Page 5 of Taken by the Icy Duke (Marriage Deals #3)

Chapter Five

“ D iana, stand still,” Alison whispered, pushing a stray lock of brown hair behind Diana’s ear. “There, that is much better.” She stepped back, frowning at the plain muslin gown, then attempted a bright smile. “You look lovely, truly.”

Diana swallowed and nodded uncertainly. Her sister had found a half-crushed rose in the garden and coaxed it into Diana’s hair. Perhaps it was not the grand wedding of which their father had dreamed, but Alison was trying her best to turn her into a beautiful bride, and Diana would do her best not to disappoint her.

Voices drifted in from the corridor of the small chapel; the soft scrape of Lord Crayford’s shoes, the muffled cough of the vicar. From outside, the duke’s footsteps approached with calm certainty. Diana straightened her shoulders, gripping Alison’s hand for a moment to garner some courage.

She had not seen the duke since he had proposed. The moment when she had pressed her hand against his chest had haunted her in the days that followed.

She had assumed her fate would be to marry an older widower, and live out her days doing her duty to produce an heir. Perhaps that fate was still before her, but the duke was far from an old man. Her dreams had been occupied with the feeling of him under her fingers and the sensuality of his gaze.

“You shall be fine,” Alison whispered, drawing Diana’s attention back to the moment. “The duke is an honorable man and is also quite fetching, if you allow yourself to admit it. Much better than a doddering old widower.”

Diana tried to smile. She released Alison’s hand and turned toward the arched doorway. Her father stood at one side, wringing his hat until the brim was nearly flattened. When he saw her, he hiccupped and gave a weak grin.

“My dear girl,” he managed, “I…you look…well.” Another hiccup, then he cleared his throat, stepping aside to let her pass.

In the small chapel, pale light filtered through dusty panes. A handful of witnesses—only two neighbors and the vicar’s wife—sat scattered among the empty pews. The Duke of Rivenhall waited at the front, tall and silent, his gaze steady. His dark eyes met hers, but she still wondered if he even really saw her.

Alison busied herself with smoothing Diana’s gown from behind. “You are perfect,” she murmured, adjusting the rose once more. “Just breathe.”

Diana advanced, her father at her arm. The duke stood at the front of the church, his dark, liquid eyes watching her as she walked up the aisle. Each time she glanced up at him her heart would jump a little. She clenched her fingers together, trying to maintain her composure. The duke nodded imperceptibly, but said nothing. The vicar cleared his throat and began the service, his voice echoing softly throughout the stone chapel.

Alison hovered a few steps away, twisting a handkerchief and offering small, encouraging smiles whenever Diana’s gaze found hers. When the vows began, Diana forced her voice to remain steady. She did this for her father, but especially for Alison, who had tried so hard to add a spark of beauty to a rushed and muted ceremony.

With each spoken promise, Diana fixed her mind on Alison’s hopeful eyes and the wilted rosebud that she had carefully tucked into Diana’s hair.

The moment the vicar’s words ended, the duke presented his arm. Diana hesitated only a second before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. Alison clapped softly, stepping forward to place a gentle kiss on Diana’s cheek. “I am proud of you,” she whispered.

Diana nodded, pressing her lips together in gratitude. She held that warmth in her heart as the day began to move forward at a brisk pace. She left the chapel and all its lingering murmurs behind, settling into a coach with her new husband seated at a measured distance. Neither spoke during the journey, and the roads passed by in quiet succession; fields giving way to tidy lanes, and lanes to manicured grounds.

By late afternoon, she descended from the carriage onto a gravel drive, her skirts brushing over the stones. Rivenhall Estate rose before her, all polished windows, stately columns, and sweeping lawns that seemed to go on forever.

Behind her, the driver and a footman busied themselves with their trunks. Her new husband paused, then turned to gesture toward a cluster of servants that were waiting to greet their new mistress. His face remained expressionless as he went through the motions of introducing Diana to her new home.

“Mrs. Hardwick,” he addressed the housekeeper, a stout woman with quick, shrewd eyes. “This is Her Grace. She will be staying here for the time being.” He turned to Diana. “My staff stands ready to serve you. Mrs. Hardwick can answer any immediate questions.” Then, without waiting, he swept up the steps and through the doors, his tall frame disappearing inside.

Diana opened her mouth, then closed it, uncertain if she should say something. Before she could decide, Mrs. Hardwick stepped forward and offered a polite curtsy. The servants lined up in practiced order—footmen, maids, the cook hovering at the edge with flour on her apron, and a gardener who nodded shyly from behind the lot. All regarded her with careful courtesy.

The housekeeper’s voice was calm, and her words were brief. “Your Grace, may I give you a short tour?”

She did not wait for a reply before turning and leading Diana through the grand foyer, pointing out a wide staircase with a polished banister, a corridor leading to drawing rooms and a morning room bright with windows. “You will find most of the household quiet and well-managed. The duke prizes efficiency.”

Diana followed, taking in the tall windows and carved paneling, the ornate tapestries, and fresh flowers that the staff had arranged with tasteful reserve. Though the place was magnificent, it felt…empty.

The duke’s absence pressed on her. Diana thought about how he had introduced her and then departed without a word. Although their wedding day was now behind them, he offered her no warmth or assistance to ease her transition. It was as though her had simply installed her in the manor like a new piece of furniture.

As they walked, Mrs. Hardwick outlined Diana’s expected role as duchess: letters to answer, menus to approve, linens to reorder, charities in the village to support. “His Grace is particular, but fair,” she said, guiding Diana through a bright hallway. “He values an orderly household.”

Diana nodded, noting the way the woman’s eyes lingered, searching her face as if gauging whether she would be capable, or crumble under her new duties. Diana swore to herself that she would not crumble. Although circumstance had thrust her into the marriage, she would not fail her family or let the servants sense her unease.

