“Indeed,” he murmured, but his gaze dropped to her mouth. It was barely a moment, and she could be imagining things. Soon, his attention was back to the poor stump.
Cathy was not going to wait for whatever was going to happen. She retreated to her wooden bench and log table. This time, none of the numbers were making sense. They looked more like hieroglyphics cursed by a pharaoh. Even as she positioned her quill, her mind was elsewhere. The rhythmic chopping had begun again. This time, she could clearly imagine how it was being done. With sweat. With anger. Without a shirt.
Instead of seeing the numbers for her sisters’ expenses, she imagined Tristan’s muscles flexing in his back.
Cathy knew she should not follow that train of thought, but she imagined the heat and weight of those broad shoulders pressed against her. A sudden ache pooled in her lower belly, with a hunger she had been trying to ignore.
What would it be like if they stopped this pretense of distance? She did not want him to avoid her. No, she wanted him to pin her against something and make her feel the full weight of his masculine power. How was it possible that his every move madeher feel desperately thirsty, not for water, but for something only he could slake?
No, that does not make sense!I do not want him. I do not.
Cathy tried to refocus on her notes. She was too distracted, and that had to change. She now scribbled as if she were fighting someone. Hopefully, someone watching her would think she was merely focused on her work.
So focused did she seem at some point that she did not hear him approach. A shadow fell over the page of her ledger.
“Ah. The Marlow accounts must be quite compelling,” Tristan’s voice boomed.
Cathy nearly knocked over her inkwell as she startled. When she looked up at him, she was relieved that he was at least dressed. His rumpled, stained shirt was back on. However, some buttons were still popped, revealing the hard ridges of his stomach.
“Yes... yes! They are,” she said, trying to be firm but coming out as breathy. “What is it that you want, Your Grace?”
The Duke did not reply immediately. He leaned toward her, so close that his face was mere inches from hers. He was so close, and she could barely breathe. Then, he pointed a finger at the log table.
“I am certain you have been focused,” Tristan said, his voice even and reasonable. “However, you do have to check your aim, Duchess. You may want to refill your inkwell, too.”
Cathy looked down at her makeshift table and gasped. She was shocked to see that she had not been writing in her ledger at all. Her ink had completely missed the parchment for the last few lines. She had apparently written on her log table, instead.
“I, uh, I was just...”
“Were you?” he began, his hilarity increasing, and his smile widened. “Were you listening for my ax? Or did you leave your little table to spy on me? Do not be embarrassed, Duchess. I have been told it is merely a physical reflex. It could have happened with anyone.”
Cathy’s cheeks were hot from humiliation as her own words were thrown back at her. Breathless, she scrambled to her feet while also gathering her papers and inkwell. She tried to hide the shaking in her hands, but to no avail.
Without looking at him, she mumbled, “I have to go.”
The following breakfast, everything was quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were the clinking of silver and the ticking of the clock.
Cathy’s eyes were planted firmly on her toast as she spread butter on it. She did not want to acknowledge his undeniable presence. Thankfully, dukes were not allowed to eat their meals without their shirts on. He looked completely decent, not that she was looking at him. But even if she was not, she could feel his movements, smell his clean, slightly smoky scent, and hear his little rituals at the table.
They had not known each other intimately for long, but she had already guessed what he would do for his breakfast: take a slice of bread and dab it with butter before adding a generous dollop of marmalade. Then, after eating his bread, he would go for the egg next. Everything would be done with the help of tea. It wasdistracting how her mind followed his steps, but she would take it if it meant he was predictable.
Alas, he did not plan on being predictable that morning either.
“We have received an invitation,” he announced suddenly.
“How lovely,” she replied drily, still not looking at him. Her bread looked all too pretty, with what was beginning to feel like decorative butter. It was time to take a bite.
“This particular invitation is from the Marchioness of Hertford,” Tristan continued, as if he did not notice her tone. “It is for a ball on Friday.”
Cathy finally met his questioning gaze, frowning. Why was he telling her this?
“We do not have to be there. We can send our regrets, and I will be happy to write it myself. I am sure the Marchioness will understand that we have just gotten married and are currently settling into this new life. Nobody expects us to be socializing already.”
“On the contrary,” Tristan said pleasantly. “Everyone expects precisely that. Thetonhas been waiting with considerable anticipation for their first proper look at us as a married couple. Every day we delay gives them another day to fill with speculation.”
“Let them speculate,” Cathy said, reaching for her tea. “We know the truth of the matter.”
“Do we?” he asked. “Because from where I sit, the truth of the matter is that we were found together behind a church, caused the scandal of the Season, and have since barely been seen in the same room together. That is not a picture of domestic harmony,Cathy. That is a picture of two people who deeply regret what happened.”