For Love of the Duke(61)
She marched onward, content to trail after his broad-backed frame.
Why, she hadn’t had, a…a…
“Wedding night,” she muttered.
Jasper spun so quickly she stumbled into him.
Katherine would have surely tumbled down the stairs, but he caught her by the arms. “Have a care, Your Grace,” he commanded in the same way a governess might scold a recalcitrant child.
She pressed her lips together, and jerked free of his hold. She proceeded to march ahead until she reached the main level of the keep. It mattered not that she didn’t know down which long hall her chambers happened to be. She’d rather knock on every other blasted door than bear the bluntness of his angry gaze.
“Right, madam,” he drawled from behind her with the faintest trace of amusement lacing his directions.
Oh, the dunderhead was enjoying this.
Katherine tossed open the first door. Again, those crisp white linens covered the furniture and portraits that adorned the spacious parlor. She closed it and moved to the next. A drawing room.
Next. Her fingers grasped the handle.
“Do not.”
She spun around.
Fury snapped in his eyes. “Do not.”
Katherine turned and glanced back at the door, filled with a sudden urge to press her fingers to the handle and see what dark secrets were hidden beyond the thin wood panel.
Instead, she pulled her hand back, and then followed him in mutinous silence, wondering that he could be so entirely different people; the man who’d given her the last edition of Wordsworth, and now this threatening duke.
He stopped at the end of the hall, and flung open a door. “Your chambers, Katherine.”
Your chambers.
Not our chambers.
Of course, they would keep separate rooms.
Especially when he had no intention of consummating their marriage.
With a tentative step, she walked inside, and did a turn around the space. The residences Katherine had considered home through the years had never been modest, smallish places, and yet, she could fit several of her bedchambers into this one. Resplendent in dark Chippendale furniture, from the four-poster bed to the armoire, a king or queen could comfortably sleep here. Yet, with the brocade wallpaper in deep green shades and matching curtains, the room was devoid of cheer.
Jasper pulled off his gloves and dusted them together. “I hope the room meets with your satisfaction.”
“Undoubtedly so, Your Grace.”
How very stiffly polite they were.
He gave a satisfied nod, and started for the door.
The reality that when he stepped out of the room, she would be completely and utterly alone in this dark, foreboding house, filled her with a sudden trepidation. “You are going?”
Jasper swung back around.
She curled her toes inside the soles of her slippers. Who knew embarrassment could sting worse than the bite of a vicious hornet? “That is to say…”
I don’t want to be alone.
I want a real marriage with you.
I care for you. Her eyes slid closed. Oh, God, I am a complete and utter fool.
“Katherine?”
Her eyes snapped open. “Well, that is to say I thought we might sup together or that mayhap you’d show me around the manor, or even stay to discuss…” She wracked her mind.
He folded his arms across his broad chest. “To discuss, what, Katherine?”
“The weather,” she blurted. “Or perhaps the Christmastide festivities.”
“There will be no celebrations for the Christmas season.” The harsh pronouncement bounced off the otherwise still room, echoing around them in cruel mockery.
She settled her lips into a mutinous line, and took several steps toward him. “You’ve taken me from my family, at the holiday season no less.” She jabbed her finger at the air as she advanced. “You forced me to leave my home at the Christmastide season, my sisters and brother. You provided no maid.” She jabbed her finger again, and stopped in front of him, so close she had to tilt her head back and strain to see him, so close their feet brushed. Katherine stuck her finger into his bearish chest. “You will not take away my holiday season. Is that clear, Your Grace?”
Oh, what she wouldn’t trade to have just another several of inches or so with which to boldly face down his impossibly tall frame. She jabbed at him again.
“And what was that for, Your Grace.”
“For being so blasted tall,” she muttered.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“For being so bloody foul,” she amended, for that might make more sense to her surly ogre of a husband.
He captured his chin between a thumb and forefinger and rubbed it contemplatively. “I’d rather thought you said—”
“You’re wrong,” she cut in. Her eyes narrowed. “And you’ve deviated beyond the point, Jasper. We will celebrate Christmas.”