Page 39 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

Marigold understood what he was asking, and she was surprised he hadn’t asked so far before he married her.

“Only a little,” she said honestly. “It was only to scare me. He would grab my arm and force my chin to look up at him. He would tighten his fists in my hair. The worst was the night that you saw in that alley when he…”

The Duke nodded. His eyes had gone distant, lost in dark thoughts.

“I am not ruined,” Marigold clarified.

The Duke frowned deeply. The tension in his shoulders became unbearable, and then he grabbed her wrist, forcing her to focus on him.

“Is this what you think I’m worried about?” he asked, his voice almost angry.

“Is it not?” Marigold was taken aback by his reaction. “I believe it is your right as a husband to ask me this, especially since you saved me from a compromising position. The honor of a duchess⁠—”

A bitter sound filled the room. The Duke laughed again, but this time it was cruel, cold, and devoid of humor. His fingers released her wrists only to drive themselves through his hair as if he were in despair. He made his way through the labyrinth of stacks in his room and found a small table with a decanter on it.

“First,” he said as he poured some amber liquid, “you tell me I bought you, as if I am no different from the men that gave you a tour of the brothels they would soon employ you in.”

Marigold opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off, raising his hand and taking one sip of his drink.

“And now,” he continued, looking at her, “you think me shallow enough to hear that my wife was abused, threatened with violation, and dragged through brothels, that she was accosted in dark alleys, and all I would think of would be my honor? Whether that brave woman was pure enough to be My Duchess?”

He looked at her straight in the eyes, his dark gaze unwavering. Marigold realized the breadth of the insult she had inflicted upon him, and though she didn’t know why his reaction was so visceral, she could understand his anger.

“I am sorry,” Marigold said.

“You are sorry?” The Duke sounded perplexed.

“It was never my intention to equate you with these people. It was merely a joke. Truth be told, I do not have so many social skills to differentiate between a joke and an insult. You must excuse me. After all, the most company I’ve had in my life were gangsters.” Marigold tried a dry smile.

The Duke neared, setting his glass aside, looming over her.

“Even if he only threatened you with words,” his voice dropped low and fierce, “he does not deserve to live. I will make sure of that.”

“In case you didn’t know already, Your Grace,” Marigold said, “you’re nothing like them.”

The Duke looked down at her, his expression unreadable, distant and cold.

“Do not be fooled, sweetheart,” he said. “I am plenty cruel. You just don’t know me as well as you think.”

“No, you’re not.” Marigold shook her head. “First of all, my body would know. Each time they were near me, each time they touched me, I felt disgusted and repulsed. It’s not the same with you, Your Grace. And then, I could tell they were bad men. They enjoyed torturing me. They fed on my fear.”

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushing, almost ashamed to speak more, but she had to make him understand what she really thought of him.

“It’s different when you…”

The Duke stepped closer, as if sensing the change in her disposition.

“It’s different when I what, sweetheart?”

Marigold looked away, but he wouldn’t have it. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Answer me.”

“It is different when you touch me,” she finished in a whisper.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. He just looked into her eyes before his dark gaze drifted down to her lips. And then he descended upon her. His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

It was as if a dam broke inside her. There was no surprise, no relief, only an overwhelming want as she kissed him back, following his lead. A sound escaped against his mouth that she barely recognized as her own. Her hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, almost feeling his heat underneath.