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Feeling like Mrs. Knight and she had started to turn a corner, Patience suddenly felt brave.

“The garden,” she blurted out, unable to contain her dismay. “It pains me to see it so neglected. And I have these rosebushes from home…”

All traces of pleasantness disappeared from Mrs. Knight’s face. “The garden is strictly forbidden, Your Grace.”

“But why?”

Mrs. Knight’s mouth twitched. “It’s not for me to tell. You will have to ask His Grace.”

“Oh,” said Patience, the mention of her husband wiping the smile off her face. “Right. Will he be dining with me tonight?”

“No, I’m afraid he wishes to dine alone.”

So this was how things were going to go? This whole year? They’d be living separate lives, never seeing each other, never talking to each other. What was the point? And what about her? Her rosebushes would dry out and die like the garden outside Rath Hall, and she’d keep wandering empty rooms trying to decide between a Canard à l’Orange and a Canard Farci, or whatever those dishes were, until she’d wither and die herself.

“May I ask one more thing… Do you know why he always wears that glove?” asked Patience.

Mrs. Knight’s gaze softened as she cocked her head very slightly. “I’m afraid it is not up to me to say. Shall we continue?” she pressed. “I need your decision on staff changes, guest room refurbishing, and the rearrangement of the family portraits. An artist will come next month to paint you.”

The next day, just as Mrs. Knight had predicted, the modiste, Mrs. Newman, arrived with her entourage and swaths of fabric and lace. And for the first time, Patience’s quarters didn’t feel lonely.

“Your Grace, what do you think of this silk for a ballgown?” the modiste inquired, her eyes expectant.

“Um, it’s lovely,” Patience murmured, touching the fabric tentatively. “I will need it in seven days… My husband’s aunt has kindly invited us for a soirée in her London home. But I—I’m not sure…”

“And this decoration here, will it please you?” another assistant chimed in, holding up a pretty drawing of a gown with an elaborate cascade of silk and taffeta flowers on one shoulder.

“Perhaps…” Patience said. All she could think of was how much she missed her very real flowers back at Rose Cottage. They would be blooming in abundance once the weather warmed. And she would be here, looking out the window at a dead garden.

“You must choose, Your Grace. Different occasions require different garments, after all,” the modiste reminded her, her tone both instructive and impatient.

“I just wish for something simple,” Patience confessed, yearning for the familiarity of the dresses that Mama had laid out for her, the warmth of her family, the security of pen and paper in her hands, and the comforting snip of her gardening shears.

“Simple, Your Grace?” The modiste looked almost scandalized. “Your wardrobe must reflect your station.”

Patience nodded, resignation settling over her like the heavy fabrics they paraded before her. Her thoughts wandered to the life she had left, where complexities were fewer and happiness seemed within reach. Here, in the shadow of Rath Hall’s splendor, she felt more a specter than a duchess, wandering in expensive dresses and dreaming of sunlight and roses amid the gloom.

9

Dorian’s chest tightened as he watched Patience descend the stairs, his eyes transfixed on her. Time seemed to slow, and the world around him faded away, leaving only the vision of his wife before him.

Gone was the plain, mousy gown that had hidden her true radiance. In its place, Patience wore a stunning blush-colored silk gown that hugged her curves and accentuated her delicate features. The color gave her a youthful, healthy glow. The high waist and low neckline drew his gaze to her ample bosom, the sight of which made desire stir in him. The puffed sleeves of her gown were embellished with crystals that glittered in the candlelight.

Her golden locks were carefully arranged, with a few curled tendrils framing her face and a delicate pink rose adorning her elegant chignon. A single curled lock of hair cascaded over her shoulder, and he wondered how it would feel wrapped around his fist.

As she moved, the silky fabric of her skirt flowed like a waterfall around her legs. Long, seductive gloves encased her arms, and Dorian stared at the tantalizing strip of skin between the edge of her glove and the hem of her sleeve.

And her face… Dear God in heaven, he could walk the entire Earth and not find a more beautiful woman. Her large, expressive eyes sparkled as they met his gaze, her long lashes casting delicate shadows on her flushed cheeks. She smiled at him shyly, but with so much joy, hope, and excitement.

He wasn’t just in awe. He was in hell.

He had successfully avoided her for twelve days after the wedding, even though he’d been acutely aware of her presence in Rath Hall, as though he could sense her with his skin. He could hear her walking; he heard her voice through walls; he could smell her if she had been in the room.

She was an invader, this pretty little thing with her innocent eyes and her plush lips and body. She took over his thoughts—not one minute had passed that he hadn’t thought of her.

And not just of her, but of John.

Without knowing it, she was his jailor.