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A soft noise drew Willow from her slumber. She lifted her lashes slowly. Light blazed through the window. Hadn’t she closed the curtains upon her return? Groaning, she delved deeper into the covers, seeking sleep. But there it was again, a slight rustle that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. With a mental sigh, Willow poked her head from the covers, her eyes searching for the disturbance.
Her gaze moved to the window, which was open, a light breeze pushing at the curtains. That must be it. Willow’s head fell back on the pillows, her lashes resting once more on her cheeks. She could have sworn she’d closed the window last night. She must have been quite exhausted.
“I see you are awake.”
Willow’s eyes shot open.
The low drawl of her husband’s voice snapped her out of her drowsiness and she lurched upright, her eyes locking with the hard crystals of the duke’s.
He stood—too damn handsome for his own good—at the edge of the bed, looming over her. His dark eyes hot and furious.
How long has he been standing there, watching her sleep?
Willow blinked up at him, her hand lifting to pat her mass of tangled bed hair. She always looked a fright in the morning.
He arched a brow.
Someone was in a mood this morning!
“Is something amiss?” Willow murmured, pulling the covers up to her chin. She tried to ignore the thin line of his lips, the hard edge of his jaw.
Had she slept in too late? Had she broken one of his precious rules? Willow almost snorted. She would rise when she was right and ready—which wasn’t at this moment.
She arched a brow right back at him.
He continued to glare at her in silence.
How she wished he was less beautiful. At the very least, it would have made his deplorable disposition easier to ignore. She couldn’t very well ignore his moods if she couldn’t stop staring at his face. And she certainly did not want to stare at his face. She’d rather stare at his lips, truth be told.
So she did.
They were much better to stare at anyway. They did not glare. They were full and tempting. And probably tasted of coffee.
“Do you find something fascinating on my face?”
Willow’s lashes lifted to meet piercing eyes. “Have I broken one of your precious rules while sleeping?”
His eyes narrowed, flicking to the untouched set of papers on her desk. “You would know if you had bothered to read them.”
“I already told you, I’m not much of a reader.”
“Then I shall read them to you,” he ground out.
“I’m not much of a listener, either.”
His shoulders tensed, the veins in his neck were thick and visible. But Willow did not acknowledge his temper and instead, had to bite back a groan at the sight of him all furious. All it did was remind her of last night, of his hands and mouth all over her body, attacking her senses.
Oh dear Lord, was she lusting after her husband?
In her defense, she hadn’t expected their wedding night to be so marvelous. She wanted more of it. Lots more. But at the same time, she could not allow this man to rule her with a set of dictates. Not even for the pleasure that likely came with it.
She was a rule flaunter, after all.
Still, a tinge of fear hovered on the surface of that thought. Fear that she may fail to help her sister. Fear that he would succeed in making her miserable. Fear this war would last for the rest of her life and they’d find no common ground.
She dashed the thought from her mind. Defeat was not something Willow was willing to contemplate. Not ever.
“Not being much of a reader or listener, I suppose you excel at other things—like wandering off on midnight strolls?”
Ah.
Willow swore her chest cracked open, her heart beat so wildly. She rose to a seated position.
“I never took midnight strolling for a skill,” she murmured. Might as well go down in blazing sarcasm.
“Where the hell did you go last night?”
“To bed?”
The edges of his lips tightened. “Do not mock me. Last night after I left, you snuck out to see her.”
Willow squared her shoulders. The way he spat the word had her hackles rising. “This her you refer to—”
“Where is she?” he pressed.
“I cannot possibly know to whom you are referring. The her and the she you mention, it’s rather vague.”
“My betrothed,” he snapped.
“I was not aware a married man could have one of those.”
“You know very well I mean your sister,” he growled.
“And I rightly do not know where you have scared her off to.”
His eyes blazed with righteous indignation. “I did no such thing.”
“Of course you did. Let there be no illusions between us. My sister ran away at the prospect of eating only one slice of toast in the morning.” She ignored his arched brows. “Amongst other things.”
“And these other things, they are all about love and happily ever after, yes?” he mocked.
She shrugged. “We Middletons love our breakfast.”
“And you don’t share your sister’s view? That is why you married me?”
“I’m much more practical when it comes to matters of toast. But less so when it comes to starvation.”
He scoffed. “Those rules are in place to ensure blooming health.”
Blooming health? Who on earth was this man?
“It’s unhealthy to change my diet from hearty breakfast to a meager slice of toast,” Willow countered.
He sighed. A deep heavy exhale of breath. The hardness of his eyes, however, did not soften. “I will not argue the merits of my rules with you. However, it seems to me you are in need of a lesson as you have wittingly put your life in danger by slipping out last night. Do you have any idea how dangerous London is at night?”
In need of a lesson? From the stuffy Duke of St. Ives? Her temper exploded. I think not.
“I was perfectly safe last night and no, dear husband, it’s not I in need of a lesson but you.”
“And what lesson would that be?” he drawled.
“Respecting your wife’s privacy,” she declared. “From henceforth, you shall not set foot in my bedchambers without an invitation!”
Black eyes flashed.
