Page 28 of A Duchess Disciplined (Dukes of Dominance #1)

CHAPTER 27

“H er Grace seems fine to me,” the physician said. “I do anticipate that there will be some pain for a day or so, and I suppose it would not hurt if she was to remain in bed or refrain from anything particularly strenuous for the next few days.”

“I see,” William said, a wave of relief sweeping over him.

Catherine was fine. He looked at Catherine, lying in her bed across the room. She was fine. The physician had said so.

William cleared his throat. “I suppose that I may have reacted a little too strongly to her fall.”

The physician chuckled. “Just a little. However, I understand your concern, Your Grace. No man would blame you for being overly concerned about the welfare of your wife. Indeed, I would venture to say that your devotion to her is quite exemplary. Admirable.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for your time.”

The man bowed and departed, leaving William with his grinning wife. “See?” she asked. “I am fine .”

He did not answer. A lump had risen in his throat, and his chest grew tight. She seemed happy . Cheerful, even. Unaffected.

And to William, it seemed as though he had just endured his mother’s death all over again. There were not enough words in the world to describe the terror that had seized him when he looked at Catherine’s fallen body. He thought that he might be sick.

He cared about her. He might even love her. William’s feet were as heavy as lead. He could not move, despite all his senses screaming at him to run very far away from this young and reckless woman. She was supposed to just be a wife. He was not supposed to care for her this much.

Catherine was not even meant for him . She was supposed to be for his sisters to ensure they grew into proper ladies.

“Say something,” Catherine said, her voice softening. “Please.”

“You are not to climb any more trees,” William said, his words strained. “I will not tolerate such behavior from my duchess, regardless of if we are alone.”

“I understand.”

“Say that I will not have any more of that from you.”

Catherine sighed. She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Fine,” she said, tipping her head back. “I will not climb any more trees. And I apologize for worrying you.”

“Good. You should,” he said.

She turned her head to him. “William?—”

“I will leave you to your rest,” William said, turning abruptly. “In a few hours, I will send a maid to ensure that you are managing well.”

He practically ran from the room, as that tight feeling in his chest returned. A part of William wanted to stay and remain at her side, to grasp her hand and whisper how worried he had been and how much he loved her, but he could not. If he expressed how he really felt to Catherine, he would grow more deeply in love with her.

He did not need to love her. If anything, he needed to forget how to love her. William clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms so that they hurt. He darted up the stairs, heading to the study. That had always been his refuge. William tore open the door and ripped it shut behind him.

The maid who was cleaning his study started at his appearance. “Your Grace,” she greeted, bobbing a practiced curtsey.

“Get out!” he snapped.

She jolted as if he had struck her and hurried from the room. William felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at the innocent maid. She was, after all, not the source of his vexation; however, it was not as though he could yell at Catherine. He wanted to. How could she be so careless?

It was his fault. If he had not let himself be seduced by her, enthralled by her sly smiles and clever witticisms, she would have never done something so foolish. Hands shaking, William seized the decanter and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He took a swallow and flung himself into the chair behind his desk.

“Confound it, Catherine!” he snapped. “How could you do something so ridiculous?”

He raked his hands through his hair and tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling. William drank the brandy with a sort of vindictive impatience. His worry for Catherine flowered into anger at himself for being so weak. How could he have let himself care so much about her?

Had the loss in his life taught him nothing? Had he not realized that fewer attachments were best? If he cared about Catherine, he was giving her the power to hurt him. How would he manage if she left him?

“You fool,” William muttered to himself.

He finished his brandy and considered pouring another glass. William could not decide if he would rather remain in his study and drink enough brandy to make him forget his feelings for Catherine, or if he would prefer to take a horse to Hamilton’s estate. His friend would provide him with a supportive ear.

There was a knock on the door. “Enter!” he snapped.

Geoffrey opened the door and bowed deeply. “Your Grace,” he said.

Unfortunately, his butler was unlikely to provide him with a sympathetic ear. The man was infuriatingly sharp and forward at times.

“Geoffrey,” he said, pouring another glass of brandy. “What do you want?”

“I saw Mr. Sweeney back to his house,” Geoffrey said.

William furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“The physician,” Geoffrey replied.

William scowled, frustrated that he had not recalled the physician’s name himself. There were a few who lived close to the estate, many of them second sons who visited their family when they were in the country. William had admittedly not paid much mind to physicians, but he still felt a little embarrassed at not remembering.

“It is understandable that you would not recall,” Geoffrey continued. “We all know that you are deeply concerned about Her Grace. The staff will do everything we can to make her comfortable and ensure that she makes a swift recovery.”

