A shadow flickered across the Duke’s face. His eyes narrowed, the silver in them turning to flint.
“You speak boldly for a bride on her wedding day,” he murmured.
Blood rushed to Emmeline’s cheeks. “Perhaps brides grow bolder when they realize silence will be expected of them.”
His gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth.
It was nothing. It was a glance. A moment. But her body reacted as though he had touched her, a startling warmth slipping low in her belly. She became painfully aware of the sleeping child between them, of the distance, of the wedding gown she wore like a ghost against her skin.
“You have not been silent once since I met you,” the Duke said.
“Then you must consider yourself fortunate to have such a consistent wife.”
For a heartbeat, his mouth almost moved. Some faint dark amusement touched his eyes before he looked away, and Emmeline hated the small, foolish leap of pleasure it caused in her chest.
Aaron slept between them. The countryside passed in muted shades of green and gold.
And Emmeline sat with the weight of the Duke’s eyes finding hers again and again, and the warmth of the child against her side.
Ironford Hall appeared after several more hours of road and silence.
The house was broad and imposing in gray stone, with tall windows catching the last amber wash of afternoon light. Itwas old and stern, a house built to withstand everything. Her stomach dropped as the carriage slowed.
Aaron stirred beside her, blinking sleepily. “Are we home?”
The word struck her strangely.
The Duke’s gaze flicked to Emmeline before he answered his son. “Yes.”
The carriage stopped before the entrance, and at once the world outside seemed to arrange itself around the duke’s arrival.
Footmen stepped forward. The doors opened. A line of servants waited with polished discipline upon the steps, the housekeeper at their head, her gray gown immaculate, her expression respectful and unreadable.
The Duke descended first, then turned back. His hand lifted toward Emmeline.
She looked at it for a moment too long.
It was only assistance from a carriage. Nothing more. A husband helping his wife alight before his household. Yet the sight of his hand waiting for hers made her heart skip a beat, and her palms grew warm inside her gloves.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, firm and hot even through the fabric, and the strength of him moved through her like a shock. She stepped down, too aware of his closeness. He did not release her immediately, and his gray eyes were fixed on her face, and she could not look away.
The housekeeper curtsied. “Welcome to Ironford Hall, Your Grace.”
Emmeline’s breath lodged somewhere beneath her ribs. She had been Lady Emmeline that morning. A daughter. A friend. A bride walking toward necessity. Now strangers bowed to her, and an entire house waited for her command.
“Thank you,” she said, pleased that her voice emerged steady. “I hope I shall not cause too much disorder.”
The housekeeper’s stern face softened by the smallest degree. “We shall be honored by any disorder Your Grace chooses to bring.”
Aaron looked up at Emmeline as if this answer pleased him greatly, and the small smile on his face warmed her enough to help her cross the threshold.
Inside, Ironford Hall smelled faintly of beeswax, old wood, and stone. The entrance hall was vast, with a sweeping staircase and portraits lining the walls, generations of the Duke’s ancestors staring down with the same severe dignity he carried in his bones. Emmeline felt their painted eyes pass judgment on her sandy hair, her freckles, her uncertain heart.
She lifted her chin.
“You are tired,” Rowan said, not unkindly.
