Page 25 of All Duke and Bothered

“No,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I’m sorry I read your private letter. I shouldn’t have. But I won’t leave until I know why I am mentioned there.”

“Leave!” he roared louder, helpless rage tearing at him.

“Duke, you must be hurting after his death. Did you reconcile? What happened?”

“I said, leave!”

“Not until you explain to me—”

That was it. If she wouldn’t do as he said, he’d make her. He took her by the elbow and pulled her close. Her soft breasts felt delicious pressed against his chest.

“You want me to explain something?” he said right into her face. “Let me be clear. You do not demand anything. You listen to me and do what I tell you to do. You will leave and go to your room. In three days, you will dress like a proper duchess, and we will go to Lady Leroy’s soirée where you and I will appear as a married couple for the first time. Until then, I do not want to see you or hear from you. Do not mention my brother’s name ever again!”

With that, he dragged her to the entrance, pushed her out of the room, and slammed the door in her astonished face.

Shaking, he let out a long breath and went to sit on his chair. He picked up Spencer’s letter and smoothed it with trembling fingers. His head was killing him, but it was nothing compared to the pain of guilt roaring inside him. He read the letter once again and hung his head, exhausted, aching inside and out.

Was he really furious at his wife for reading this letter…or was he terrified she’d learn what was truly going on deep inside him?

Not just his guilt over Spencer’s death.

There was something else, something much worse that he hadn’t noticed before. There was a small part of him that was glad it was not Spencer but he who had married Penelope.

Did that make him a horrible human being? Had he secretly wanted her all along?

11

Two days later, Penelope’s dear husband barged in during lunch, reeking of perfume and alcohol, with dark circles under his eyes.

She thought he might have exaggerated his desire not to see her, but she had tried to stay out of his way. Still, she’d asked Mrs. Brown about him last night and had been told that he’d gone out.

“Ah,” he said to her, lifting a piece of chicken fricassée from her plate and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing with a satisfied moan. Penelope stared. “My wife. Attempting to plaster on a smile and fake a happy appearance, I see. How typical.”

She gasped. “Sir, you’re not behaving like a gentleman. Are you drunk?”

He hemmed, eyeing her, and swayed. “On that, I do agree with you, darling. What else should I do rather than drink? My future is bleak. I must spend my life with the woman I’d never have married had my brother not died.”

With that, he left. Penelope’s cheeks flushed and burned as she noticed sideways glances from one of the footmen who stood by the wall.

Later the same day, Calliope came for tea. It was a pleasant distraction from the conflict with Preston, and Penelope was surprised by how much they had to talk about. Calliope was very intelligent and a strong woman with a mind of her own.

Penelope set her cup in its saucer and placed both on the tea table. The sitting room was the one room in the whole of Chalworth that looked feminine. The walls were a gentle pastel yellow, and showcased paintings of the sunlit, rolling hills of an English countryside in bloom. The clear windowpanes let the sunlight in, and pastel turquoise curtains hung from the ceiling, topped by a pretty valance. A large rug of yellow and turquoise patterns covered most of the floor.

“My mother decorated this room,” said Calliope with a sad smile, looking around. “The last time I was here must have been eight years ago. Spencer always came to Sumhall to visit, even when he started living here. Mama hated this house. She always said it was pretentious and cold. The sitting room was the only place she was allowed to change. It’s quite feminine, don’t you think?”

Penelope nodded. “It is. I must say, it’s my favorite room in the house.”

Calliope picked up her teacup. “Mine, as well. How are things with my wretched brother?”

Penelope swallowed and reached for a biscuit. Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back. “It’s…it’s an adjustment.”

“He’s not being rude with you, is he?”

Penelope inhaled sharply. “I would not want to speak badly of your brother.”

Calliope sighed. “So he is. Please, be honest with me. I only wish to help. And I know he can be very stubborn.”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to—” Penelope lost the battle, and her eyes blurred with tears.