Page 12 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

“Yes, my spirits. This is hardly the situation I had expected myself to be in, and although I am grateful for Your Grace’s offer, it was not the marriage I had anticipated for myself.”

“Did you have some other aspiration?” he asked, his voice icy.

“I had not expected a grand title at all,” she retorted. “Nor a husband whom I don’t know and who has no real interest in me as a wife. But that is neither here nor there, because it is done, and we can hardly back out now. I merely…”

Heavens, she merely wished he were someone else. Someone rather less forbidding, who looked as though he could cast her into the ground with a single blow, though she had no expectation of him raising a hand against her.

She raised her chin. “I had not expected this, either.”

He took a single step toward her, covering most of the distance between them. Now, her tilted chin was a necessity to look up into his face.

“Do you suppose this was what I had expected for myself?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest. But you at least have some freedom.”

“Freedom?” He snorted. “I have not had freedom since I was in leading strings, and that freedom does not come now.”

“You are a duke.”

“And you think that means I can do whatever I please?” He leaned in closer still, boxing her against the sofa.

The scent of soap and cotton, of whatever musky scent he used, surrounded her. Her heart thudded in her chest, both at his proximity and the anger she saw simmering in his eyes. Not specifically at her, but certainly at his circumstances.

Oh no, he did not want to be here, sparring with her, or engaged to be married to her, or wanting anything to do with her.

Perhaps he had not even wanted the title at all.

“If you think that of the world,” he murmured, his gaze skimming across her eyes, her nose, her mouth, “then no wonder you thought it possible to care for William yourself.”

“Are you calling me naïve, sir?”

“Of course I am.” His gaze, hot now, dragged back up to hers, and she felt something loosen in the pit of her stomach. “Your ignorance has meant we are now bound together.”

“Not yet. I have yet to marry you.”

“Oh, and you’ll go back on your word?” His voice was low and dangerous.

No. There was no way she could refuse now, not if she wanted to keep William.

“No, Your Grace,” she said, raising her chin a little more, determined not to let his proximity, and his heat, shake her. “But I will accept this burden so long as I am able to care for William.”

“Burden,” he repeated. “To be a duchess.”

“To be married to you.” She reached up and planted both hands on his chest, pushing him back. “When you are overbearing, arrogant, and⁠—”

A small, thin cry interrupted her flurry of insults. She paused, her hands still braced against the duke’s chest, as she listened. A second wail followed the first, and she dropped her hands, argument forgotten.

William had awoken.

She hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber, not even considering the fact that the duke was right on her heels. William lay in his crib, swaddled in white, his face red and screwed up with displeasure. The nursemaid had emerged from the small room adjoining this one, but at the sight of Jessamine, she stepped back.

Jessamine scooped the small boy into her arms and cradled him close. “There now,” she soothed, swaying gently. “There now, my beautiful boy. Are you upset? I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

The duke watched her, offering nothing, but also without criticism. There could be worse things, she realized. For all her anger, he had not yet attempted to change how she approached William’s care.

Eventually, the boy settled, and Jessamine called for the nursemaid to nurse him in case he was hungry.

“It has been a few hours since his last feed, I think,” she said, glancing at the clock.