Duke of Wicked Intentions by Harriet Caves

Chapter Three

Married to a man she’d never met.

Evanora spent the next few weeks in a haze of confusion. The Duke of Norwood, contrary to her expectations, had neglected to visit her, and she had little idea what he’d be like. Cold, she suspected, but then she’d always suspected that. Her father had sat her down and explained that a marriage of convenience was not one of love, but it would give her status, respectability, and independence.

“I just wish I could meet him,” she lamented to Johanna Wallace, her lady’s maid and closest friend. “I know I won’t like him, nor he me, but at least I shouldn’t have to meet him at the altar. I’ve heard he’s very disfigured. What if I’m shocked?”

Johanna pursed her lips in the mirror as she finished unpinning Evanora’s hair. “Can he really be so bad?”

“They say he’s sired all sorts of illegitimate children,” Evanora said on a whisper. This wasn’t the sort of information a polite young lady was supposed to know, but since the news of their engagement had circulated, so had the worst of rumors. “And once, he killed a man in a duel.”

“I doubt he’s done that, My Lady, or likely he’d have fled to France.”

“I’m convinced he was a terrible gamester,” she insisted, removing her earrings and placing them carefully on the vanity. “Everyone knows the Estate’s in a bad state.”

Johanna put her hands on her waist. “Are you determined to think ill of him?”

“The world thinks ill of him.”

“The world thinks ill of you, too,” she reminded Evanora. “As his wife, it’s your duty to think better of him.”

Her duty. Evanora had been hearing a lot about her duty; it was her duty to marry him, especially as the prospect brought such good fortune to the family. It was her duty to think well of him, to support him, and to remain loyal.

None of these duties considered that she would rather not be shackled to a man whose moral compass pointed a few degrees east of due north. Still, if only for her own good, she ought to hope the man himself wasn’t as bad as the rumors made him out to be.

“You’ll be the head of your own household,” Johanna said bracingly. “Your Aunt Augusta won’t be able to require your presence—”

“To every ball, you mean?” Evanora said dryly. “If you think that, you haven’t met my aunt.”

“I’m quite sure she’ll be too intimidated by His Grace to even visit.”

Both girls giggled before Evanora sighed. Marrying the Duke of Norwood would release her from her current obligations, and would elevate her position in society. Few dared cross a Duchess, no matter her origins. Still, rather than a liberation, it felt as though the walls of her life were closing around her, the methods of escape shutting one by one. As a woman, she was subject to her father: a man she knew to be kindly. As a wife, she would be subject to her husband, and the Duke of Norwood was a mystery.

* * *

Evanora woke on her wedding day to inauspicious rain. It pounded against the windows, and wind howled around the Manor as she dressed.

“It’ll come out nice later,” Johanna said, as she wielded the curling tongs with practiced efficiency. “You’ll see.”

Evanora gave no answer. Now the moment had arrived, she felt sick. The usual response to the prospect of marriage was presumably some level of excitement, but she’d never once felt excited; in fact, the closer she’d come to the event, the more dread squeezed her stomach. It didn’t seem real—it couldn’t be real—but real it was, and she couldn’t hide from it any longer.

When she’d finished, Johanna stepped back and assessed Evanora’s reflection with concern lurking in her gray eyes. “There, now, you look beautiful.”

While during her first few seasons, Evanora had widely been considered a pretty girl, she’d never felt the term ‘beautiful’ to be less aptly applied. The luster had gone from her hazel eyes, and no amount of rouge could hide the paleness of her cheeks. Even her curls hung limply. She was conscious, gazing at her reflection, of a wish to cry. On a day when the world squalled around her, it might have been appropriate, but she wasn’t one to give in to foolish urges.

“Thank you, Johanna,” she said with a faint smile. “Is it time to depart?”

“I believe the carriage is waiting, My Lady.”

It was with pomp and grandeur they arrived at a damp chapel where her father and brother waited on the dryness of the porch. It was deeply ironic, she thought as she was handed down from the carriage, that such a grand happening was occurring in such a damp, dismal place. If she’d been a little less overwrought, she might have delighted in the ridiculousness of the situation; as it was, only her father’s proud smile stemmed the tears.

“My Girl,” he said, tucking her arm firmly into her arm. “You look… Charles, doesn’t she look wonderful?”

Charles, alarmed to be called on in such a way, nodded in doubtful agreement. “Lovely.”

