Page 22

Chapter Twenty

D ominic 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?”

“I advised they wait for your permission.”

“Good.” He dipped his quill in the inkpot, still not writing. “And the staff?”

“A little… distracted,” the butler admitted. “But no harm’s been done.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion, Harold?”

Harold hesitated, then said carefully, “They like her, Your Grace. She speaks to them as if they’re people.”

That earned him a sharp glance. “They are people.”

Harold inclined his head. “Then perhaps she simply reminds them.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Anything else?” Dominic asked at last.

“No, Your Grace.” The butler bowed. “I’ll leave you to your figures.”

Once alone, Dominic stared at the quill again. It still didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Dominic had come to expect more chaos from his wife. He had also given up on seducing the woman.

In the days that followed, she continued to dismantle the foundations of Oakmere Hall.

He almost expected her to shout demands, pointing at what needed to be done.

But no. The changes were not dramatic. She did not make impossible demands. Instead, she herself worked on the changes she wanted made, and she did so quietly. She didn’t act like a duchess but more like a glorified servant in Oakmere Hall. He didn’t know what to do with that.

What he did know was that the place was starting to bloom with color. He had not noticed it before, but Oakmere Hall had become too austere as of late. It wasn’t Mrs. Alderwick’s fault. She was merely following his instructions.

With Marianne at the helm, fresh flowers were placed in well-polished vases. Somehow, each flower reminded him of her: wild roses, violets, lavender, and random sprigs of rosemary.

Some hearths, in places she was allowed to explore, were lit. Fire provided more warmth—and color, as well. Even the curtains were drawn back to let more sunlight in.

“We’re not vampires!” he had heard her comment while instructing maids to tie ribbons around the curtains.

He wondered if she had been taking Gothic books from the library.

And, indeed, that comment seemed to have woken the dead. The servants were not loud now, but they were no longer tiptoeing and walking around in hushed tones. They were not afraid anymore.

Were they afraid of him before?

Even with his jests about being a predator, that thought did not sit well with him. He liked the idea of his servants obeying him because they wanted to, not because they were afraid.

With Marianne, though, there was no doubt that everyone felt more at ease. The rooms had become warmer, brighter.

In the drawing room, his chair was placed closer to the fireplace. A small table sat close to it, with a book left open on—heaven forbid—a dog-eared page. Yet it seemed so true to her nature that he couldn’t possibly expect anything less. Even a bright woolen blanket was draped over the armrest.

Dried oranges. Lavender. Cloves.

What damned thing possessed his wife to make this room smell more like an apothecary?

Yet a small part of him liked it.

From now on, even if she fled Oakmere Hall, her presence would remain.

That night, Dominic sought the presence of his housekeeper. He needed to ask Mrs. Alderwick if Marianne ordered anything new. He wasn’t concerned about the cost. He merely needed to know what fresh hell she would be bringing into Oakmere Hall.

At least, that was what he told himself.

“No, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied. “She simply rearranged what was already here on the estate. She requested brighter drapes, but they had always been there. They were washed, dried, and put up. Our young maids didn’t mind doing that for her. They also seem to like the change.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, she asked Cook to prepare her favorite tea regularly. She doesn’t ask much, but she said she needs her tea to feel alive.”

“What kind of tea?”

“Jasmine with a slice of lemon, Your Grace.”

Dominic did not question her further, but that night, he found himself in the kitchen, pretending to be there for pantry inspection. Nobody batted an eyelash since he seemed to be bent on performing as many duties as possible in a short period.

Cook gave him a cup of jasmine tea, and he drank it in silence.

The next day, when she offered it to him again, he took it without any complaint and drank the whole thing.

One morning, Dominic stepped into the library, intending only to retrieve a ledger he’d left behind.

The room was quiet, filtered with the gentle hush of turned pages and the scent of old bindings. But what made him stop mid-stride was not the room itself—it was her.

Marianne was curled into the window seat, barefoot and entirely at ease, as though the library belonged to her and always had.

Her brown curls had come loose from their usual order, tumbling over her shoulder in soft waves. A few strands caught the light like silk thread, rich and unruly. She brushed them back absently, her eyes trained on the book in her lap.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. Her lips moved slightly as she read—silently forming the words—and her brow creased with focus. There was a small furrow between her brows, a mark of concentration he found unexpectedly charming.

The freckles across her cheeks and nose were more noticeable in this light, softening her features, making her look younger than she did at balls or dinners. Less guarded.

Her bodice was a pale blue this morning—something simple, soft, with a neckline that revealed the graceful column of her throat. The fabric clung gently at her waist before falling in loose folds over her skirt.

Next to her lay a stack of thick tomes, their bindings worn and their pages yellowed. She was working her way through them with a kind of quiet hunger, as though by sheer force of will she could steal a march on time. Read everything, know everything, before the world caught up with her again.

Dominic watched her for a moment too long. She looked peaceful, yes—but there was something else. A kind of aching determination behind the calm.

