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“It was the epidemic of fever that swept the country,” he said, his memories full of that one last, horrible night when Papa and his three siblings and he had all sat by her bed, for once united before the greatest fear of their combined lives. “Spencer and Richard were sick afterward, too, but they survived.”

His wife’s eyes were wide and wet. “That was what my mama died from, too. I was taken with the same illness, and I wasn’t with her when she passed.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, they were just two people united by the same grief.

Then he frowned as he recalled learning that it was six years ago Penelope’s father had started gambling heavily. A pang of regret shot through his nerves. He knew how grief could drive a man to act rashly. Look at what he himself had just done.

He’d just locked them both into marriage for the rest of their lives.

She was supposed to be Spencer’s. The thought slammed into him like a stormy wave. And she was partly responsible for his death.

He should keep both of those thoughts in mind.

“If your mama taught you well, I don’t need to tell you that the life of a duchess means throwing lavish balls, dinner parties, and house parties as well as supporting charitable organizations and sponsoring musicians. You’re expected to have the best, most tasteful gowns, shoes, jewels, gloves, hats. You will be busy keeping up your appearance, and that may lead to a great deal of stress as you strive to uphold the ideal. The highest rank in society doesn’t just mean riches and a glamorous lifestyle.” He gestured around the hall. “It also means higher expectations. And be prepared for scrutiny and criticism from the bitter and the jealous.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t ask for this.”

That struck him as odd. Although there were challenges, a fortune hunter surely would rejoice at the abundance of funds available to shop and treat herself to the latest fashions at a modiste’s, and to buy herself jewelry. And she now had not just wealth but status. As a duchess, she was as close as royalty as one could be in Britain. She could finally let go of her mask of innocence…

“That, Your Grace, we have in common. I did not ask to be a duke, either. Spencer was supposed to fill this role.”

Their eyes locked, Spencer’s name like a rope between them, connecting them. Was it sadness that he saw in her face?

No matter. He turned away from her. He should just lay it all out for her and be finished with this conversation before he started to give in to this strange desire to know more about her.

“There are certain rules you must obey,” he said, looking at the blurry images of the carriages moving out of the courtyard.

“Excuse me?”

He stared at her. It was better like this, watching the frown of her pretty eyebrows, the flare of her gentle nostrils, the tension in her full upper lip about to curl up in an angry snarl.

“You’re my wife,” he said. “There are rules that you must obey.”

She raised one eyebrow, staring at him in perfect composure. The only sign of her distress was her chest rising and falling quickly again.

When she said nothing, he slowly walked to the table, feeling her eyes following him.

“Rule number one,” he said. “As a duchess, you’ll need a budget for new gowns as well as all other feminine things. You shall have as much money as you might wish.”

“Is that your rule? Buy myself dresses and gowns and things?” She crossed her arms over her chest, making her breasts plump up.

“No,” he said, struggling to keep his eyes away from them. “The rule is that you must not give a penny to your father.”

Her hands dropped to her hips. “Are you being serious? He’s in trouble!”

“I know. And that’s exactly the point. I do not want you to help him. As my wife, you must obey me.”

She glared at him. “Or what?”

Bloody hell, why did she need to look so pretty in her anger, all flushed cheeks and red lips, her eyes brilliant and glaring?

The sight of her, so pretty…and so his…stirred something in his blood.

He approached her slowly, backing her up against the tall paned window. “Or you will be punished. Obey me, and I will provide for you and satisfy your every need,” he said as he imagined relieving her of her gown, freeing the laces of her corset and dragging it down her body. Tearing up the damn chemise she no doubt had underneath.

“Every need,” he said as he forced his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes darkened. From blue gray, they were now the color of a stormy sea. Good. Color rushed to her cheeks and her neck. Even better. He could smell her, vanilla and sweet orange and apple…and something of her own scent that he found the most irresistible of all.

“But disobey me,” he said, running his knuckles down the side of her face, “and I will be forced to punish you.”