Page 12 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Mrs. Wilson curtseyed. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll inform His Grace and have a tray sent up.”

Before leaving, the housekeeper paused at the door. “If I may say so, Your Grace, we are all so pleased that the Duke has returned to us. And to see him with a wife… well, it brings hope to Aldermere again.” Her kind face softened further. “I hope you will find some happiness here.”

Selina couldn’t bring herself to respond. Mrs. Wilson, seeming to understand, quietly withdrew.

Left alone with Agnes, Selina sank onto a delicate chair by the fireplace.

The reality of her situation pressed down upon her like a physical weight. She was married to a stranger who had forced her hand. Trapped in a grand house filled with people who looked at her with expectations she could never fulfill.

“Would Your Grace like a bath prepared?” Agnes asked, having finished with the unpacking. “It might help you relax after the journey.”

“Yes,” Selina agreed. “Thank you, Agnes.”

The girl nodded, heading toward the bathing chamber. “I’ll see to it right away. And shall I add some lavender oil? It’s very soothing, and…” She hesitated, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Many brides find it calming on their wedding night.”

Selina stiffened. The wedding night. How had she forgotten that final obligation?

Of course, the Duke would expect to consummate their marriage. It was his right as her husband, and practically speaking, the point of their union. He needed an heir, and she was the vessel chosen to provide one.

Lord Galerton, her first husband, had been too old and frail to claim his marital rights. Now, at twenty-six, she faced the reality of the marriage bed for the first time.

“Your Grace?” Agnes prompted, concern in her young face. “Are you unwell?”

Selina forced herself to breathe. “No, Agnes. I’m fine. Lavender would be lovely, thank you.”

As the maid bustled about preparing her bath, Selina remained by the window, watching darkness claim the estate.

Her estate. Her prison.

The Duchess of Aldermere. The title should have felt like victory. Instead, it settled over her like chains.

CHAPTER 5

“Will there be anything else tonight, Your Grace?” Simmons asked, clearing away Rowan’s barely touched dinner.

“Another brandy,” Rowan replied, staring into the fireplace, where flames danced over blackened logs. “Then you may retire.”

The butler bowed and poured the requested drink before withdrawing silently.

When his chamber door closed, Rowan loosened his cravat and tossed it aside. His jacket followed, landing in a crumpled heap on a nearby chair.

The fire’s warmth couldn’t penetrate the chill that had settled in his bones. One year at sea had changed him in ways he was only beginning to understand.

The nightmares that plagued his sleep.

The constant vigilance that kept his body tense even in the safety of his own home.

The memories of men drowning, screaming as cannon fire tore through wooden hulls.

He downed the brandy in one swallow, welcoming its burn. Tonight should have brought satisfaction. He had reclaimed his title, his home, and his bride. Yet here he sat, alone, while his new wife dined in her chambers rather than join him at the table.

Her rejection shouldn’t matter. Their marriage was only a means to solidify his return to the ton. Perhaps it hadn’t been done in the most sophisticated way, but she had been his betrothed, and no one would take what was rightfully his.

The thought coiled low in his gut, dark and possessive.

She had gotten under his skin far too quickly. Perhaps it was the defiance in her eyes, the quiet fury she wore like a crown. Or the way she held herself, proud even in discomfort—dignified in a room that would have swallowed a lesser woman whole.

And she was… delectable.

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