Page 71 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

Last night had been strange, unnerving in its sudden shifts. She and Dominic had arrived at Lord Cheswick’s event as husband and wife, what with the world watching. Yet he seemed determined to keep other men at bay, pulling her close, seducing her with a fervor that left her breathless.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the vivid memories—the way he had buried his head between her legs, hidden beneath her skirts, his fingers tracing, his tongue exploring. Every touch and caress were exquisitely skilled, familiar yet intoxicating.

But then chaos had intruded. Perseus’s arrival shattered the mood, and Dominic had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. It was like nothing had happened between them at all.

He disappeared.

Though they didn’t share a room, Marianne would have heard him if he’d gone to bed. He always made noise—shuffling footsteps, quiet sighs. But she had heard none of that last night.

She bit her lip.

He doesn’t owe me any explanation. We’re married in name only, a contract between him and my father.

Still, she had hoped for something more—a creak of his door, a sigh that spoke of restlessness, regret, or even desire.

The night passed in near silence. Marianne told herself she didn’t care, but her tossing and turning told a different story.

Her stomach twisted as hunger gnawed at her, mingling with exhaustion to sour her mood. She had faced Perseus alone after that heated encounter in the carriage. Dominic had made her question the nature of their marriage, planting seeds of doubt that took root in the dark.

Descending the stairs, she glanced toward the windows. The sky was bright, uncaring of her inner turmoil.

In the breakfast room, Mrs. Alderwick hovered nearby, her eyes flicking toward Marianne with quiet concern. She bobbed a polite curtsy and placed a plate of jam tarts near Marianne’s spot.

The scent of fruit and pastry brought a small comfort, but it didn’t quell the unease twisting in her chest.

Then, the air shifted. Marianne knew before she turned that Dominic had entered the room, his presence announced by the creak of the garden doors.

His breeches were stained with mud, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, clinging damply to his chest. His hair was tousled, still wet, and his gloved hand gripped a brace of birds tightly.

Their eyes met.

Dominic froze as if caught off guard. His gaze was haunted, shadowed by sleepless nights, but it held something else—surprise, hesitation, maybe even regret.

Why did he look at her as though she was an inconvenient interruption?

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted politely.

No greeting came. No word. No sign that last night’s fire had ever existed. Only a nod.

Marianne’s confusion turned into anger. She looked down at her breakfast, her appetite gone, and pushed back her chair.

“I’m not hungry,” she said sharply, rising.

Without another word, she walked out of the room. He did not follow.

Silence stretched between them like a chasm she couldn’t cross.

She flopped onto a garden bench, burying her face in her hands.

“Stupid,” she muttered, her voice thick with frustration. “Stupid and dramatic.”

Her chest ached with the sting of perceived rejection. She wasn’t the type for romantic ideals, yet?—

Why does it hurt so much?

The future stretched bleak and uncertain before her.

Being trapped in a loveless marriage was far worse than she had ever imagined.