Page 111 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

Quite the opposite, in fact.

But the thought of lording over Castle Redmayne with Francesca Cavendish felt as arduous as a prison sentence.

Because marriage to Alexandra had thus far been something like freedom. What other woman would toil alongside him as he excavated stones from a centuries-old catacomb? What man could boast of a wife who was as learned and well traveled as he? Perhaps more so? How many men could entertain the idea of taking their woman on exotic adventures to the far-reaching corners of the globe?

Exotic often meant uncomfortable and dirty, and his wife didn’t seem to be put off by either of those conditions.

Was it possible that he’d found in her a companion whose wanderlust matched his own?

Three days and he’d have his answer.

Wait.Christ.He was such a dolt. In three days her courses were due to arrive. If they did, would he have to wait five more subsequent days to claim her?

Could he?

He’d never been squeamish about such things.

Was she?

When he’d descended the stairs, he’d been stunned to find her already dressed and waiting. The startling pallor of her cheeks and the mist in her eyes had worried him.

Because over the course of the past four days, he’d begun to suspect that she was being honest… At least about her lack of a pregnancy. He’d watched her closely for any signs of such a condition, and had encountered none.

But this morning she’d been so wan and sickly, he wondered if she was struck by the illness that plagued most mothers in the mornings.

Guilt pricked at his relief to find her distress was merely emotional rather than physiological. So much relief, in fact, he didn’t at all mind being a little oversolicitous to her inquiries for money.

Not if it brought her color back and soothed her sorrow. It wasn’t her fault her father’s fortunes had failed. Women had little power over such things, and he could only imagine the helplessness of it, or the intense discomfort of being reduced to beg for money from her husband to spare her family shame.

He’d longed for the return of her smile.

She’d been energetic and enthusiastic in the mornings. Her wit had been sharp and her disposition, for the most part, sunny. For all her blunt and impulsive interactions, she’d displayed fathomless wells of patience with workmen and students, alike. Even her corrections didn’t ruffle the most fragile of male egos as her praise and passion for her work were more effusive and openly genuine. She spoke every language, he was certain of that. French, Italian, German, Portuguese, and had even been able to translate an Arabic text that had stymied Forsythe.

That had been a particularly enjoyable moment.

They all had, if he was being honest. Every moment in her company was more pleasant than the last.

He’d relished discovering his past alongside her more than he’d ever imagined. It was like uncovering his own mystery buried with the bones of his ancestor.

Ivar Redmayne had been interred by a people not his own, who’d respected him enough to bury his possessions alongside him. He’d died alone while his son was away at battle, but buried with him were treasures that bespoke a beloved and powerful man.

Trinkets made by a granddaughter. A fur cloak crafted lovingly by his wife, Hildegard, a depiction of her etched into the inside of his shield.

Redmayne men, it would appear, had a penchant for possessive, bordering onobsessive,relationships with their women.

Something to keep in mind, when navigating this complex arrangement with his own wife.

Setting her gently but firmly away from him, he kissed her forehead and strode to the concierge to make arrangements for a meeting with a bank in Le Havre for tomorrow.

That done, he’d turned around to find that, once again, Lady Julia Throckmorton had arrested the attentions of his wife.

As usual, the vapid woman chatted animatedly, flailing her hands this way and that. However, Alexandra was less engaged than was her habit. Her delicate features still knotted into a sullen frown she was obviously trying to untangle into some semblance of amiability.

It appeared that Lady Throckmorton had worn out her welcome where his wife was concerned.

Julia, while friendly, could try the patience of a saint, and Piers often found himself marveling that his wife remained unperturbed by her.

Not so, today.