“I’ll miss you both,” Evanora said, and because she felt the lump in her throat rise, added, “shall we do it, then?”

The chapel was, thankfully, somewhat less damp on the inside, although it was sparsely decorated and small. Only three occupants awaited them: a tall, brown-haired man in a blue, military-style coat; a fair-haired young man in a similar coat; and the Bishop.

At their arrival, the tall man turned to greet them. There could be no doubt this was the Duke. While he was otherwise perfectly proportioned, a puckered scar stretched diagonally across his face, from under his left eyepatch to his opposite chin. It looked as though it had healed badly, and even now the skin was red and raised, threatening to twist the corner of his mouth.

She should be relieved, she thought, that his disfigurement was restricted to his face, but instead could barely take her eyes from the scar. This was the man she would marry. This man, whose terrible past lay pitted behind him, and whose face whispered secrets about that past, would be the caretaker of her future.

The Duke of Norwood, contrary to her expectations, appeared equally taken aback. His one eye, icy blue and cold, danced across her face and down, across her wedding dress. It was cream, to complement her complexion, but she had otherwise begged for it to be plain. This may be her wedding, but to celebrate such a small affair with an ornate dress seemed absurd.

“Your Grace,” her father said, bowing beside her. Charles, on her other side, also bowed. She knew she should curtsy, but with her gaze caught on the lines of his face—specifically, the line of his scar—she could not.

As though startled from a reverie, the Duke blinked and nodded at the two men on her either side. “Lord Cane, Lord Rathbone, Lady Evanora.”

His voice came to Evanora as a surprise; rather than rasping, as she’d childishly supposed, it was low and rich.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

At last. As though he hadn’t had ample opportunity these past few weeks. Keeping her treacherous thoughts from her face, she dropped into a curtsy. Her dress, damp with rain, clung to her legs. “Your Grace.”

“Thank you for your punctuality.”

Thank you for your punctuality. A less romantic statement had surely never been said. Her heart swelled as her father led her down the aisle and deposited her beside her future husband who, rather than so much as look at her, gestured for the ceremony to begin. Evanora begged the Bishop with her eyes to see her distress—surely, he must have been aware of her future husband’s disfigurement—but the man droned resolutely on.

If she had been a different girl, a less dutiful girl, she might have turned and fled the chapel. What harm could more scandal do? She, at least, was already as blackened in society’s eyes as the proverbial sheep. Her father, however, had suffered from her disgrace, as had her brother. The marriage wasn’t for her sake, it was for theirs. And it was for their sake she lifted her chin and recited her vows with a clear, steady voice.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

The Duke offered her his arm, and in shock she took it as he led her down the aisle, past her father and brother, past the fair-haired man whose name she didn’t even know, out of the door where a carriage awaited them, his coat of arms on the front.

“But, my father—”

“You will have ample opportunity to see him in the future.”

Confusion warred with resentment in her breast as he handed her into the carriage. Wind rocked them as he settled opposite her, his long legs almost touching hers.

“I presume your father told you of the state of my affairs,” he said with alarming frankness.

“He—I know some, Your Grace.”

“The Norwood Estate is not what it used to be. As its Lady, you will be assisting me in returning it to its former glory.”

“A housekeeper can do that as well as a Lady,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow, and she bit her lip, her customary flush spreading across her cheeks. Now was not the time for bitterness to manifest itself.

“I apologize, Your Grace. That was out of line.”

“I understand this may be a difficult transition for you, and you’re correct in that a housekeeper can do much. However, there are certain duties a housekeeper cannot perform.”

“Of course.”

“You can be certain I’ll do all I can to make you comfortable.”

Evanora had never aspired to much romance; she’d always known that all the circulating novels she read were fantasy. Men were not expected to produce such glorious professions of love as were written on those pages. That she should be so prosaically addressed by her new husband, however, came as somewhat of a shock.

“Thank you for your consideration,” she returned, and was rewarded by seeing him sit back fractionally. Reserve fell back between them, and stripped of anything further to say, Evanora turned her gaze to the open countryside that now surrounded them. The rain had, thankfully, stopped, and a watery sun struggled its way through the clouds. Johanna would be at the Norwood Estate now, unpacking and preparing everything for her arrival. They would eat, presumably, and she would have an opportunity to explore her new home, and then later—

His Grace, a stranger who wished for a marriage of convenience, would not be visiting her. There were few things of which she was confident, but this was one of them.

