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Chapter Fifteen

“ S tay, Patch. No, stay !”

Wyatt couldn't help a smile as he watched the lackluster dog show from the safety of the arbor. Far enough away from his wife so as not to catch her eye.

For three days, he and Gemma had done a sterling job of avoiding one another.

He knew she kept mostly to her rooms, and as such, he had been equally as vigilant about remaining in his wing of the house.

So far, apart from the two ill-fated visits to her bedchamber on the day of their wedding, they had seen each other only at mealtimes.

And what godawful tribulations they had been.

He squinted in the bright summer light. In spite of himself, he found his eyes lingering on Gemma as she watched their grandmothers trying to coax the dogs into rolling over.

She was wearing a simple yellow day dress, a soft shawl draped across her bare arms. Much of her face was hidden beneath the brim of her bonnet, but he could see a faint smile on her face.

Finally, after much cajoling, the dogs launched into a synchronized roll and the Dowagers cheered, bringing a rare burst of laughter from his wife.

The gesture caught Wyatt off guard, almost as though he had not imagined her capable of such an action. She looked suddenly carefree and girlish. Unbidden, Wyatt found himself wishing very desperately that he could bring such an expression to her face.

The thought left a distinct sense of discomfort inside him, and he was about to stand and leave the ladies to their escapades when his grandmother spied him. She made her way toward him.

“Wyatt. Do come and join us, dear.”

He shook his head. “I don't think that is the best idea.”

“Why not?”

“Grandmother. You know exactly why not.”

She scowled at him; a look he had not seen since childhood. “So, are you planning to just ignore your wife for the rest of your life?”

He sighed. “Truly, I think that is what she would prefer.”

“Nonsense. You've just got to get to know each other a little better.”

Wyatt folded his arms across his chest. “If you hadn't noticed, Grandmother, my wife is the coldest woman on earth. You have seen how she is.” He sighed in exasperation.

“I have tried again and again to get past that cursed wall she has put up around herself, and all I get is more coldness.

So if you have any suggestions on how I might begin 'getting to know her a little better,' I am more than open to hearing them.”

The Dowager Duchess hesitated a moment, as though caught off guard by his impassioned outburst. Finally, she wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and tugged him out toward the lawn. “Come on. Come and see what Patch and Lucy can do.”

Wyatt sighed. But he knew there was no point in arguing.

As he made his way toward the gathering, he could feel Gemma's eyes on him. When he glanced in her direction, she quickly looked away.

The Dowager Duchess picked up a stray stick from the lawn and flung it across the garden. The two dogs hurtled off toward it, with their elderly owners chasing after them almost as quickly. Within an instant, he and Gemma were alone.

Wyatt let out a short laugh. “Well. I suppose subtlety has never been their strong suit. I do not think I've ever seen them move so fast.”

Gemma gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were doing your best to avoid me.”

“And here I thought the same thing about you.”

For a moment, Gemma's eyes looked faintly apologetic. “It is best that way. You know I am right.”

Wyatt hesitated. “Is that really what you think?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do. I am surprised you have to ask.” She turned to follow after their grandmother and the dogs, but he reached out impulsively to grab her arm.

“Wait, Gemma. Please.” She looked down to where his fingers clasped her elbow, and he released her hurriedly. “Might we just speak?” he said. “Give me five minutes. That's all I ask.”

Gemma looked ahead to where the Dowagers and their dogs were on a furious hunt for the missing stick. “Very well,” she said finally. She let out a resigned sigh. “You have five minutes.”

Wyatt smiled faintly. “Good.” He put a tentative hand on her shoulder, guiding her back toward the arbor.

He sat on the shaded bench and tugged her down beside him.

For a moment, he looked out across the sun-drenched garden, choosing his words carefully.

“I know you never wished to marry,” he said.

“And I am sorry that things have turned out this way for you. But we need not carry on the way we have.”

Gemma raised her dark eyebrows.

“You and I, we could be friends, at least.”

She let out a burst of humorless laughter. “Friends? You think you and I could be friends?”

“Why not?”

“Because you've never… I've never…” She let out a breath, tangled in her own thoughts. Waved a fly away from her face in irritation. “Because you and I, we do not like each other, Your Grace.”