Willow shut her mouth before she could take the words back. In hindsight, that might not have been the wisest declaration since her goal was to become with child. But then, she had no intention of accomplishing her goal on his terms—at least not as they were declared last night—and she refused to settle for less. Even if it meant putting her plan on hold for the time being.
“And what of your duties toward your husband?”
Willow brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face, suddenly pleased the reckless declaration had flown from her lips.
“What about them?”
A vein ticked in his jaw.
Willow shrugged. “You have made your point clear, as have I. I shall not neglect my duty to produce you an heir but neither shall I endure your huffing and puffing.”
“I do not huff and puff!” Clearly offended, he dragged his hand through his hair.
“Once I have confirmed your seed has not taken root, I shall decide if I wish to endure another night of your . . .” she shot him A Look, “erratic breathing or not.”
His eyes darkened, if that was at all possible. “You did more than endure, dear wife, you cried out in pleasure. And may I remind you, regular intercourse ensures a faster result,” he pointed out. “And I can show you just how much you enjoyed it, again and again.”
Heat pooled in her belly at the reminder. She wasn’t about to let slip just how much last night had rocked her world. Not when he was still thinking to deny her that experience.
“Perhaps, but that was before you awakened me to the pleasures of the flesh and then threatened to deny me, most cruel of you. So if I am not to enjoy the siring of your heir, neither shall you.”
His lips thinned.
Willow almost cracked a grin. She had the devil there. She meant it, too. Either he would change his rule or she would stick to hers. No small part of her hoped for the former.
“Besides, if your seed is as disciplined as you are,” she said with the jut of her chin, “no further intercourse is required.”
His eyes rolled over her in a sensual way, indicating he did not agree. She quickly quelled the sudden well of unbidden desire. Willow would not be intimidated or seduced by him. No matter that his low drawl stirred her senses to arousing life. She would maintain her composure.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean every word,” Willow declared.
A wicked smile curved his lips “Is this your way of seducing me? Driving me wild with want?”
“Of course you would see it as such. No one has ever defied your wishes, have they?”
He glared down at her.
“If you wanted a biddable wife, Ambrose, you should not have set your sights on a Middleton. A wallflower might have been more to your taste for I am not a woman who wilts under a man’s stern regard.”
“In the battle of wills, Willow, you will lose.”
Determination rose within her breast. “I suppose we shall see about that,” she murmured.
From nowhere, he tossed the latest newspaper on the bed. Willow hadn’t even realized he had it clutched in his hand. She drew the paper closer, reading the headline, printed in bold letters on the first page of the London Times.
The Duke of St. Ives marries the wrong Middleton.
Willow groaned. “That sounds about right,” she muttered, reading on. Why had she harbored the faintest of hope that the scandal would not be splashed on the first page of the newspapers?
In what might be considered the greatest deception in London’s aristocracy, one of the most powerful men in England was duped in a grand heathen wedding swap.
Well, Willow mused, it could hardly be a wedding swap if one of the parties walked away without a husband.
Though the duke seemed taken with his bride—even kissed her most ardently before the priest!—one has to wonder whether the Dowager’s fainting spell was due to her failing health or bearing witness to the stain of black taint spreading across her coveted family name.
Willow flinched.
“I see you agree with my sentiments,” the duke snatched the paper from her fingers. “It’s a rare pleasure to read the paper and see they refer to my wife as a heathen.”
“There are worse words to be referred as.” Like strumpet. Or harridan. Or fishwife. “They are just speculating. Speculation is good.”
“And how is that, my little heathen wife?”
Willow sighed, her eyes lifting to meet the hard onyx crystals of the duke’s.
“Speculation can be controlled. It can be spun in any way you choose, so you can stop glaring at me and attempt to salvage your mother’s antics. Had she not sobbed like a child and fainted, most of these rumors might have been avoided.”
“I’ve taken steps to resolve this mess.”
He had? “What steps?”
He shrugged. “Dashwood and I are collaborating stories that the name of my bride got mixed up with her sister’s.”
“But you courted Holly, not me.”
“I say, and Dashwood says, I courted you.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “Are you going to punish me for slipping out?”
“I am not a beast. But I do have boundaries and you have crossed them all.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers. “However, since we do not know one another all that well, a certain leeway is to be allowed.”
Willow blinked up at him in shock. He did not wait for a reply but pivoted on his heel and strode from the room.
“Read the damn rules,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Because if you ever put yourself in danger again, I will lock you in your damn chamber for a year.”
She did not doubt that he would do it, too.
Willow fell back on the bed with a sigh. This was not how she expected her morning to begin. Neither had she expected such a relatively mild response from her husband. He must have been furious in discovering her gone. And then there was the headline of today’s paper. She’d fully expected some form of punishment from him. As a matter of fact, she had rather thought he’d transform into an ogre.
But he hadn’t.
This was not the character of a man everyone believed to be a tyrant.
If you ever put yourself in danger again...
In danger. Interesting choice of words. Not if Willow ever defied his rules, but if she ever put herself in danger again. Indeed, perhaps something else was at hand here. She’d have to give the matter some lengthy thought.
She was still not reading those damn rules.