Page 36 of Mad Duke March

Light chatter and laughter came from behind the closed doors of the breakfast room, making him pause. It was so unusual to hear sounds of joy in this house, so foreign. He lingered behind the closed doors, listening, and a small smile appeared on his face.

But the moment he opened the door and entered the breakfast room, the chattering stopped. It was as if the warmth was sucked out of the room, replaced by the chill surrounding him.

Tyrone paused in the awkward silence before making his way to the head of the table. The women slowly slid from their chairs to curtsy, but Tyrone’s eyes were on his wife, who remained seated.

There was something different about her. Was it her hair? It wasn’t pinned as usual, and for that he was grateful. He despised her sleek look. What surprised him though, was the length—or should he say shortness—of her hair. It suited her.

Her short locks only accentuated her round brown eyes, her full, rosy lips, and her pronounced cheekbones.

She met his gaze and her cheeks reddened, adding a vibrant flush to her already radiant face. Her lips grew darker somehow, her eyes brighter and even the room around her became awash with color.

Perhaps, it was just a trick of the light—a wayward ray of sun sifting through the heavy morning clouds.

The scrape of the chair caught his attention and Tyrone turned toward a little boy, about ten years old, as he bowed toward him before returning to his seat.

He didn’t look Tyrone in the eyes as he did so, and he didn’t look at him now with his eyes glued to his plate, his fork tightly clenched between his shaking fingers.

The boy was afraid of him.

Something twisted in Tyrone’s gut, and he tore his eyes away. He looked around the table and was met by curious glances, some shy, others more brazen. At least, not everyone was terrified of him it seemed.

His gaze returned to the boy who still refused to meet his gaze.

Look me in the eye when I enter the room! A gentleman doesn’t hide his gaze, you useless mutt! His father’s words rang in his ears.

“How lovely of you to join us,” his wife said, pulling him out of his dreadful memories. “I was starting to worry we wouldn’t see you till the end of the season.”

“Were you?” he asked roughly. “Or were you perhaps worried that you would?”

She met his gaze steadily. “You are the master of this house. It is always an honor to be in your presence.”

She was so proper, so polite, not giving away a hint of her true feelings. She wore this polite mask well. But it only amused him. He’d seen her unmasked the night before. He’d tasted her passion.

“Is it?” He narrowed his eyes and lowered them to her lips, before meeting her gaze again. “Even when I act like a beast?”

Her cheeks flushed further, her lips trembling, as her icy exterior began to crumble. Was she remembering their kiss, too?

She took a deep breath and answered without breaking eye contact, “I was hoping to finally meet the man beneath the beastly facade.”

Tyrone held his wife’s gaze. He saw a challenge in it. Was she daring him to shed his facade right now? Or was she wondering if he was even capable of it at all? Neither of those questions were the ones she should have been worried about. The real question was whether the human beneath his facade was any better than the beast.

A clearing of the throat broke the spell between them and his wife looked away.

“We wanted to thank you,” her mother said, “for welcoming us into your home.”

Tyrone popped a piece of food into his mouth and answered around a bite, “Your daughter didn’t give me a choice.”

His wife visibly tensed, her fingers whitening from the pressure applied to her fork. But her mother didn’t seem perturbed or offended by his words.

“Then, perhaps, I should thank you for taking my daughter as your wife and making her the mistress of your home,” she said in a soft but firm voice.

“Yes,” Tyrone said, concentrating his gaze on the older woman. She didn’t emit the kind of radiance that her daughter did. She was frail with ghostly white skin, but he could see the familial resemblance clearly. He could see his wife in her, and he wondered how alike they were in other aspects. “You must be so happy that your daughter has landed a duke.”

He felt his wife’s dagger-like gaze even if he wasn’t looking at her. She was about to say something, probably something scathing, but her mother answered in the same soft voice, unbothered by the implication in his question, “I am grateful to you for saving us from disgrace. Unfortunately, our society puts much value on such things as reputations and outward appearances. One little misstep can cause a great deal of pain when instead, one should be paying attention to one’s character. My daughter is hard-working, clever, selfless, and kind. And I do hope that you shall judge her based upon that, and not on the fact that in a moment of hardship, she did what she had to do and relied upon your generosity. If you do that, and you and my daughter learn to live in harmony, I will, in fact, be very happy.”

Tyrone studied the woman with narrowed eyes, yet saw nothing but sincerity on her face. Or perhaps she was an accomplished liar.

“Your daughter,” he said slowly, “poured away all my whisky.”