Page 48 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

Chapter Twenty

Dominic retreated to his study, ledgers open before him, though his eyes barely skimmed the numbers. He should not be working—Simon was right, this wasn’t how to spend a honeymoon—but he needed the quiet. Or what passed for it.

He had chosen this marriage. He had chosen her. And now, he was paying for it with sleepless nights and constant agitation.

A flicker of motion in the gardens caught his eye. He rose, already suspecting what he’d find.

Marianne.

She was chasing that blasted goat again, her hair escaping its pins, her skirts hiked up, her boots muddy.

Laughter—real, sharp, utterly unrefined—rang through the garden.

His servants had gathered, cautious at first, but softening with each of her grins. A footman handed her a hammer. A gardener offered rope. Even one of the sullen maids smiled.

Dominic’s jaw tightened as he watched her nail a board into place.

Where did she get those materials? Who has given permission?

And yet he didn’t call them off. He only watched as the air filled with laughter not just from his wife, but from his staff.

Laughter in Oakmere Hall. Not forced. Alive.

He hadn’t heard anything like it since?—

Whispers drifted in through the glass pane.

“She’s different from the former Duchess,” a maid murmured.

“Oh yes,” came the reply. “That one acted like hens were a disease.”

“I’d love to be out there with them…”

“Better not. You know Mrs. Alderwick.”

Dominic drew the curtain abruptly. He didn’t want to hear more.

The study darkened. He sat again, his quill poised but unmoving. He couldn’t stop thinking of the sunlight outside, or his mother’s bitter sneers, the cold she’d spread through these halls like rot.

The house had always been quiet at this hour, but not peaceful. Never peaceful. His mother’s laughter had once echoed through these halls, bright and brittle like shattering glass. It had meant company. A late arrival. A door left open that should have been closed.

You take everything so seriously, darling. Just like your father.

She’d said that once in passing, tossing the words over her shoulder as she examined herself in the drawing room mirror. Not cruel, not even angry—just distant. Like she had already decided he belonged to the wrong team.

He’d been fifteen. He’d just asked her not to wear her pearls to dinner—his father would notice they were new.

She hadn’t worn them. But she hadn’t come to dinner, either.

A quiet knock broke the silence. His butler entered, precise as always.

“You needed the household ledger, Your Grace.”

Dominic nodded. “Put it there.”

The older man placed the book on the desk. “There is also a request from the kitchen. Her Grace has asked to rearrange the pantry.”

Dominic didn’t look up. “And you?”