Page 32 of Wedded to the Beastly Duke
“You may have forgotten, but we are, in fact, married.”
“Oh, no.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I had not forgotten. Would that Icouldforget.”
Guilt throbbed low behind his breastbone. “In the privacy of our own home, you may call me Adam, or at the very least Kant. Anything is better thanMy Lord Duke.” He shuddered.
“Perhaps I am not the wife you had hoped for, after all.” She took the kitten from his arms, cooing over its tiny open eyes and mewling call. “What are you doing here?”
Her open hostility was hard to miss, and in return, he said, “Ensuring you are doing nothing else to endanger my home.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Endanger? By inviting cats here?” She looked again at the white cat still circling his legs. “You do not seem wholly averse to them.”
She was impossible. He felt his ire rise. Every time she laid down the gauntlet, he wanted to pick it up and meet her in combat. Seeing who would win made him more excited than he should have been.
Marriage was not a battlefield, even if she made it feel as though she was waging a war.
“I will take my leave, Emmeline,” he said, giving her a stiff bow. He didn’t miss the way her eyes flashed at the sound of her name. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I am gone.”
“Now that,” she said with a hint of defiance and pride, “is something I cannot promise.”
He spent entirely too much time wondering what she would think of next, amused and frustrated at the prospect in equal measure.
ChapterTen
Arranging for the Duke’s least favorite dinner to be served every day for a week seemed to have no effect on him. To her chagrin, he merely nodded and chewed and maintained a silence that she was forced to break for her own sanity.
Replacing the curtains in the drawing room with something garishly yellow also didn’t work. If he noticed, he gave no sign of it, and she was left to stew in the knowledge that the color scheme now madeherunhappy. After just three days, she ordered for it to be changed back.
She went into the village three more times without an escort, walking each time. The Duke’s jaw ticked at that, especially when she invented a wild tale about a group of drunken young men walking and singing and offering to show her a good time.
In reality, there had been three drunken young men who had been so confounded by her presence that they had each bolted in different directions.
To her frustration, nothing seemed to prove to the Duke that she was unsuitable to be his wife. She had said as much to him several times, but he hadn’t taken the hint. In fact, he seemed remarkably obtuse to every possible hint that they would not suit. Did not suit. Would never suit.
Eventually, her ideas dried up or proved fruitless, so she turned her attention to the garden. Unlike the house, which was worn but still presentable, the garden needed a great deal of work. The formal gardens were overgrown, the rose garden was more like a maze, and the style was a good century out of date.
Thus, donning a large bonnet and an old dress, she made to go outside, encountering Mrs. Pentwhistle in the hallway.
“Oh, dear me,” the housekeeper said involuntarily and stepped back, the keys on her belt jangling. “Where are you going in that getup, Your Grace?”
“It’s time to address the garden, don’t you think?” Emmeline said breezily.
By the way Mrs. Pentwhistle’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, she did not think. “The garden, Your Grace?”
“Well, yes. That’s something I truly can do, and at no expense to the estate.”
“But—surely you don’t mean to do the work yourself?”
“Whyever not?” Emmeline gave the housekeeper her sunniest smile. “It’ll keep me occupied, and pulling out a few weeds is hardly likely to do me any damage.”
“But… consider your position, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pentwhistle said feebly. “You’re a duchess.”
“A little weeding won’t kill even a duchess!” With a merry smile, Emmeline left through the front door and walked across the expansive lawn to the rose garden. “Bring me some shears,” she commanded one of the gardeners, who was so old that it looked like a strong breeze might knock him down. “And a gardening fork, if you please. The flowerbeds are overrun with weeds.”
He gave her a doubtful look but touched his forelock and obeyed. Moments later, she had the tools she needed and began to address the terrible mess that was the garden.
When she was younger, she’d spent considerable time in her garden, tugging up the weeds and pruning the flowers. Her mother hadn’t thought it ladylike, but her father hadn’t objected, and so her mother’s complaints were never heeded.
There was something soothing about the rhythmic motion—grasping the weeds at the stem, tugging them free from the earth, tapping the roots against the ground to dislodge any soil, and putting them to one side. The sun beat down on her head, and a sweat broke out down her back, but she found the motion calming.