“Wyatt,” he told her. “I am your husband, Gemma. There is no need for you to address me with such formality.” Gemma said nothing. She wound the fringe of her shawl around her fingers and stared into them. “Besides,” he said, “what makes you think I do not like you?”

“Because whenever we speak, we do nothing but fight. When have we ever managed a civilized word to each other? Besides, I know what men like you say about me. I know you all think I am dreadfully stuck up and cold.” She sniffed. “What a terrible bore it must be to be married to Lady Highbrow …”

Wyatt felt a faint pang of regret. She was not wrong.

Gemma Caster and her icy, prudish ways had been a source of entertainment among the young men of the ton for years.

They had laughed at her, whispered about her, called her names, both behind her back and to her face.

And for the first time, Wyatt wished he had not been a part of it.

Perhaps Gemma was a little standoffish, but that night in the music room, he had begun to understand what drove her.

Began to understand that there was far more to her than the prudish snob she presented herself as.

He pressed a hand to her wrist, surprised when she did not pull away.

“Of all the things I can say about our marriage, Gemma, it is certainly not a bore.” That brought the faintest of smiles to her lips; one that Wyatt found himself returning.

He squeezed her wrist gently, enjoying the feel of her bare skin against his own.

“I am sorry about my mother. I know she has been making things difficult for you.”

Gemma did not bother to deny it. “She wanted you to marry Miss Henford.”

“Yes. She did. But I know in time she will come to accept you. Welcome you.” He hesitated. “If that is what you want.”

Gemma sighed. “I doubt it. As far as she is concerned, I am nothing more than the wayward daughter of the drunken Earl of Volk.”

Wyatt was glad she did not feel the need to temper her words. Can I really be surprised? Gemma has always been one to speak her mind. “Well,” he said, “you will just have to show her you are more than that.”

At this, Gemma nodded, and it felt like something of a victory. “Has it been just you and your mother and grandmother for many years?” she asked.

Wyatt felt a faint flicker in his chest. It was the first time Gemma had ever asked him about his life. The first time she had ever sought some information about who he was behind the rumors and the reputation.

“Yes,” he said. “My father died when I was six. I barely remember him.”

Gemma turned to face him. “I am sorry. Truly.”

Wyatt nodded his thanks. “I know he and my mother never really got along. Although most of what I recall of that time comes from my grandmother's stories. She regretted letting her son marry my mother. She has never said it, but I know she blames my mother for my father's premature death.”

Gemma let out a faint murmur of surprise. A frown creased her brow, but she said nothing. Just nodded to him to continue.

“Grandmother has always been adamant that I do not make the same mistake my father did.”

Gemma let out a short, humorless laugh. “And engineering an impulsive, last-minute marriage to a lady you hardly know is the way to go about that.”

Wyatt chuckled. “Indeed. As much as I love my grandmother, I have to say, she is getting more and more daft by the minute. I regret that you were caught up in her scheming.”

As if on cue, the Dowager Duchess let out a loud whoop as she plucked the missing stick from the undergrowth and held it above her head like a trophy. The dogs hurtled in wide circles around her legs, yapping furiously.

Wyatt pressed gently against Gemma's wrist again, half surprised to find his hand still there. “I know you have been shamed by all that has happened. And I am truly sorry. But I want you to know that I will do my best never to embarrass you, or shame you further.”

Gemma shook her head and pulled her hand out from his grasp, as though suddenly becoming aware of it. “Am I truly to believe that? I feel as though you have gone out of your way on more than one occasion to shame me. Need I remind you that you have a reputation of your own?”

Wyatt nodded acceptingly. “What happened between us at the Henfords' party…” he began carefully, “I… It truly was not my intention to shame you. Believe me. That is the last thing I wished to do.” He saw Gemma glancing at him sideways, as though trying to determine if he was telling the truth.

“You're right,” he continued. “I do have a reputation. But that ends now.” Wyatt turned to look her in the eyes.

“I swear it. No more gambling halls. No more long nights in the taverns. No more women.” It felt wrong to be speaking of such sordid things in front of his wife.

But it needed to be said. Yes, Wyatt was well aware of his reputation—hell, for years he had been proud of it.

But now he could not quite seem to remember why.