Page 27 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)
CHAPTER 27
Charity
C harity looked up from her book when the front door opened and Eammon walked in. He stepped into the drawing room, his expression thunderous.
“What has happened?” she asked as she rose.
He shook his head. “Nothing has happened. I shall be having a tray in my study this evening. You may have a tray brought to you or you may use the dining room,” he shrugged. “Whatever you wish to do.”
I am to dine alone again?
He had not dined with her but once this week, and even then he had been more than a little distant. Indeed, ever since their passionate kiss at the ball, he’d been distant. No, “distant” was not the right word. He had been aloof before. Now he was downright cold. It felt like living with an ice block in her home.
Did he regret the kiss? It seemed that way. She had been taken by surprise by it. And yet it had been a pleasant surprise. Indeed, even now, she sometimes closed her eyes and thought of it, feeling his lips on hers again, and it provided her a strange warmth during the past few nights.
Yet now, things were becoming ridiculous. He had left early in the morning almost every day, not returning until late. And when he was in the house, he hardly spoke to her other than to command her to do this, that, and the other. She had not appreciated his tone but had granted him grace, for she knew that he struggled with Lord Markham's interference in their lives.
“I had hoped that we might dine together tonight,” she said. “My mother informed me that crates of books have arrived from my father, and I wondered about the rest of the inheritance.”
He looked up at this. “Books have arrived at her home? Pray, what do you mean?”
“Books have arrived at my mother's townhouse from Pembroke. Books for my father's library.” She looked at him, trying to read something in his face, but could not.
He let out a grunt. “They were supposed to be delivered here. Everything must be sent here. I cannot believe there was such a mistake.”
“I do not believe it was a mistake. I had requested that all the books be delivered to my mother's townhouse. I did not wish for them all to come here, for I do not know which I wish to keep and which I do not.”
He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his temples, as if trying to wipe away a migraine or some other bothersome ailment. “Charity, I cannot allow you to go against my wishes. I want all of the inheritance—every last piece—to be sent here to Hayward so that I may go through it.”
“Why are you to go through everything? It is my inheritance. I have inherited all of my father's books and some artwork, as well as the entire contents of his study, except for those things that pertain to the running of Pembroke. They are my possessions.”
“And you are my wife,” he thundered. “Therefore, everything that belongs to you belongs to me. I have told you this.”
She crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the marble floor. “You also told me that I was not your prisoner. Yet it seems as though you are taking all of my belongings.”
“I am not taking them from you. I wish to make a proper inventory,” he said. “I wish to ensure that everything you have inherited is accounted for. Then I shall determine which items we shall keep, which shall be sold, and which shall be put in storage. It is very simple. You having parts of the inheritance diverted to your mother’s home complicates matters. I must rectify it.”
“You shall not rectify it!” she exclaimed, dropping her arms and stomping one foot like a petulant child. “I shall go to my mother’s house, look through my father’s books, and bring the volumes I wish to keep here. I did not know you had such interesting books, anyhow. You possess three libraries, yet I never see you make use of any of them.”
He scoffed at this. “You hardly know me, Charity.”
“Apparently well enough to have you kiss me,” she retorted, dipping her head to one side, her entire countenance aflame with anger.
He took a step back and shook his head. “That was…that was…I should not have done it. It was all for appearance’s sake, anyhow. We wished for people to believe that we were truly happily married, and now they do.”
For appearances?
It had not been for appearances. She knew this. She had felt the way his heart had thundered in his chest pressed against hers. She had heard the recognition in his breath when they broke the kiss. It had been a real kiss. She did not have much to compare it to, of course, but she knew with every fiber of her being that he had meant to kiss her.
“Why must you be so mercurial? I do not understand you.”
“It is not for you to understand me; it is for you to obey me,” he replied, and Charity's eyes flew wide open, so much so that she thought her eyebrows surely disappeared beneath her hair.
“Obey you?” she echoed, incredulous.
“It was part of the vows,” he insisted.
“Vows that would quickly be undone if anyone knew that we had faked our wedding date and bribed the magistrate.”
“That is not in anyone’s interest,” he said coolly. “And you know this. Besides, everyone believes us to be happily married now, thanks to our outing at the ball. You need not fret.”
“The only thing I fret about, Eammon, is my husband and his ever-changing nature.”
“Why can you not simply do as I ask?” he demanded, his exasperation mounting.
“We have already established why,” she replied coolly. “I am not a prisoner, and you are not my jailer. I shall not be ordered about. I am your wife. Now, tell me what has happened to cause you to be in such high dudgeon?”
“Nothing has happened,” he said, too quickly. “Nothing at all. We have succeeded in convincing society that we are the picture of marital felicity, which was our aim. I suppose if we attend one or two more gatherings, all will believe it, and we shall be rid of Markham for good.”
There was more—she knew it. But what?
“Please,” she said softly. “Why will you not be honest with me? I do not understand why one moment you are warm and kind and the next you are like this.”
“I do not know what you wish me to say,” he declared, throwing up his hands in a theatrical gesture. “There is nothing to tell. We have accomplished what we set out to do.”
“And what is it you wanted?” she pressed. “You have never told me. I thought all of this was to put one more generation between yourself and the shameful scandal?—”
“My childhood was not shameful!” he thundered.
She stepped back—not out of fear, but from sheer astonishment at the vehemence in his voice.
“I do not understand,” she murmured. “I do not understand you in the least. And do not shout at me in such a manner. It is—” she hesitated, “—undignified.”
“Undignified,” he repeated, voice taut with disdain. “Not fitting for a duke, is that it? Perhaps it is my rotten, shameful childhood that made me so.”
He leaned toward her, and she saw it then—her choice of words had hurt him. But she had not meant to cast judgment on his upbringing. She had only acknowledged the hardship of it—being left in Ireland for years before his father deigned to bring him home, then more years still before he truly acknowledged him. And all of it the consequence of an accident of birth.
“I had a wonderful childhood,” he said fiercely. “My parents were good people. I adored them, and I will not have them spoken ill of—least of all by my own wife. I will not have it, do you hear me?”
The longer he spoke, the more she heard something beneath the anger—something raw, something uncertain.
“Eammon,” she said, carefully. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. I only meant that I had understood your desire to distance yourself from the rumors and the stories.”
“I did,” he admitted. “And I have. It is done. Let us simply carry on.” He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“But how?” she asked. “How shall we move forward? After the ball…after the—” she hesitated, “—kiss?”
He lifted a hand. “I have no wish to speak of that foolishness again. It is of no consequence. You are free to conduct yourself as you please. As for your precious books, fetch them from your mother if you must. Everything else—the land, the investments, the accounts, the artwork and the content of your father’s study—I shall see to it. Do not trouble yourself.”
“You mean to protect me,” she said, folding her arms. “You need not remind me of your role again—I am no fool.”
His lips pressed into a hard line. “Charity, there is much you do not understand. And much I do not wish to explain. It would do you no good.”
“It is not for you to decide what is good for me,” she shot back. “I am my own person, not a child to be shielded from hard truths. If there is something you are keeping from me—something that concerns me—you ought to tell me. It is not right, and you must know it.”
He met her gaze across the ever-widening space between them, his expression unreadable. She clenched her fists at her sides, willing him—begging him—to speak. To trust her.
But instead, he merely shook his head.
“I have work to attend to. Please, do not disturb me.”
Then he turned, striding down the dim corridor toward his study, where the door shut behind him with a resounding thud—locking her out, in more ways than one.