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For Love of the Duke(51)

By:Christi Caldwell


She sat pressed against the corner, and stared at Jasper. His gaze remained fixed at a point above her shoulder, his square jaw firm and unmoving. He might as well have been carved of stone for all the emotion expressed.

Husband. He is my husband.

Resolved strengthened Katherine’s spine. If he thought to intimidate her with his harsh coldness, he was to be sorely disappointed in her as a wife. She glared at him.

“You are being an absolute brute,” she snapped.

At last, he looked at her.



Jasper stared at this slip of a woman forever bound to him.

His wife.

Oh, good Christ in heaven. He’d pledged to never again wed, promised to never turn himself over to the hands of another who could inflict the mind-numbing pain he’d known upon Lydia’s death.

For the better part of the day, throughout the brief, ceremony he’d detected the faint tremor in Katherine’s hands, the panicked glitter in her brown eyes, and it had struck him that this woman would belong to him.

Until death they do part.

And then as he’d stood there, with those ominous five words flitting through his mind, he’d imagined a hellish existence in which it was no longer Lydia’s lifeless body he held, but Katherine’s. Ice climbed up his spine, and chilled him inside and out. She would not die. He’d not allow it.

“Did you hear me?” she snapped. “I said, you’re an absolute brute.”

She was perfectly correct; he was an absolute brute; a horrid beast, but he’d forgotten long ago how to interact among the living.

“My apologies,” he said, startling himself as much as her by the concession.

Her mouth fell agape.

Jasper leaned across the carriage and gently touched his fingers to her chin.

Katherine snapped her lips closed. “Well,” she said, and shifted on the bench. “Er, well, then. Thank you.”

Jasper settled back in his seat…

“But that still does not pardon you.”

His lips tugged at the corner. “Pardon me?” Katherine possessed more steely strength and courage than the most hardened battlefield warrior.

She nodded. “It is nearly Christmas.”

He knew that. For three years, three-hundred and sixty-four days, he’d well-known the significance of that date. Only, for him it no longer signified birth and a season of hope, but rather the bleak, emptiness of death. “I know that, Katherine. I do not celebrate Christmas.”

“That is silly.” She pointed her eyes to the ceiling of the coach.

The wind howled as if saddened by the reminder of Lydia. Silence echoed his dark musings, punctuated by the rapid churn of the carriage wheels as it turned up snow and gravel in its wake.

The irony did not escape him either; tomorrow would be the anniversary of Lydia’s death, and he should celebrate it married to his new bride.

Katherine continued, seeming unaware of his dark musings. “Christmas is meant to be a time of joy and peace. You’ve been shut away for so very long. Let us return to London, see my family, and celebrate with them.”

A harsh, ugly laugh burst from his chest. “Is this what this is about, Katherine? Is this truly about me? Or is about you having what you desire? Are you merely trying to twist me about your clever finger in order to have your way?”

She slapped him. His head whipped back under the ferocity of her blow.

He flexed his jaw. Christ, she could lay out most gentlemen he’d known in his miserable life.

The color drained from her cheeks. Her skin went a pale shade of white to match the the fresh, fallen snow of the passing scene. “F-forgive m-me,” she stammered.

He blinked under a staggering realization…

She fears me.

Which infuriated him far more than a deserved blow to his person.

His callous words were inexcusable.

He waved off her apology. “I deserved that.”

She wet her lips. “You did deserve it.”

“I know,” he said. “I stated as much.”

“Right.” Katherine fell silent. She shifted her attention to the window. The wind whipped against the carriage. It battered the black lacquer doors. Her long, delicate fingers pulled back the red velvet curtain and she glanced out the window.

Jasper studied her within the reflection of that ice-frosted glass panel.

“Aldora,” she whispered.

He angled his head. “I beg your pardon.”

She fixed her gaze out the window. “It occurred to me how very little we know of one another, Jasper. Aldora. She is my sister.”

He knew that. Guilford spoke of the eldest sister and the woman’s husband. Jasper would not humble himself by acknowledging he’d discussed her life and family quite freely with his close friend and confidante. “And Michael?” he said, knowing very well the wealthy young lord with a scandal attached to his name.