Page 5

“ W ill there be anything else tonight, Your Grace?” Simmons asked, clearing away Rowan’s barely touched dinner.

“Another brandy,” Rowan replied, staring into the fireplace, where flames danced over blackened logs. “Then you may retire.”

The butler bowed and poured the requested drink before withdrawing silently.

When his chamber door closed, Rowan loosened his cravat and tossed it aside. His jacket followed, landing in a crumpled heap on a nearby chair.

The fire’s warmth couldn’t penetrate the chill that had settled in his bones. One year at sea had changed him in ways he was only beginning to understand.

The nightmares that plagued his sleep.

The constant vigilance that kept his body tense even in the safety of his own home.

The memories of men drowning, screaming as cannon fire tore through wooden hulls.

He downed the brandy in one swallow, welcoming its burn. Tonight should have brought satisfaction. He had reclaimed his title, his home, and his bride. Yet here he sat, alone, while his new wife dined in her chambers rather than join him at the table.

Her rejection shouldn’t matter. Their marriage was only a means to solidify his return to the ton. Perhaps it hadn’t been done in the most sophisticated way, but she had been his betrothed, and no one would take what was rightfully his.

The thought coiled low in his gut, dark and possessive.

She had gotten under his skin far too quickly. Perhaps it was the defiance in her eyes, the quiet fury she wore like a crown. Or the way she held herself, proud even in discomfort—dignified in a room that would have swallowed a lesser woman whole.

And she was… delectable.

That was the only word for her. The curve of her mouth, the grace in her neck, the way her bodice hinted at softness he ached to touch—every inch of her seemed designed to torment him. To tempt.

He wanted to unpin her golden hair and watch it fall. He wanted to taste that defiance right off her lips.

No demure debutante. No simpering miss. Selina was fire wrapped in silk—and she was his to claim.

A soft knock interrupted his wicked thoughts. Rowan glanced at the connecting door between his chambers and the Duchess’s suite. He had not expected her to use it so soon.

“Enter,” he called, rising from his chair.

The door opened slowly, and Selina stepped inside.

Her golden hair tumbled loose around her shoulders in soft waves, unbound and intimate in a way that made something deep in Rowan tighten. She wore only a sheer nightgown—diaphanous fabric that clung to her curves and revealed the shadowed outline of her body beneath.

Rowan froze.

Desire surged through him like a spark to dry tinder. He had known his wife would be beautiful. But nothing had prepared him for this. The firelight flickered over her, painting her skin in amber and gold, and all the blood in his body seemed to rush downward.

She was vision and temptation made flesh.

“Good evening, Your Grace. May I join you?” she asked, her voice a little too bright, a little too high.

Rowan nodded, but he couldn’t speak. His mouth had gone dry. Words were beyond him.

He wanted—God help him, he wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on savage. To touch, to taste, to learn every inch of the body now barely veiled before him. To strip away the last barrier between them and make her his in truth.

But she was watching him, uncertain, and so he remained still—barely. His control hung by a thread, stretched taut and fraying with every breath she took.

Selina crossed to the table where the brandy decanter stood. She poured a generous measure into a glass and drank it in one swallow, just as he had done. She coughed slightly, clearly unused to the strong spirit.

“Are your chambers satisfactory?” Rowan asked, desperate to shun the heat within him.

The Duchess set the glass down and turned toward him. Her eyes didn’t meet his but fixed on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder.

“They are quite comfortable,” she replied, her voice hollow.

Without warning, she moved toward his bed, her steps small, uncertain. Her hands trembled visibly as she reached for the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown.

Rowan watched, transfixed, as she loosened it. Her face had gone white, her lips pressed into a thin line.

This was not desire. This was duty. Sacrifice.

She reached the bedside and slowly, with shaking fingers, began to slip the nightgown from her shoulders. Her eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the reality of what she was doing.

This woman, who had already experienced a wedding night, dreaded the mere thought of touching him.

“Stop,” Rowan commanded.

Selina froze, the nightgown slipping partially down one shoulder.

“Your Grace?” she whispered.

“Cover yourself and return to your chambers.”

Her eyes flew open, confusion replacing the dread. “But it’s our wedding night. I thought you would expect?—”

“I expect nothing from an unwilling wife,” Rowan cut in. “Go back to your room.”

She stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

Rowan turned away, unable to look at her partially exposed shoulder, the delicate collarbone revealed by the slipping fabric.

The sight ignited something primal in him—heat coiled low in his belly, and the thin barrier of her nightgown did little to shield his imagination. He clenched his jaw. If only he could reach out and run his fingers along the smooth line of skin the garment dared to reveal…

No , he corrected himself, she doesn’t want you .

“There is nothing to understand,” he said roughly. “Now go.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then the rustle of fabric told him she had adjusted her nightgown.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she said quietly.

He didn’t turn until he heard the connecting door close behind her. The room felt suddenly colder, emptier.

Rowan poured another brandy with an unsteady hand.

Her face, pale and resigned as she prepared to submit to him, turned his stomach. He had seen that same expression on the faces of condemned men awaiting the lash.

Fear. Resignation. The desperate attempt to bear the unbearable with dignity.

Is that how she saw him? As a punishment to be endured?

He had expected her anger, her resentment even. But not her fear. Not that bone-deep dread that had made her tremble like a leaf in autumn.

Rowan drained his glass and stared into the fire. Tomorrow would be soon enough to consider the implications of what had just occurred. Tonight, he would drink until sleep claimed him, hoping that for once, the nightmares would stay at bay.

But as he closed his eyes, it was not the wartime horrors that haunted him, but the image of Selina’s face, white with terror at the prospect of his touch.