Page 10 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #2)

Chapter Ten

“ W estley Manor is rather vibrant compared to His Grace and his … dark tastes,” Veronica commented idly as she walked with Mrs. Nelson the following day.

She had just shown Veronica the library that was quite a sight. Bedecked in all manner of bright colors, vibrant reds and pinks, blues and greens, and the peacock patterns adorning the walls around the bookshelves, it had given Veronica an inkling of a headache.

They walked into the drawing room, a brightly colored room that once again made her head hurt to look at. She grimaced, trying to muster a smile before Mrs. Nelson could spot her.

“It is… beautiful,” she added, not wanting to offend.

But the housekeeper gave her a comforting smile. “It is quite heavy on the senses, I understand. But you must remember, Your Grace, that the late Duke of Westley was only His Grace’s uncle. The late Duke most enjoyed colors and embellishments. Many men would have their latest hunt mounted on the wall but…” She gestured to the plume of peacock feathers. “The late Duke preferred peacocks.”

Veronica hid her brewing laugh behind her hand, nodding. “I see. It is rather… eccentric.”

“Quite,” Mrs. Nelson agreed. “His duchess shared the same taste. The Ton is always gossiping about her wardrobe. Many patterns, deep colors that one cannot not help but notice, and a lot of headwear.”

As Veronica surveyed the drawing room before they moved onto the next landing below them and entered the music room, she could imagine the kind of wardrobe either the late Duke or Duchess wore.

“Their combined tastes led to this… lively decor. However, His Grace is always busy with other estate matters or on his travels and tending to business, so he rarely has time to change the manor’s appearance.”

Mrs. Nelson paused at the window, watching Veronica take it all in.

The music room was a bold, ugly shade of green, and it pained Veronica.

“Perhaps Your Grace could take care of some redecoration?”

“I am not at all averted,” Veronica said, shaking her head. “This is a music room! Music is supposed to calm the senses, not send them into a frenzy. I would like a calming appearance for the music room and the library. Cozier, muted colors. Do you think that is where I should start?”

“I would suggest Her Grace starts where she pleases,” Mrs. Nelson told her. “But I would highly recommend staying away from His Grace’s study and not changing anything about that. His Grace is comforted with the study, and he would not take to change lightly in there.”

Veronica nodded. If it was anything like the study he had in Turner Hall, then she would not wish to change anything besides asking to open the curtains once in a while. But she looked around the music room, nodding to herself.

Yes, Veronica thought, it is time for big changes indeed .

Henry was in a foul mood. With his patience worn to the bone, he’d suffered a morning of meeting with tenants, hearing their requests and trying to help them revolve their harvest problems and prices of land.

They did not resent him—if anything the villagers of Westley were kind, gentle people, who had welcomed him as the Duke since his uncle’s passing.

Still, he was eager to shut himself in his study, get back to paperwork, and not have to keep the lengthy conversations up that bored him and wore him down. He was a man of few words unless he knew the power of what those words would do, and he liked to keep it that way.

He swung a leg over his horse and dropped down with a thud, handing the reins to a stable hand who immediately had rushed out to take his horse. It was his favorite, a beastly black stallion that carried him easily across the countryside plains. Whenever he had to trade his horse for the carriages in London, he missed the freedom of riding.

As his horse was taken away, Henry’s eyes fell on a sight he had not expected. Footmen and workers he did not recognize were coming and going through the entrance, carrying a selection of couches and tables out and into a cart.

Confused and angry, not wanting to deal with one more thing in his day, Henry stalked over, paying the workers no mind.

The footmen glanced uneasily at him and then returned to carrying rugs and fabric. Others waited to go in , and he held out a hand to stop them, silently warning them off.

Inside, Westley Manor was in disarray. Furniture that had lined the hallways—a comfortable chaise lounge that he was prone to sitting on after a hard travel day—had been taken out or moved askew to make room for something else. Busts had been adjusted, and curtains had been pulled down.

Heavens above, the wallpaper has come down , he thought, looking into the library. A footman passed him, holding up a stool from the parlor. Henry glanced around incredulously.

“Will somebody tell me what on Earth is going on in my own home ?”

The footman stood straighter, his face going pale. “The—the Duche?—”

“Enough.” He held up a hand. “Where is she?”

There was a growl in his voice as he looked at the trail of other workers that were bringing furnishings from the other levels of the house.

“The Duchess is in the parlor, Y-Your Grace,” he stammered. “It is where I have come from. She is speaking with a furniture maker.”

Henry stormed off before he had even finished his sentence. He walked up the stairs quickly, angrily eyeing each worker who had entered his home without his say-so, and he ignored the fear in their eyes as they hurried on.

And then he found her, her hands clasped in front of her, the picture of innocence. As if she was not dismantling his home and thinking she could take over.

An older man in spectacles nodded at what she was saying, and it was only when Henry stalked into the room that he heard her too.

“And, of course, the decor in here shall be completely redone,” she said. “So I am hoping the coverings for the furniture you make will match my color theme. It will be elegant and understated. Something far more suited to neoclassicism, do you not think?”

“An excellent choice, Your Grace.” The furniture maker bowed his head.

“Is it, now?” Henry’s voice was low, and both Veronica and the man turned to him. “I do not remember inviting you into my home.” His eyes cut to Veronica, emotionless. “And I do not remember agreeing to— this .”

The man bowed at the waist.

Henry ignored the furniture maker and kept his eyes on Veronica. Her face was pinched and startled, as if caught in an act she thought was wrong but didn’t realize why.

“Your Grace, this is Stefan Worthington. He is the best furniture maker in the Ton. I was recommended him by?—”

“I do not care.”

“Nevertheless, I have invited Mr. Worthington to work with me on updating Westley Manor, as you have had the time to do it yourself in your own design. After all, it was your uncle’s, was it not? You should have your own home.”

