Page 9 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

“Father.” She released the Duke’s arm and stepped toward him. “Please don’t stop searching for Rachel.”

Her father’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I do not require instruction from you on that score, Alice.”

“It is not an instruction,” she stuttered. “I just… It is a request.” She kept her voice low, conscious of the Duke waiting a few yards away, his back turned indifferently. “She is my sister. She would not run without reason. If she is in trouble…”

“She has made her bed.” Her father’s voice was sharp. “As have you. I suggest you attend to your own affairs now, Your Grace.”

The title landed like a slap. Alice felt the sting of it travel through her chest and settle somewhere behind her ribs. Twenty-one years of being the overlooked one, the too-plump disappointment, collapsed into two words delivered by a man who had never quite managed to see her.

The Duke’s hand settled on the small of her back. The touch was light, almost impersonal, but the warmth of it penetrated the thin silk of her gown.

“It is time,” he said.

Her father sketched a bow, and the Duke responded with a polite nod.

Moments later, the carriage door closed.

Alice knew that the Duke had forgone the wedding breakfast, as he didn’t want the frivolity of it. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed about that. On the one hand, she’d hate to face the pity of the guests and the whispers about her sister’s disappearance. It’d be awful.

On the other hand, this was her wedding. Only a week ago, she’d never considered how her wedding would go, but today had been… efficient, yes, but also without sentiment.

She sighed. This was her life now. She was tied to a stranger, on her way to an unfamiliar country house. She could only watch as the London streets and her old life faded in the distance.

About an hour later, Alice saw the Duke shift in his seat.

“Duchess.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. She’d have to get used to her new title. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“There are some things I’d like to make clear, as your husband,” he began.

“You require someone to care for your sons.” Alice looked down at her gloves. She spoke quietly, without feeling. “You made that abundantly clear to my sister. I assume the same extends to me.”

The Duke’s head turned. She could feel the weight of his gaze without meeting it.

“I do not appreciate being interrupted, Duchess.”

“Alice,” she corrected.

She looked up then. His eyes were dark, the color of good sherry held to light, and currently fixed on her with an intensity that made the carriage feel smaller.

“We are married; you might as well use my name. And I interrupted because I wished to spare you the trouble of an explanation I’ve already deduced. You need a mother for your children. I was available. The arrangement is, as you noted previously, efficient.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. He sighed and leaned forward, his shoulders filling the space between them with an immediacy that made her press herself against the cushions.

“Let us establish something, shall we? I am a duke. You are now a duchess. The manner in which we conduct ourselves…”

“Has nothing to do with efficiency?” Alice arched an eyebrow. The gesture felt borrowed, something she had observed Rachel use a hundred times in drawing rooms and never dared attempt herself. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I had the impression that practicality was the governing principle of this union.”

“Practicality and rudeness are not synonymous.”

“Nor are efficiency and compassion. Yet here we sit.”

His eyes narrowed. The carriage hit a rut, jolting them both, and for one disorienting moment, his knee pressed against hers through the layers of silk and wool.

He did not move away. Neither did she.

“Alice, then,” he relented. “You are… not what I expected.”