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N athaniel ambled down the stairs, taking the last two steps with one jump. His feet landed on the marble, sending a clacking sound ricocheting off the tall walls. Three days had passed since the wedding. That wretched wedding. Had he ever been so miserable? He didn’t think so.

It was silly, but he had imagined that when he finally was to be married, his parents would be there. His friends from Scotland. Somebody… somebody other than Julian and his cousin Annabelle. At least he’d been spared the presence of Lady Charmaine.

He made his way to the breakfast room, but came to an abrupt stop. Then he knocked.

“You needn’t knock every time you wish to enter a room,” Evelyn’s voice came.

“How did you know it was me and not one of the footmen?” he asked.

“Your knock is especially vexing,” she said, looking up from the newspaper. The atmosphere between them had been icy for the last two days. No, actually since the ball. Since they had been almost caught… doing what, exactly? What had he intended to do?

Kiss her? He sighed because that had been precisely what was on his mind at the time.

Evelyn’s mere presence had ignited something in him that he couldn’t quite describe.

He wanted to shake her on one hand, but draw her into his arms on the other.

And he had given in to that impulse. Not to shake her, of course—although in hindsight, that might have been a better alternative.

No, he had felt a desire to hold her, kiss her—and he hadn’t pushed it away. If Lady Charmaine had not entered, he might have kissed her.

If Lady Charmaine hadn’t entered, their situation would be very different now.

Would it be better? He couldn’t be certain.

Maybe it might be clearer. Perhaps if he had kissed her, he would’ve known if she truly wanted him or not.

But as it stood, they had been found out.

And no matter how hard he had worked to try to convince people that Lady Charmaine was nothing but a gossipmonger, it hadn’t worked.

The next day, the scandal sheets had been full of her discovery.

The elusive Duke of S and the Duchess of S had been caught in a steamy embrace, lending credence to all the whispers around town that had suspected a secret love affair.

And if that part of the rumor was genuine, what of the rest?

Had it been a secret ploy all along? Had this been the Duchess of S’s plan to snatch the man? And so on, and so on, and so on.

Fortunately, it only lasted one day. The very next day, their wedding was announced.

That had sent the scandal sheets into more raptures, but this time, instead of speculating about all the hidden secrets that may have been concealed, the papers were raving about this wonderful match—a young woman who had been so tragically widowed, and a young dashing man who never had hopes of being heir…

It was as though the entire town changed its opinion about their relationship within twenty-four hours.

They had gone from evil conspirators to a beloved pair to be admired.

He scoffed as he sat in his chair.

“What is funny?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve told her what he had thought, and she would’ve made some cynical, sharp commentary that would’ve been so accurate it would’ve sent him into a fit of laughter.

But they weren’t talking anymore. They weren’t conversing.

She barely even looked at him, and he had avoided her as much as possible.

Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know what to do or say.

She had made it quite clear that she didn’t want to marry him, which was what he had expected.

But hearing her deny him the night he had proposed had pierced something in him.

He had understood that she genuinely did not feel the same way about him as he did about her.

Perhaps in hindsight, it was good that he hadn’t kissed her then.

However, what was even worse was that he could see how miserable she was.

She’d been miserable when he had proposed, she’d been miserable when they stood before the altar, she’d been miserable at the wedding breakfast. And what was more?

She was still miserable now. He could tell by the dark circles under her eyes, by the way her fingers twitched and drummed against the newspaper in an anxious motion.

He had somehow managed to ruin everything.

He pressed his lips together as he grabbed a roll, slicing his knife through the fresh bread, which cracked and then filled the air with a lovely yeast scent that would have normally made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

Today, it did nothing. He didn’t even want to eat. But he knew he should.

The worst thing about this entire situation was how useless he felt. He was a duke, a rich and powerful one. He shouldn’t feel like this—small and useless.

And yet he did. And he knew he had nobody but his uncle to thank for that.

His uncle had always made it clear that he was the second choice.

Not good enough for the post… Maybe his uncle had been right.

Maybe he wasn’t meant for this. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a duke.

Least of all her Duke. But what was done was done.

“Do you have plans for today, Your Grace?”

“Meeting my sister and aunt,” she said without looking up. “You?”

“Julian,” he said, and placed the knife down.

“Very pleasant indeed,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, looking down at the plate. Steam rose from his roll, and he reached for the butter, aware of every passing second. He was certain that if he lit a match right now, the entire room might erupt in flames—so poisonous was the air between them.

“There are things we need to discuss,” he said, smearing butter on his roll.

“I do not think there’s anything left to say,” she said.

“There are many things left to say,” he replied. “We need to talk about your father.”

“He understands that the jointure is mine and that he has lost control. He understands he cannot mistreat my sisters without answering to you.” She paused and looked up, their eyes briefly meeting over the table. “I do thank you for that.” Then she looked away again and turned to her newspaper.

“We need to discuss the future.”

“There is no future to discuss,” she said, and she placed the paper down. “If you were thinking about asking me for an heir?—”

“No,” he said, “of course not.”

“Good,” she said. “Because you shall not have one.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” he muttered and threw the knife down.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised, then folded the paper and strode out of the room, leaving him behind to stew in his anger.

He had no reason to be angry. It wasn’t as though he had been married off to an octogenarian the way she had been, and she hadn’t acted like a petulant child the way he just had, throwing his cutlery as though he were three years old and not yet in control of his speech.

He groaned and then rose, abandoning his breakfast.

The following days passed in the same manner.

They barely spoke to each other, and each made an effort to avoid the other.

He no longer attempted to share meals with her—whenever he knew that she was in a room taking a meal, he would go the other way and find some place else to eat.

Not a difficulty, given their home contained two hundred rooms.

Yet, despite the seemingly endless corridors and halls, the house appeared minuscule because he saw her constantly, everywhere. In the library, by the pond, in the stables, in the drawing room…

She was everywhere. Although a part of him wondered if the reason she was everywhere was perhaps because he subconsciously tried to be where she was.

He hadn’t gone out into town as often as he used to, even at the height of their previous battles.

He found himself purposely staying at home when he knew she was there.

As if to get a glimpse of her. He wasn’t quite sure why that was.

Was it because he cared about her and wanted to ensure that she was well?

To see if she still looked at him with a glare in her eyes? Another reason?

He shook his head. He had to stop. The scandal was over. They were locked together for all eternity. Now they had to find a way of living together—or at least living side-by-side—without making each other miserable.

The question was, how?

Perhaps the best thing for him to do was to get out of his own head. Stop thinking about her constantly. Stop thinking about what might have been, what should have been.

The Wednesday after they were wed—when ordinary couples would have been away on their honeymoon—he found himself watching her depart in the carriage in the afternoon. She had walked past him in the hall without acknowledging him.

He only knew where she was going from her maid—meeting with her aunt and sisters again.

He didn’t feel like spending another day wandering the halls, pondering what the future might hold without ever actually reaching any sort of conclusion.

Instead, he did what he used to always do whenever he found himself conflicted or at a crossroads.

He sent a message to his friend. He would meet with Julian and go to the club.

He knew the last time he was there, he hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than Evelyn, but things would be different today.

He and Evelyn were done. Not that they ever were anything other than done. But the connection—whatever might have been romantic—was finished.

He had no intention of finding a woman. He knew he wouldn’t be able to focus and didn’t wish to seduce anybody. But what he needed was his friend’s company, a few stiff drinks, and a game of billiards. Maybe a few wagers or a card game or two. Maybe a cigar.

What he needed was a change of scenery. And that he was going to get tonight.