“Your Grace—” Mr. Worthington began, but Henry cut him off, still not lifting his gaze from the meddlesome woman he had brought into his home.

“Leave us,” he ordered quietly, and he knew Veronica heard the sharp edge to his deceptively low tone. “I wish to speak with the Duchess alone.”

Mr. Worthington rushed out with the sound of hurried footsteps, shutting the door behind him. Henry stared at the Duchess for a moment, letting the silence thicken with her anticipation.

She was the one to break first. Those not comfortable in silence always did.

“You did not have to be so rude, Your Grace!” she said. “He was merely answering my invitation. He does not deserve your ire.”

“So you accept that you do?” Henry asked her, his voice soft but containing all his anger.

He took a step towards her, and she took one back. Her eyes flickered around, as if to draw on being in public but they were not. This was his home; he did not have to think about proprietary here.

He took another step closer to her, but Veronica did not move back this time. Her eyes, wide and innocent, met his.

“You have no business making changes to my home,” he told her, his face close to hers. This close, he could see how bright her blue eyes were, the flicker of turquoise hues in them. “You have been here for all of three days, and you are already causing chaos.”

“It is my home now, too,” she answered softly. “Am I to live in the decor of another married couple? We are the Duke and Duchess of Westley now, and I wish our home to match us .”

“You had no right,” he growled. “You should have consulted me first.”

“It is your own condition to our marriage, I would like to remind you, that you said we are not to ask questions of each other’s business.” She lifted her head confidently, meeting his gaze. “This is none of your business, I believe, based on your own request.”

“It is when this is my estate.”

“Then I apologize for taking down the peacock decorations you must have been so fond of,” she said, sarcasm dripping in her voice. “Besides… I must admit that this redecoration is… somewhat of a distraction for me. I am concerned about my mother.”

“I told you your mother would be cared for,” he responded curtly.

“Even if that is the case, I cannot help but worry about her. That is why I am doing this. So, is it such a bad thing to indulge in a ladylike activity?”

Henry groaned and stepped closer.

“Do you know what a rule is, Duchess?” he asked her, cocking his head. “It is something to be followed and obeyed. It is not that I wish to deny you redecoration. It is that I wish to know about it. For you to follow rules that I put into place.”

“And that is all I am, is it?” she challenged. “A wife to obey your commands? If I am to obey, I shall not do it blindly. And I shall not live in a house that looks like the inside of a circus.”

Henry paused. Her face was flushed with her own challenging anger.

He liked this, he realized. Nobody had fought back against him quite the way she did.

“Is our marriage to be subjected to rules, then?” she questioned. “For I have been here for three days, as you say, and so far, you have not been present. I have dined alone, broke my fast alone, and walked the rooms alone. Do forgive me, Your Grace, if I have not followed any rules, for you have not been here to instill them.”

“Ah, I see,” he drawled. “So, it is my fault?”

“I am merely stating facts. I have seen neither sight nor sound of you.”

“And that is what you wished, is it not?” he asked. “After all, once your brother is found, we shall live separately.”

“You truly wish to never see me?” she hissed. “You do not care to even pretend to dine with me for the sake of keeping up a pretense?”

“I do not care about anything.”

“You cared enough to offer me this security,” she fired back.

“And you have it.” He moved closer. “Is it not enough? You wish us to pretend to be man and wife?”

His eyes locked onto hers, and he waited for her to back down, to look away, but she did not. That stoked something in him—ire or desire, he did not know.

Perhaps both.

“But the thing about a good wife is that she…” He paused, his eyes darting down to her lips. “… obeys.”

Veronica took a sharp inhale. “And what if I do not?”

The words left Veronica’s lips, a challenge, even if she did not mean it so. The Duke’s dark gaze was fixed on her so intensely she could not breathe easily.

His eyes traced her face.

“And what …” she whispered again, “if I do not obey you, Your Grace?”

And then the Duke’s hands were clasping her face, drawing her close, towards him.

Veronica’s hands were pressed between their bodies; she felt his racing heartbeat beneath his clothes, felt his quickened breaths the moment before his mouth swept across hers.

Veronica gasped in surprise. She reached for the chair that, moments ago, she had been talking about having reupholstered and found herself pressed into it, the Duke’s mouth chasing her backwards.

She took in a sharp breath in a single second between his lips meeting hers again.

Then his hand gripped her face tighter, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and his other hand held onto the arms of the chair as if to keep her there.

Veronica did not even think for a moment of escaping. Not as he kissed her with such an intensity that she lost her breath; she did not care to have it back if it meant ending the kiss.

Her hands reached for the buttons of his waistcoat—not to undo them but to hold onto something, to ground herself in the whirlwind of the Duke kissing her.

She made a soft, pleasured noise, and the Duke groaned in response, pressing closer to her. Veronica gave in, sliding her fingers into that dark length of his hair, arching up to him.

Her body was on fire, and she could only hope he would let her burn brighter and harder.

The sound of a door opening had them flying apart. The Duke snapped upright, withdrawing both his hands. His hair was disheveled, and her lips parted in uncertainty as he gazed back at her with a wild look in his eyes.

“Your Grace, where shall I place these curtains you sent for?” a footman asked in the doorway, trying not to look between them.

Veronica was stunned speechless at the kiss. Henry’s gaze was fixed past her now before he cleared his throat and stepped back.

Before she could say anything, the Duke withdrew completely and walked away, out of the room, and Veronica was left flustered, gesturing idly for the waiting footman.

Her face was burning as furiously as her body as she fought to catch her breath.

She brushed her fingers over her lips, recalling the feel of the Duke’s mouth, and her body tingled with eagerness.

She desperately wanted him to kiss her again.