Page 11 of The Marquess’s Stolen Bride (Dukes Gone Dirty #3)

11

W illiam observed his wife as she stared out the carriage window.

Staring at his wife seemed to have become his new favorite pastime. She was beautiful, there was that. So gorgeous, and more so with each new day that she ate and slept well. But it was more than that. It was seeing the emotions play out across her face. The way her eyes lit with pleasure each time she saw something new.

And it seemed like every hour she came upon something new. A stroll around the neighborhood, a visit to a tea shop. Each seemingly ordinary outing had been a burst of new sensations for his bride.

And seeing the world like that through her eyes—everything new and sweet and wonderful…

Well, it made him feel like a new man.

Truly, he’d never known such happiness as he had since marrying. His days were filled with showing Madeline all she’d been missing, or conversing over meals, or helping her learn the duties that would be expected of her.

And their nights…

A smile tugged at his lips as he memorized her profile. Their nights were sublime. He’d never known it could be like this. So overwhelming. The connection so intimate.

But there were moments… Moments like this one when he felt that connection sever. When he was certain they were living two different lives and he did not know her at all. She’d been distant for hours now. She’d gone from being so entranced by the opera to seemingly distracted.

Was she hiding something from him?

He shook his head. That was his sordid history at work, making him suspicious. It was not reality. She was too guileless and sweet to be untrustworthy. But even so…

He shifted uneasily. She still wouldn’t bare herself in front of him, not even in bed. She welcomed him into her bed, and was an enthusiastic lover. But there were limits. She would not be naked in front of him, and there were things he did that made her quake with fear.

He’d stop whenever she grew frightened, of course. And he’d tried time and again to get her to talk to him about what it was that scared her so. He hoped that in time she’d explain.

She would, he told himself as the carriage stopped in front of his home. He just had to be patient, that was all.

He offered her a hand out. “Are you certain you’re well?”

She blinked up at him as if surprised to see him there. Then she flashed a brilliant smile. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” he muttered. A muscle in his jaw tensed. He did not want to push, but he was nearly certain she’d just lied to him.

And lying he could not abide.

“Actually…” She cleared her throat, pausing to smile graciously at the butler and housekeeper who came to greet them. “I’m not feeling well,” she said to him with a little wince of regret.

A surge of guilt reared up, for doubting her and for tiring her out so. He’d been pushing her too hard and too fast this week. “Perhaps we ought to draw you a bath,” he said.

She nodded. “That would be lovely.”

He watched her disappear with the housekeeper before wandering into his study. A decanter was open, and its contents tempted. He’d been a veritable saint these past two weeks, too focused on taking care of Madeline to waste precious time being in his cups…or suffering the aftermath.

Truthfully, he’d discovered that whiling away the hours in his wife’s bed was far more pleasant than imbibing home alone or a night out at one of Vestry Lane’s tawdry gaming hells and brothels.

He sank into his seat, a daft smile on his lips as he thought of all the ways he could while away the hours tonight. But then he remembered how quiet she’d been on the ride home and his smile faltered.

Perhaps he ought to let her rest.

He reached for the decanter and poured himself a glass. He likely was pushing her too much, and not just by taking her out on the town. He had to give her time to adjust.

She was so eager and responsive in bed, sometimes it was easy to forget that she’d been an innocent only days ago.

He threw back the drink far too quickly.

It did little to calm his tense muscles. Pinching the bridge of his nose, his mind fixated on the way she’d lied earlier.

Likely nothing. Maybe she really had been feeling under the weather and hadn’t wanted to admit it straight away.

Of course that was it. Madeline was many things, but she was no liar.

He poured another glass. He could feel them stirring, those memories best left in the past.

Madeline was nothing like his traitorous stepmother. That woman had been a flirt and a slattern, although she’d hidden it well in the beginning.

His own mother…God rest her soul. She’d been sweet and docile. She’d loved him, at least, as a mother should. But she’d given him up to run off with another man. He’d always told himself she would have come back for him if she hadn’t died so soon amidst the scandal.

