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“ I am sorry, Your Grace,” Christine gaped at her new husband, trying to focus on his voice.

She had been gazing out the carriage window at the countryside and had been very far away in her mind—completely overwhelmed by everything.

“Did you just say something?” she asked him.

The duke looked displeased. Christine flushed, turning in her seat, giving him her full attention.

“I apologize,” she repeated. “It—it is just I have never been to this part of Essex before. It is quite beautiful, is it not?”

He squared his shoulders, staring at her hard. “We shall arrive at Ironstone very soon. Are you aware of all the requirements of your new position?”

“Hardly,” shot back Christine, raising her eyebrows. “I was not expecting to become the next Duchess of Ironstone, after all.”

He frowned, almost glaring at her. Christine tried to meet the gaze, her heart thumping hard.

Just because he had slid a ring onto her finger and repeated vows to make her his wife in that small church in London hours ago, it didn’t mean that she didn’t find him intimidating.

Her eyes dropped to the strange new ring glittering on her finger, before rising back to his face.

He was so tall and big, he took up almost half of the seat next to her. Her eyes fastened on his large hands that were resting on his knees. For some reason, she wondered what those hands would feel like on her body.

Her heart started thumping harder still. Something strange was happening inside her. His close proximity was both thrilling and alarming. She had never felt anything like it before. Desperately, she focused on his face, studying it intently.

My husband. Such a strong, handsome face, with that aquiline nose and short dark brown beard.

His eyes were the color of molasses, burning into her very soul whenever he looked at her.

She had been supremely conscious of him from the moment she had stood beside him at the altar, feeling his eyes, full of curiosity, upon her.

He was probably comparing her to Violet and finding her wanting. Of course, he would be. He probably thought he had walked away with the consolation prize. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

The ceremony had seemed to fly and before she knew it, her new husband was dragging her down the aisle to the carriage and bundling her inside.

Despite all that, she was still sick with worry about her sister. Violet could have been abducted by white slavers or any other horror for all they knew, and their father could only focus on appeasing the disagreeable Duke of Ironstone. It was always about appearances with her father.

“You are aware that I have two daughters?” The duke’s curt voice sliced through her thoughts. “They are twins, seven years old. Their names are Isabella and Beatrice, and I expect you to confidently take the reins with them immediately. It is the first and most important duty of your new position.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Your Grace,” replied Christine, bristling at his pompous tone, but managing to control her irritation. “My sister informed me that you have two daughters.”

He sidled toward her on the seat, merely inches away from her, now. Christine was overwhelmed with his masculine scent, a heady mixture of sandalwood and leather.

A tiny flame leapt to life in her belly despite the hard lines that had settled on his face, pinning her to the spot with those dark, burning molasses eyes.

“So, you are completely aware of the fact, and that my daughters are the only reason I have married you?” His voice was a silky whisper, but she heard the threatening undertone within it.

“Because we can turn the carriage around now, madam, and I can return you to your father, if you cannot accept my terms. I can procure an annulment in a heartbeat.” His eyes flickered over her.

“The marriage has not been consummated. Yet.”

Her face turned brick red. Must he be so indelicate? What an utter brute he was!

“That is perfectly fine by me,” she stated stiffly, trying to keep secretive about how affronted she was by his arrogant, high-handed way of speaking.

Clearly, he expected her to obey him like a servant, rather than have the position of his wife.

“Good,” he grunted, his eyes sliding over her, lingering on her bosom. “I will have your obedience, wife. Not only because I demand it”—his voice dipped, dark and knowing—“but because, in time, you will want to give it.”

Christine gulped as a slow warmth unfurled deep in her belly, traitorous and unwelcome.

Somehow, the combination of his close proximity, the appreciative hunger of his gaze upon her, and even his arrogant way of addressing her had coalesced into a painful awareness of him and the reaction he was producing within her own body.

She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling hard. His eyes were still fixated upon her, watching her bosom, with the fascinated, absorbed look of a snake being charmed.

Hastily, she tightened her shawl around her shoulders, covering her chest. Her flush deepened. He raised his eyes to her face, seeking her own. Their gaze locked and held. She realized they had grown closer to each other again.

Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a stop. Dazed, Christine jumped back, staring out the window, feeling as if someone had just thrown a bucket of water over her.

They had finally arrived at Ironstone Castle.

A footman jumped forward, opening the carriage door, assisting her to step down.

Her jaw dropped as she gazed around.

The castle was gigantic and formidable, spreading over at least an acre of land, the dark stone exterior weathered and beaten, covered in thick green ivy.

Her eyes rose, taking in the battlements and turrets. Beyond the castle she could see extensive grounds, with immaculately tended garden beds. And was that a lake shimmering in the distance?

Stunned, she couldn’t speak.

To think, I am now the mistress of all this.

The servants were assembled in a line, waiting to be greeted.

The duke took her arm and steered her towards them.

“This is Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper at Ironstone.” The duke spoke in a clipped, hurried manner. “She will familiarize you with the layout of the house and the routines.”

