed to fine quality. It made her feel a liar and a fraud. “We aren’t particular.”
He started as though to leave and then stopped himself. “Well, if ye will permit me tae say so, Yer Grace—”
She could not stop herself from flinching at the designation.
“—we are ever so ’appy tae ’ave ye ’ere. The duke and yerself. This place ’as been vacant far far too long. It will be good tae see life bloom ’ere once again.”
She stifled her wince at his kind and supportive words. In her he did not see someone unacceptable, someone unfit to preside as lady of the house. He did not see the truth. Or at least he wouldn’t dare let it be known if he did. But she knew.
She would always know. That is the only thing that mattered.
Others would know, too, she reminded herself.
“My thanks to you, Mr. Shepard. You are very kind.”
He nodded his head obligingly and backed out from the room. “I will see tae yer dinner tray and send one of the lasses up to ’elp ye unpack.”
Unpack. That was almost humorous. She only had a single valise to her name. Only a few belongings within it and yet a maid would come to assist her. That girl would know it at once. She would know the fraud Alyse perpetrated and tell others. The rest of the staff of Kilmarkie House would know.
She took a deep breath and chided herself not to be so anxious. It mattered naught. She wouldn’t be here for long.
Mr. Shepard inclined his head and then ducked out of the room to see about their dinner.
She returned to the balcony and that stunning view that beckoned her. Her husband stood there, admiring the sight as well. They stood in restful silence for a few moments. It was easy to forget all one’s worries. All tensions just melted away when she stared out at the sea.
“Well,” he said after some moments staring out at the sea. “We made it here.”
She nodded before releasing a slow breath. “Why did you tell him I was your wife?” It would only make things more difficult for him . . . later. When she was gone.
“Because you are my wife.” He arched his eyebrow at her and gave her a sardonic look that seemed to say: naturally.
“That’s what you said to get me back . . . I didn’t think you truly meant it.”
“There are certain things men never say unless true. The claim to be married is one of them.”
The wind picked up off the sea, fluttering the loose hair fringing her face. “But it’s not true.”
“We made it true last night. Our marriage is consummated. It’s official now. No going back now.”
She studied his face, trying to read him. He sounded resigned. Not happy. Of course. But there was something in his eyes, in his flat voice.
Disappointment.
Understandably. She couldn’t be the wife he’d imagined for himself.
She swallowed and looked away, out at the sea again. It was hard seeing that in his face, knowing it to be true. She couldn’t imagine seeing it for a lifetime.
She didn’t intend to.
She went to bed alone in another great four-post monstrosity (clearly the rich and noble never slept in anything of normal proportion), listening to the sound of the sea outside her chamber. Distant, steady waves washed along the shoreline, the sound rhythmic and mesmerizing. She wondered if it was ever warm enough to sleep with the balcony doors open—and then she reminded herself that it wouldn’t matter. She would not be here in the summer months to find out.
She went to bed alone, but she didn’t stay alone for very long.
She had not yet fallen asleep when she heard the adjoining door open.
She felt him stop and stand over the bed, near enough to touch her. His presence radiated energy . . . fire. “You’re awake.” It was not a question. A statement.
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Do you want me to go?”
He was giving her a choice. Her life had been one of few choices.
She thought about how he was the kind of man who did the right thing. When he saved her on that auction block. When he’d taken her to Glasgow and imposed on the brother whom he had no relationship with in order to save her life. When he saved her from brigands.
This—coming to her in the night—was the only thing he did out of selfish want. Need. Desire.
She pulled back the covers and he slid in beside her and took her in his arms. He kissed her and she melted into him.
It would be so easy, so tempting, to fall into this night after night. Again and again. To forget why she couldn’t stay. To let it happen.
To pretend she was some kind of wife in reality to him. Except she knew.
She knew the truth.
She was not the wife of his choosing. She would always know that. She would have that knowledge for all her days. Deep down he would know it.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t live like that.
This wasn’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough either.
Coming together in the dark of night like two people trysting in secret. Like what they did was shameful, to be saved for the cover of darkness.
Still, she was helpless to resist him. To resist herself. Just the sensation of him over her, his big body wedged between her thighs, set her afire. He pulled back slightly, pushing the tangle of covers aside in an attempt to free them. “Damn bedding,” he muttered.
As his hands reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up and over herself, she lifted her hips to help him. To help herself. Because she couldn’t deny herself this one last time. She couldn’t deny her own selfish need.
Free of her nightgown, his hands skimmed up the outside of her calves and then roamed over her thighs. “I dreamt of these,” he growled. “They’re strong and sleek.” He slid down between her knees, pushing her thighs wider to make room for his head and shoulders.