Page 7 of The Earl's Christmas Gift

There.

She’d said it.

Out loud.

Finally.

A moment of absolute silence, and then…

“No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

Alexandria froze. She had prepared herself for anger. She had even prepared herself for the pain of acquiescence. But she hadn’t thought to prepare herself for the possibility of outright denial.

Beyond the windows, the snow had picked up and the wind had started to howl, clacking the tree branches together like a barrel of bones. And even though every fire in the house was lit at her request, she couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down her spine.

“What–what do you mean?” she asked in a strangled voice that didn’t sound like her own.

“I am going to bed,” he said, ignoring her question. “I suggest that you do the same. In the morning, you’ll forget this nonsense and not speak of it again.”

“I don’t require your permission!” she burst out when he was halfway up the stairs. The words clawed their way out of her, feral things that had lived too long in the dark to be suppressed now that they’d caught a glimmer of light. “I–I can leave whenever I want. Iwillleave.”

Duncan stopped mid-step. His hand tightened on the railing, but he didn’t turn. “And go where?” he said coldly. “Your parents won’t have you. The scandal wouldn’t permit them. You’ve no money of your own. No means by which to place a roof over your head or clothes on your body.”

“My dowry–”

“What dowry?” Here, he did turn, and she wished that he hadn’t, for the lines of mocking derision carved into his face were nearly too much to bear. “You came to this marriage with nothing, Alexandria. Withlessthan nothing, as I saw your father’s gambling debts settled. You haven’t a shilling to your name.”

She hated that he was right.

Hated that men had created a society that put so little value on a female’s worth.

Hated that she was viewed as chattel; something to be bought and bartered for.

But most of all, she hated that her ownhusbandsaw her that way. To Duncan, she was no more special or important than his prized thoroughbred stallion, or the William Turner painting he’d spent a small fortune on at auction, or his fine tailored jacket with gold buttons. Not a wife to be loved, but an object to be coveted. Except she wasn’t a…a vase to be placed high on a shelf. She was a person. A woman. With feelings and dreams and unfulfilled desires. If she didn’t find a way to escape this gilded cage of beautiful furniture and attentive servants and aching loneliness, she was going to wither away here. She was going to turn to dust here. And Duncan…Duncan probably wouldn’t even notice.

“I may not have any money of my own, but I’d rather be a beggar on the street than your countess in a castle.” Eyes flashing with defiance, she spun on her heel and walked away before he could muster a reply.

* * *

I’d rather be a beggar on the street than your countess in a castle.

Alexandria’s words echoed in Duncan’s head throughout a long, restless night and into the pale, watery light of day. He awoke feeling cross, and tired, and when he peered at his reflection in the mirror above his porcelain washbasin he saw that there were dark circles under his eyes. Put there, he thought grumbling, by his ungrateful spitfire of a wife.

Hadn’t he done everything that he was supposed to?

Some men were stingy with their allowances, but not Duncan. Alexandria had always been allowed to buy whatever she wished. There were no barriers to her spending. No stern rebuke when the notes piled up on his desk at the end of each month. After a cursory glance, he merely turned them over to his solicitor…and enjoyed the fruits of his generosity whenever Alexandria wore a new dress that showed off her shapely curves and lovely breasts.

He’d touched those breasts once, he recalled. On their wedding night, and for several nights after, with a fire crackling in the hearth and snow silently falling, they’d made love in the orange glow of the flames. He’d kissed every inch of her delectable body. She’d tasted of raspberries and plums, and had given herself to him with a shy willingness that had spurred his arousal to unexplored heights. But as the nights had grown colder, so too had her bed.

For some reason, she had always asked him to stay with her, Duncan thought with a frown. And while he regarded himself as an excellent lover (certainly he’d never received a complaint), any intimacy following the act itself made him feel…strange. Vulnerable. Exposed. All the things he’d been raised not to be.

Nearly a decade after his father’s death, and he could still hear the old man’s gravelly voice ringing in his ears.

‘An earl does not display weakness. An earl does not show emotion. An earl promotes a picture of strength and power in all things, but most especially over his own domain.’

Bertram White had been approaching fifty when his wife, a frail thing that had barely survived the strains of labor, had given him a son and heir before passing away within the year. To the best of Duncan’s recollection, his father had never acted cruelly, but he was dismissively callous, as well as cognizant of the fact that the time he had to mold his heir into the man he wanted him to be was shorter than it should have been.

As a result, there were no hours wasted on meaningless things such asaffectionorpraiseorlove. His education focused on more important lessons, like how to ride a horse, shoot a pistol, win a game of whist.

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