Serafina nuzzled her feet. Thankfully, Perseus remained in his kingdom at the garden pen, where he, hopefully, did not encounter snakes or Medusa herself.

“So, you’ve been reorganizing the library, too,” he remarked.

“It must be done,” Marianne said, looking up, surprise etched on her features. “Your books were rather disorganized. Shelley was placed next to your Roman history books.”

“Well, he will be a part of history soon, with the way he is living.”

“I don’t disagree with you when it comes to that,” she muttered, returning her attention to her books.

“But where is Byron now?”

“Shelley is a cad, but Byron is worse,” she said with a shrug. “He’s there. You will find him somewhere at the bottom of the biography shelf.”

“You put his book of poems on the biography shelf?” he asked.

“Yes. Isn’t that appropriate? His poems are veiled explorations of his life.”

“Hmm, I see,” he sighed.

“I knew you’d understand, Your Grace.”

The next day, rain poured.

Again, Dominic had tried his best to steer clear of his wife, as she seemed to still be wary of him, even though she awakened sensations in him he’d stifled long ago.

Desire. Lust.

Marianne walked down the hallway, wrapped in a shawl. She was barefooted, no doubt having left her dirty slippers outside. The hem of her dress was soaked.

Dominic watched her, wondering how he had been so fortunate.

When he let himself look at her, really look at her, he saw a beautiful, intelligent woman who was not afraid of what other people thought of her.

She had no wishes to be pampered, no interest in his estate.

It seemed that she was focused on making him send her away. Annul the marriage.

Another woman would have wanted to please him all the time, for the sake of gifts—clothes and jewels.

Then, he saw the goat.

It trotted confidently through the corridor like it belonged there, its hooves clicking on the polished floors. Marianne followed behind it, her skirts bunched in one hand, the other extended in a futile attempt at diplomacy.

“No chewing,” she murmured sternly, as if the creature might listen.

Perseus gave her a look, flicked its ears, and took a bite of a dried flower arrangement on a console table.

Dominic’s left eye twitched.

Marianne lunged forward, snatched the bouquet away, and tried to herd the beast down the hallway—toward her chambers, no less.

She looked nothing like a noblewoman. Her hem was streaked with dirt, and her hair had come loose again, tumbling down in unruly waves.

Farmhand. That was what she resembled. Not the daughter of a marquess.

Certainly not a duchess.

She paused at her door, glanced back, and caught him watching. To her credit, she didn’t start or curtsy. She just gave a breathless, little smile and said, “We’re working on boundaries. Perseus hates thunder.”

Dominic said nothing.

The goat bleated, then trotted inside her room as if he were invited.

Dominic pressed his fingers to his temples. “He should not be inside your room. Or any room, for that matter,” he warned.

Marianne turned in her doorway, leaning against the frame. “He has a name. And he’s cleaner than some of your tenants’ boots, I wager.”

“Be that as it may,” Dominic replied, taking a step closer, “he is still livestock.”

“He’s family.”

He stared at her. She stared back, unblinking, her chin lifted in defiance.

“Duchess,” he said, his voice dropping further, “you cannot keep a goat in your bedchamber. This is not a farm. You are not a?—”

“What? A milkmaid?” she challenged, pushing away from the door.

Her words were like kindling to the flint of his temper.

He stepped closer. “Yes. We had an agreement, if I recall correctly.”

“I remember our agreement, Your Grace. But it’s pouring, and Perseus is terrified.”

“Yes, so terrified he must wreak havoc in my house?”

“Is that how you want your house to be? No goats, no laughter, no living things of any kind—just dust, order, and control. What a delightful house you’ve built.”

“I built it to function,” he snapped, “not to be overrun by animals and misrule.”

They were close now. Too close. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes stormy with defiance. He could see the tip of a wild curl near her temple, a flush crawling up her neck. She was vibrant and furious and utterly infuriating .

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said quietly, with a trace of disbelief.

“No,” she whispered. “I think you’re the one who’s afraid.”

He didn’t know who moved first—her or him—but suddenly the space between them seemed to shrink, the air thickening with something electric and raw.

His hand trembled just above her cheek, caught between hesitation and desire. Her breath hitched, lips parting ever so slightly, inviting and daring all at once.

There was a flicker of something wild in her eyes—a challenge, fierce and unguarded—and beneath it, a subtle sweetness that only made the fire burning between them hotter, almost unbearable.

And then?—

Bang.

The goat kicked something over inside her room. A vase, maybe. Or a chair. It bleated again, with tremendous satisfaction.

Dominic exhaled sharply and stepped back.

“One night,” he said tightly, refusing to look at her mouth again. “He may stay one night. After that, I want him back in his pen.”

Marianne gave him a dazzling, triumphant smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He turned and walked away without another word, ignoring the strange heat prickling at the back of his neck.

Behind him, he heard her laugh—and the goat snort—as if they’d both won something important.