The woman, a small, rotund figure, with an implacable face, dressed neatly and impeccably, curtseyed to her. Christine noticed a large set of keys clipped to the pocket of her plain gown.

“And this is Jessop, the butler,” continued the duke, leading her toward a tall, thin man, with a balding pate. The servant bowed stiffly.

They kept going down the line of servants. It seemed to go on forever—maid after maid, and footman after groom. Her mind grew dizzy. She didn’t know how she was going to remember them all and what position they had in the household. It was like being introduced to a small army.

Her eyes flickered beyond the servants, searching for two little girls. The duke’s children. But she couldn’t see them anywhere. She felt a flicker of trepidation.

Where were they?

Edwin strode into the foyer of the castle, his chest tightening with rage. The entire staff were assembled to greet him and his new wife, as was custom, but there was no sign of his children or their governess.

What was going on?

He knew Christine had followed him inside. The soft thud of her feet on the cold hard stone floor told him that—along with the whiff of her lavender perfume, which had been driving him to distraction for the entire tedious journey from London.

At that moment, there was the loud clatter of feet on the grand staircase.

He turned around. Isabella and Beatrice were running down the stairs, laughing wildly, dressed in matching white frilly gowns, their dark brown sausage ringlets, tied tightly with pink silk ribbons, flying behind them.

Their beleaguered governess, Miss Mayhew, was following them, a pained look on her face.

His daughters stopped abruptly when they reached the bottom of the staircase, staring at him—and beyond him, craning their necks for a glimpse of his new bride. Miss Mayhew arrived on their heels, flustered and panting.

“Come here, girls,” he commanded. His eyes slid to the governess. “You are late.”

“I do apologize, Your Grace,” gasped the governess, looking like she was about to have an apoplexy. “But the young ladies simply refused to budge until after you arrived, even when I entreated them most strongly?—”

“Never mind, Miss Mayhew,” he interjected, trying to mask his annoyance with the ineffectual governess, who was a nervous middle-aged spinster who didn’t know how to say boo to a goose.

The girls sidled over to him. He turned, taking his new wife’s hand, pulling her forward, trying to ignore the strange little jolt that shot through his arm at the touch of their hands.

He frowned. It was most peculiar, particularly considering he was still irritated with her after her display of defiance in the carriage.

“May I introduce my children,” he said, trying to ignore the spark. “This is Lady Isabella and Lady Beatrice.” He paused, his frown deepening. “Girls, this is your new mother.”

There was a sudden, painful silence, as his daughters stared openly at Christine, who looked like a deer caught in the snare of a hunter’s net.

“It is so very nice to meet you both,” she stammered, blushing brightly. “I am thrilled to be here.”

Isabella, the eldest of the twins, frowned.

“But she is not the lady you were supposed to marry, Papa,” she declared “We heard our maid Effie saying that Lady Violet is tall with bright golden hair.”

Edwin felt a flush stain his cheeks. Clearly, the servants had been gossiping about his new bride, and the twins had been listening. This was all so damnably awkward.

“I am afraid Lady Violet could not marry me. This is the lady’s sister, Lady Christine. She is my wife.”

“But…why?” It was Beatrice, her nose screwed delicately, staring quite rudely at Christine. “Why could you not marry the other lady, Papa? I heard she is much prettier than this one!”

“That is enough, girls,” he growled, glaring at them. “If you are going to be abominably rude, then you can return to your chambers. Now.”

“But Papa!” Isabella’s voice was filled with indignation.

“It is not fair!” Beatrice actually stomped her foot on the ground. “Please, Papa!”

“You are both dismissed,” Edwin gritted through his teeth and glanced at Miss Mayhew.

“Come along, my ladies,” tittered Miss Mayhew, gathering them up. “You heard His Grace. Come along!”

They grumbled but let themselves be whisked away, looking back, gawking openly at Christine, examining her as if she were a strange new species of insect they had just discovered.

He turned to his new wife.

“As you saw,” he said stiffly, with a little bow. “They are understandably confused…”

“Of course they are,” she interjected, looking affronted. “Did you not tell them that you were marrying me instead of my sister, Your Grace?”

His eyes narrowed at her tone. “There was not a lot of time. I wanted them to return home immediately after the debacle of that first botched wedding day.” He took a step closer to her. “And your tone is questionable, madam.”

“You question my tone, when you are cold and imperious toward your children?” she shot back.

His patience suddenly snapped, like a twig. “I will leave Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, to show you to your chambers,” he rapped, striding toward the staircase. “I shall see you at dinner, madam.”

He raced up the stairs, determined not to look back at her.

Marrying his intended wife’s sister had been an impulsive decision, and likely to be regretted like all such decisions.

The lady was turning into a veritable virago.

Even if she was unexpectedly, deliciously desirable. Which he had not counted on, at all .

He frowned. It was a distraction he didn’t need—or want. Best he stay as far away from his new duchess as possible. As long as he monitored her with the children, seeing that she was attending them and doing her duty, that was all that was required.

And all that he could manage.