But his stepmother—she’d fooled them all in the beginning. So confident and witty, entertaining and clever. So lively and vivacious, and nothing at all like his quiet, timid mother. And his stepmother had been as hungry for power as his father had been.

They’d deserved each other, he supposed. Lord knew his father wasn’t faithful, not to either wife. But after his father’s first wife left him…well, he’d turned mean to both his son and his new wife.

Hayden hadn’t particularly minded. He’d never liked his father, let alone loved him. There’d always been a cold distance between them, which had only grown worse after his mother’s betrayal. But the new marchioness did not take to the old marquess’s harsh words so well. She’d set off to make a cuckold of his father, and she’d succeeded mightily.

Until the night she’d decided to make a cuckold of her husband with her own stepson.

Hayden slammed the glass down.

His father was dead and the dowager marchioness had long since been driven off to find another man with another title…and even more fortune, no doubt.

And none of that had anything to do with his wife. Madeline wasn’t manipulative and she’d never lied. Just because she had her secrets did not mean she was untrustworthy.

He leaned forward. The drink had been a bad idea. It only made his head pound and trudged up memories he didn’t care to address.

What he needed was to focus on the present and his future.

On his wife.

The first part of this evening had been one of the best moments of his life. He’d never seen anything more moving than Madeline responding to the music.

Such a soulful creature. So much heart and goodness. And all of it his to protect and cherish.

That humbling sensation had him getting up and out, away from the liquor and the haunting past and out to find his wife.

Surely she’d be done bathing by now. And he couldn’t wait one more moment to have her in his arms.

His wife. A woman he could trust and care for and protect and…

And love.

He nearly stumbled over his own two feet. He paused with one hand on the banister. Was this what all his friends had been babbling on about these past months?

A grin split his face and his mind called up the image of his beautiful bride crying as she watched the opera tonight.

His own heart swelled to the point of bursting.

This was love.

He choked on a laugh that caught him by surprise.

Good Lord. He loved his wife.

And he suspected…maybe she’d love him, too. One day. If he gave her the time and the space she needed. He started walking up the stairs again, his heart slamming against his ribcage with this revelation.

He wouldn’t tell her yet. She wasn’t ready. But he’d continue doing what seemed to make her happiest. Bringing her out of the shadows and into the light. Helping her to see just how wonderful she was and all that she deserved.

He wanted to see her respond to art again and a new idea took hold.

The National Gallery. Tomorrow, he’d take her there to view the paintings. They’d go when the crowd was minimal, and if the weather was nice enough, he’d have the cook prepare a picnic for the park afterward.

He smiled as he strode up to her bedroom. But with a quick glance inside her room, he realized that she was still bathing in the adjacent dressing room.

He paced for long moments, staring at the closed door, beyond which his lovely wife was no doubt naked.

And wet.

Oh hell. The mere thought had his manhood straining and wondering just how wrong it would be to go in there. The angel on his shoulder said give her space. The devil was crying out for him to kick the bloody door down and drag his wife into his arms.

With a curse, he decided to remove himself from temptation.

She’d seemed disturbed tonight, there was no doubt about it. And if his sweet, trusting wife needed some time alone to sift through all she’d seen and heard this evening, then so be it.

He headed for the door but turned back at the last moment. He was still eager to tell her about his plans for the morning—perhaps the adventure would cheer her.

And besides, he hadn’t gone to sleep without wishing her goodnight since they’d wed.

His gaze fell on the writing desk by the window. He’d just write her a brief note, that was all. He’d wish her a good rest and tell her he’d see her at first light and?—

And his hand fell on a piece of paper atop the untouched parchment. He pulled it out and he meant to set it aside, but before he could, his gaze caught on words, urgent and sickening.

You must help me. I was forced into marriage. I do not want to be wed to the marquess. Save me, please.