“I know,” William said, sighing.

It seemed as though Geoffrey had become the unwitting volunteer for receiving William’s furious thoughts. “Make certain that Hannah and Hester do not vex her overly. My sisters adore Catherine, but they are affectionate in the same manner that cats are. I fear that they will climb and clamber all over the duchess and keep her from getting even an ounce of rest.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

William took a sip of brandy. Geoffrey remained standing in the center of the room with his hands clasped behind his book. It was unclear to William if the man was waiting for a formal dismissal or if he had anticipated William’s desire to talk.

“After she recovers, I want one of the maids to follow Cath—” He needed to force himself to love her less.

William needed to remember that old formality, which he had once handled her with. Yes, if he distanced himself from Catherine, he could make himself care less. He could not love her if he avoided her entirely. It would be painful, for certain, but he would force himself to love her no longer.

“—Her Grace,” he concluded. “It is apparent to me that she should be watched as if she is a child, who has not yet learned proper behavior.”

He ignored the small voice inside himself that insisted that Catherine had been injured when he was in her presence. Her injury was his fault. If he had not loved her, he would not have allowed her to climb the tree, and she would not have been hurt. Once he no longer loved her, it would be simpler to be her masterful husband, as a duke ought to be.

“As you wish, Your Grace. Might I suggest a lady’s companion?” Geoffrey asked. “A maid can certainly fulfill the role for some time, but I fear that Her Grace might grow bored with her companion if she is not of a similar status.”

“Her Grace could do with less excitement and a little more boredom in her life,” William said dryly. “A maid will do perfectly fine.”

If he was very fortunate, maybe Catherine would become so bored with the accompanying maid that she would learn to improve in the hopes of being rid of the poor, hapless servant.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

William finished the second glass of brandy. “I will also not be joining my sisters at dinner or ever again.”

If he did not join his sisters for meals, he would also not be joining Catherine—Her Grace, his wife—at meals.

“Shall I assume that you will take your meals in your study, then?”

William could not decide if he caught a note of disapproval in the butler’s voice or if his own guilty conscience was to blame. “Yes,” he said.

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“That will be all.”

Geoffrey bowed stiffly and walked to the door. William’s heart clenched. He stood. “Geoffrey!”

The butler halted at once. “Yes, Your Grace?”

William clenched his jaw, his blood roaring in his ears. He could tell Geoffrey to ignore his instructions. He could pretend that he had only spoken out of fear for Catherine. He could even try to reconcile his love for her with his fear of losing her. That was what a brave man would do.

“I…” he trailed off.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

A lump rose in William’s throat. Geoffrey watched him with endless patience, as if he had anticipated William having some powerful moral dilemma right before him.

William was not a brave man. He poured a third glass of brandy, even though his fingertips were beginning to feel a little numb. Soon, he imagined that his thoughts would grow soft and unfocused.

“Nothing,” William replied. “Do as I have asked.”

“I shall, Your Grace.”

William slumped into his chair. It seemed to him as though Geoffrey hesitated for just a moment at the door. If the butler was waiting for William to change his mind, Geoffrey would stand there forever. After a heartbeat, Geoffrey left and closed the door behind him.

The urge to scream rose inside William. What a mess this was! Marrying Catherine had been the worst decision of his life. He drank another large swallow of the brandy and eyed the mostly empty decanter. William sighed. He felt suddenly old, and exhaustion pulled at his body, threatening to drag him down into a sea of fatigue.

“I wonder how many men need to fall out of love their wives,” William murmured.

If he had not been so disturbed by the day’s events, he might have laughed at the situation in which he had found himself. There was a terrible irony in falling in love with a woman whom he had resolved never to care about. William finished the rest of the brandy and closed his eyes, silently praying for sleep to come.

Instead, he saw Catherine on the ground, tears in her eyes and her hair disheveled and flecked with grass and broken leaves.

The physician said that she is fine. He would know far more than I would.

Was it possible that the man might have made an error? Maybe William ought to ask another physician for his professional opinion. That would irritate Catherine, but given her behavior, maybe an endless litany of visits from physicians would teach her a lesson that his corrections had not.

He sat there for a long time, his mind awhirl with a scattering of plans. Every time he thought of drawing away from Catherine, his chest ached in dread of hurting her and himself. She had only been herself, and he had allowed that! It was his fault.

But no?—

For his sake, as well as hers, it was best that he retreated from her and learned not to love her. Only then could he be the stern and distant husband, the duke who was supposed to be obeyed. Only then would he have the resolve to treat Catherine as the wife of convenience that she was meant to be.