They passed a small sitting room with a view of a rose garden. Mrs. Hardwick paused. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you might find comfort here. The late duchess liked this room.” There was a softness in the older woman’s voice; a hint of warmth that Diana found endearing.

She drew in a slow breath and stepped inside. Pale curtains framed a set of French doors that opened onto a terrace. A writing desk stood in the corner, and a charming tea table nestled next to the window seat.

It was a tranquil cocoon made for chatting and contemplating. She tried to imagine the days ahead, filling this space with her tasks and presence. If the duke had no interest in guiding her, she would learn to navigate her new life on her own.

On the conclusion of the tour, Diana returned to the foyer and glanced in the direction the duke had disappeared. He might not welcome her questions or her company, but she would at least know how to run his home.

Candlelight flickered against the chamber walls, casting long, nervous shapes that stretched and shrank as Diana paced. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing.

Her silk nightgown whispered against her skin with each restless step. She startled when the old floorboards near the door creaked, but it was nothing more than the wind. As the clock chimed and the hours passed, she waited anxiously for the duke to make an appearance until her stomach became knotted with disappointment. There were no footsteps, no quiet knock, and no presence hovering outside her threshold.

Was it her duty, then, to come to him? After all, he was her husband, not some stranger for whom she risked impropriety. They were bound together now, and wives had certain responsibilities, just as husbands did. Her father’s old lessons, halting and awkward, had taught her that much. Flushing with uncertainty, she pulled on a thin wrapper over her nightgown and eased open the door.

The darkened corridor stretched silently before her, lit by a single lamp near its end. She debated turning back and pretending the impulse to go to him had never taken hold, but she could no longer worry and wait for him to come to her. With trembling steps, she approached a half-open door glowing with muted light. She hesitated, tugging the collar of her wrapper higher as though it might shield her from whatever awaited. Determined not to be a timid child, she rapped gently and listened. Silence.

Diana swallowed. If the duke had desired privacy, he would have locked the door. She pushed it inward, stepping over the threshold as a warm glow of lamplight greeted her.

Gilbert stood behind a writing desk, his coat draped over the back of a chair, his white shirtsleeves rolled up just enough to reveal lightly furred, sinewy forearms. The sight stopped her heart for a beat.

His gaze swung toward her, and in that moment the air thickened and an intensity sparked between them that stole her breath. Every nerve in her body hummed, but she lifted her chin, trying to appear poised despite her unsteady knees.

His eyes wandered up and down her body, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin of her neck. She felt bare under the intensity of his stare, and warmth grew between the apex of her thighs. She wondered what would happen if she reached out and drew him close to her.

The duke visibly stiffened as she neared, drawing back as though warding her off.

“Your Grace,” he announced, his use of her title creating a distance between them that made her flinch inside. “There is no need for this.”

Diana’s throat constricted, wondering if she had misunderstood. She struggled for words, her cheeks warming at his rejection. If he would not come to her, surely it fell to her to ensure they fulfilled their vows in truth, not just in name. “I thought…well, I assumed…” She forced herself to say it as a deep blush prickled up her neck. “That we would consummate our marriage.”

He turned aside, looking past her as though the paneling were suddenly the most interesting feature of the room. “That will not be necessary.”

The bluntness of his declaration stung like a slap. Not necessary? How could he speak so coldly, as if their union were a ledger entry to be signed and then just as quickly forgotten?

“We are husband and wife,” she managed, her voice brittle as her heart thundered between her breasts. Had she misread the warmth in his eyes a moment earlier? Had it been nothing more than her imagination?

Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line. “I have no intention of siring heirs, Your Grace.”

She blinked, confusion scattering her thoughts like leaves in the wind. “No heirs?” she repeated in a hushed voice. Every nobleman wanted heirs. It was a sacred duty, a cornerstone of their union. “But then…who will inherit?”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “My brother, Lord Leopold, will succeed me.”

He might as well have struck her across the face. This was not a misunderstanding that a few kind words might smooth over. He was making it clear: she would remain in his house, carry his title, and do nothing more. The look he had given her earlier—that glimmer of something she dared to call desire—had vanished.

Bitter shame crawled up her throat and her face burned with it. She had come to him risking embarrassment, laying aside propriety to honor their vows, and he had dismissed her without a second thought.

Tightening her wrapper around herself, she drew back. “I see,” Diana managed to say tightly. She dared not ask more; he had already scraped her pride raw. With a curt nod she retreated, stepping back into the corridor without looking at him again.

The door closed softly, sealing her out. In the hallway’s hush, her heart pounded even more loudly than before. She had never felt more foolish than in that moment.

Silly, hopeful, stupid girl. How could I have thought, even for an instant, that he might want to claim his rights as my husband, or even meet me halfway? I am a mere burden and less than nothing to him.

Diana wondered what had given rise to the hope that he would visit her.

Why do I want him to claim his rights as my husband? Why do I desire to perform my duties as his wife?

Wrapping her arms around herself, she hurried to her room, silent tears welling in her eyes. His rejection had left her hollow, but she refused to let herself cry. She would not crumble. Still, the shame of it all—her uncertainty, her awkward attempt, and his cool dismissal—weighed on her, pressing like an invisible hand against her chest.

She reached her door, slipped inside, and leaned against the panel. This was their marriage, then. He needed no heirs, no closer companionship, and no heat of shared desire. Just a hollow contract.

Determined not to give in to tears, Diana exhaled, willed her breathing to slow, and resolved that if this was how he wanted it, she would not offer again. She would find her worth on her own terms, even as the sting of his rejection lingered deep beneath her ribs.