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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C yrus bore the stares, letting the women look, schooling his expression into one of perfect calm.

He had not paid attention to the sisters’ reactions at the wedding, being too focused on his bride.

And the other woman; she had not been there at all.

But he gave them their moment to observe the monster now, getting it out of the way.

“No one, Your Grace,” Teresa said stiffly, refusing to call him by his name, making her opinion of their situation clear with two words. “They are not real; they are a fiction.”

Isolde smiled coldly at him. “My sister was just telling us that she means to rearrange the library to better accommodate her collection of books.”

Did she tell you that I caught her when she fell? Judging by the woman’s icy gaze, Cyrus suspected not.

“She is free to do as she pleases with the rooms,” he said flatly. “Indeed, she has already begun to make changes.”

Prudence lounged across a wicker chair, eyeing him warily. “I imagine it would take an army to change anything in an old place like this. They say that castles do not appreciate transformation, stubbornly holding on to the damp and the cold.” She paused. “Are there ghosts here?”

“Prudence!” Teresa scolded out of the corner of her mouth.

“If there are, I have not encountered them,” Cyrus lied. “Perhaps, you might inform me if you see one.”

The unknown woman got to her feet, crossed the room and extended her hand, her eyes burning a hole through him. “I do not believe we have been formally introduced, though I have heard plenty.” Her smile was a bitter thing. “Beatrice. Miss Johnson, if you prefer.”

Cyrus stared at the proffered hand. “The Duke of Darnley. Your Grace, if you prefer.”

“You will not shake my hand?” she challenged.

“I will not. It is inappropriate.” He nodded toward Teresa. “The only hand I will touch is that of my wife.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to figure him out. “You must forgive me for not attending your wedding,” she said blithely, a moment later. “I am not well liked by my best friend’s brother. Blames me, apparently, for putting notions into Teresa’s head and causing this union.”

“So, I should thank you?” he replied, attempting a jest, though it did not come naturally to him. “Indeed, Lady Prudence, if it is ghosts that you seek, perhaps you ought to speak to your sister. She knows all about apparitions emerging from walls.”

Teresa turned bright red, her eyes wide, her mouth open in disbelief.

And though a partial smirk appeared upon Prudence’s lips, no one laughed.

He did not have Silas or Anthony’s talent for this, for though his father and grandfather had been gone some fifteen years, their education was the one ingrained.

They had never encouraged him to joke or smile or laugh or indulge in silliness; rather, such things had been just cause for punishment.

“Do you think it kind to embarrass your wife?” Isolde chimed in, her voice dropping the temperature in the glasshouse.

Rather than take offense or admit that he was not particularly good at humor, Cyrus cast a cool look at the oldest sister. “I do not think the story of our meeting is embarrassing. If it were in, say, a chapter of this Captain and Miss Savage fiction, I suspect your opinion might be different.”

“Oh, I would swoon!” Prudence confessed, gaining a sharp glance from both her sisters that turned her cheeks pink and widened her grin, though she tried to hide it behind the rim of a teacup.

Beatrice, however, kept her frosty gaze on Cyrus.

“Perhaps, you would do well to study those books yourself. Then, you might learn how best to treat my dearest friend.” She lowered her voice, so that only he could hear.

“From what I gather, you have not been in the least bit attentive, and I will not stand for anything but the utmost joy for my darling Teresa. I warn you, if you make her sad, you will come to regret it.”

Cyrus leaned in a little. “And I warn you, Miss Johnson, I do not take kindly to threats.” He paused. “Do not sour my gratitude; you will not like the consequences.”

In truth, he did not know anything about this woman, but he knew who would: Anthony.

If she gave him reason to retaliate, she would discover that the hermit of Darnley Castle was not without fangs, still sharp after all these years in isolation.

And he would defend what was his, even if his wife did not want to be near him at present.

Yet, he could not deny that he was pleased that his wife had such a loyal friend, even if he would not say so to Beatrice.

“Luncheon is being served in the dining room,” he announced. “One cannot survive on tea and cake alone, and you have had tiring journeys. Please, make your way there. I require a moment alone with my wife.”

Teresa’s sisters and friend hesitated, glancing at her.

“With respect, we have not seen our sister in almost two weeks,” Isolde protested. “We will escort her to the dining room. Whatever you have to say to her, I am certain you can say it with us here.”

Beatrice nodded. “Indeed.”

“What is for luncheon?” Prudence asked, rising from her chair.

