Page 37 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

“Do you have any others in this style, Madam Roux?” he asked. “I will take them all.”

“Andrew.” Jessamine turned, her hand over her mouth. “You cannot.”

“Why? By what measure? I most certainly can.”

“It’s too much.”

“Will you wear them?”

She flushed, eyes sparkling. “Well, yes, of course, when the occasion arises, but⁠—”

“Then there is nothing more to say. As your husband, it is my prerogative to provide for you in the manner I see fit, and this is the manner I currently see fit.” He nodded at the assistants, who scuttled to prepare the cloth. “I will have my wife clothed in the manner that befits a duchess.”

A divot appeared between her brows, and she turned back to the mirror, running a hand down herself once again. He cursed himself for looking, for wanting her, for caring, and turned instead to look out of the window as Madam Roux led Jessamine back behind a screen to change.

Thank heaven.

Because if she still stood before him, he did not think he would be able to stop himself from making a terrible mistake. One did not simply ravish one’s wife in public. Particularly in the manner he wanted to claim her.

Some time and space would give him the chance for some reflection.

If he ever had the chance to get that far.

Chapter Thirteen

Jessamine beamed at the world as she and Andrew walked back to where their carriage awaited them. Behind, two footmen carried her purchases. Well, perhaps she ought to say their purchases, as Andrew had been the one to insist on them all.

When they’d married, she’d thought she wouldn’t care for her new position as duchess at all. But it transpired there were some good things about it, after all.

Today, she had felt like a princess. Seen. Admired. Treasured.

A man stepped into their path, stopping them both. He looked to be around thirty or so, with black hair and eyes that seemed to her like two coals. He was smiling, but his eyes were cold.

A shiver ran through her.

“Your Grace,” the man purred. “How wonderful to see you… alive.”

Jessamine glanced at Andrew, whose face had hardened like stone. “Baron Lorthey.”

“And this must be your wife. Your Grace.” He turned his smile, and its malevolence, on her. “What a lovely family you have, my dear captain.”

Captain?

“I heard you adopted your cousin’s child as your ward,” Baron Lorthey said to Andrew again. “How sweet it is that some people get to grow their families… while others bury them.”

Bury them?

Jessamine blinked, but Andrew laid a hand on her arm. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice controlled.

Before she could say anything, the baron turned to her and offered an insincere smile. “I must offer you my congratulations, Your Grace, on your marriage. It must be a great honor to be marrying such a brave man.”

Andrew’s arm tensed under hers.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure what she should say.

It felt somewhat as though she had been dropped into the middle of a play and no one had given her a script. Andrew’s face was tight and hard, and the baron looked as though he was half a hair from exploding into something far more sinister than mere conversation.

She couldn’t even pinpoint what it was about him that gave her that feeling; it was just something about the ice in his eyes, and the thinly veiled malevolence of his smile.