With an earnest smile, Teresa gestured for Isolde and Beatrice to leave. “I will be quite all right, and shall join you in just a moment. If you walk slowly, I will likely catch up to you before you have even reached the castle.”

Still, Isolde hesitated. “Are you certain?”

“I am,” Teresa replied.

Observing the scene, his gaze drifting from woman to woman, Cyrus realized just how rich Teresa was, wealthy with the sort of fortune that could not be bought: siblings who adored and protected her, a friend who would threaten a duke on her behalf, confident in the love they had for her and the love she had for them.

He had often wondered what it might be like to have a sibling, to have had someone to share his childhood with. A twinge of unexpected sadness flickered in his chest, imagining what that life might have looked like.

“Go on, or you shall offend my dear Belinda and the cook,” Teresa insisted, chuckling softly. “The food is excellent here; you shall not be disappointed.”

With some reluctance, Isolde, Beatrice, and Prudence filed out of the Tea House, glancing back over their shoulders as if they thought Cyrus might attack at any moment.

That twinge in his chest became a sharper prickle, for there was nothing in this world that could ever compel him to cause Teresa harm.

If that were not the truth, he would have allowed her into his bedchamber on the night that she knocked, and he would not have spent a moment away from her side.

They see distance, not knowing it is for her safety…

“Yes?” Teresa said brusquely, once her sisters and friend were mostly out of sight. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

He moved closer, in awe of how beautiful she looked in the golden afternoon sunlight. “We are attending a ball at my friend Anthony’s residence a few days from now,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering a gown for you.”

She blinked up at him in surprise. “A ball? But… I thought you hated such things? Why would you agree to—” She averted her gaze, as if she had forgotten that she was supposed to be cross with him.

“Very well, but you should not have gone to the trouble of ordering me a gown; I have plenty, and I do not like to be wasteful.”

“You are a duchess now,” he replied, softening his voice. “You must have a gown that is suitable for a duchess, considering this will be our first outing as man and wife.”

She shrugged. “You should have waited. My sisters could have advised you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, expelling a strained breath, his hands longing to take hold of hers, his fingertips itching to touch her face, to brush his thumb across the rosy apple of her cheek. To kiss her, maybe. “I am sorry for causing you upset at dinner.”

Her head whipped around. “Pardon?”

“It was not my intention to anger you or distress you,” he said, his mind racing to try and find the right words. “I confess, I do not know why you were so furious, but I am sorry, nonetheless. I know I was the cause, whether I understand or not.”

The sunlight caught Teresa’s beautiful eyes, a whirlwind of feeling passing across her face in quick succession: anger, confusion, frustration, and something like sadness, which softened into a heavy sigh.

She shook her head slowly, and a lock of dark honey hair freed itself from a pretty, silver slide.

Before he could stop himself, he caught the lock of hair loosely around his fingertips, tucking it back up into the teeth of the slide.

Her hair was just as soft and silky as he had known it would be, and though he knew he should withdraw his touch at once, he could not help but skim his fingertips down her temple, her cheek, brushing back another lock, curving it around the shell of her ear.

Distracted, it took him a second to realize that she was staring up at him, wide-eyed, her chest not moving, as if she had stopped breathing altogether. He realized that he, too, was holding a breath in his lungs, like exhaling it might shatter the moment.

“I was… angry because you… insulted me,” she whispered, as though she had breathed out the words, not meaning to speak them out loud. “You… questioned my loyalty, though I have given you no reason to. I married you, understanding what that means. Your Grace, I am…”

Say it… say it, and I will not be able to stay away from you. The air crackled around them, invisible sparks flying across the small gap between them, tingling his skin until it burned like a fever. Say that you are mine.

“I am…” she tried again, breathless, taking a half step toward him.

Her head tilted up, her hand lifting as if she meant to grasp him by the lapels, as she had done on the night they met.

“You are—?” he prompted thickly, his gaze flitting to her lips.

You are dooming her, a voice whispered in his head.

“Cyrus, I am?—”

He pulled back, the sparks sputtering out, the crackle of the air feeling at once like something dangerous, not magical. “I apologize for insulting you and your integrity,” he said in a rush, his throat dry. “I understand now. Please, excuse me.”

He took one last, agonizing look at her lips, plump and tempting and slightly parted, and left before he had a chance to throw caution to the wind, refusing to let his selfish impulse doom her to a fate she did not deserve.