* * *

It took several hours for them to reach Norwood Castle, although the Duke reassured her it wasn’t a castle in anything but name; indeed, it rather more resembled a manor house, though the walls were thick and crumbling. Evanora gazed in barely concealed horror at the strangling ivy and dull windows.

The austere butler and withered housekeeper further confirmed her suspicions that the entire estate was living in the past. The Duke left her almost immediately, striding away with the steward, and she was left to entertain herself.

It was lucky, she reflected, that any misconceptions about the nature of the marriage and his interest in her had been stripped away, or she may have been sorely disappointed by his neglect. As it was, she allowed Mrs. Clement, the housekeeper, to take her on a tour of the house, from her bedchamber—adjoining her husband’s and fully outfitted—to the wilting gardens. The Castle was practically disintegrating around her ears, but it was the gardens that shocked her the most. Remnants of formal gardens remained, but overgrown decorative hedges framed what may have once been a maze, and roses tangled in rampant glory across the paths.

The garden would be the first thing she addressed, she resolved. If her role was to assist in bringing the Castle to life, she would do so. Mrs. Clement had done her best, but she was fighting against a losing tide.

Evanora, however, had been fighting against a losing tide for six years; if anyone could prevail in the face of hardship, it would be her.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The dining room was overly large for just two of them, and although the food was delicious—Evanora resolved to visit the cook the next day—the atmosphere could not have been more frigid.

“Did you find the Estate as you’d hoped it to be?” she inquired.

“Quite the opposite.”

Odious man. “You employ a good cook here.”

“Yes, she’s perfectly adequate.”

Evanora pushed the venison around her plate. In truth, she wasn’t hungry; the nausea from the morning had sunk into calm despair that didn’t call for something as mundane as dinner. “I know so very little of you,” she said. “I hardly feel as though we can be married. Come, can we not converse?”

He looked up at her for the first time, from the end of a table so absurdly large only his eyepatch and scar were clearly visible. “About what?”

“About—” She hesitated. No one had asked that question before, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed. “Do you not like to talk?”

“Infrequently.”

“And as your wife, you have no wish to talk to me?”

“Have you not had your fill of mindless conversation and banalities from your time in society?” He looked at her for a moment longer, as though she was a puzzle he could not piece together, before turning to his meal.

“I’m intrigued to learn you consider your conversation skills banal and meaningless,” she said with breathless daring, rising from the table. “Please excuse me, I’m tired after the journey.”

The Duke made no demur as she stalked away, head held high, until she reached the drawing room. There, on the window seat looking out over meticulously planted trees, though wildness grew there now, she rested her head against the windowpane.

He’d been right to ask if she’d had enough of insipid conversation—in the drawing rooms of society’s diamond’s, she’d found nothing but vapidity, and she had indeed tired of it. To be without all conversation, however—

Well, she comforted herself, she would not be without all conversation. Johanna was here, and their friendship was of such long standing that she need not fear going without conversation. She would not have a loving husband, and she would not have variation to her daily routine, but she would have her maid and confidante. That would be enough.

When she retired to bed, she discovered Johanna had unpacked and laid a silk nightgown on the bed.

“Why, Johanna,” she said, caught between amusement and embarrassment as she held it up, “I hardly feel this is necessary.”

Johanna gave her Lady a knowing look. “It’s your wedding night, Your Grace.”

“Don’t you ‘Your Grace’ me. That means nothing.”

“I’m sure your husband would disagree.”

“We hardly know one another,” Evanora said firmly. “I’m certain he won’t be visiting me tonight.”

“He’s still your husband.”

“And if it were a normal marriage, perhaps I would expect something different, but—” She sighed, slumping on the bed. “It’s a marriage of convenience. He’s not interested in me at all.”

“You never know with men,” Johanna said darkly, moving to unpin Evanora’s hair. “Best to be prepared.”

“Do all of my nightclothes look like this?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.”

She dug her maid in the ribs. “You can stop calling me that. I might be a Duchess, but I don’t feel like one.”

“You might in time. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you might find yourself happy here.”

“One can only hope, I suppose.” With Johanna’s help, she changed and climbed into bed where a hot brick awaited her. “I’m glad you’re here with me. I think I would feel very alone in this rambling old castle without you.”

“I won’t leave you,” Johanna said, giving her hand a squeeze.

To Evanora’s surprise, there was a knock on the door. Johanna gave her a meaningful glance and curtsied to the Duke as he entered. Evanora watched her go with horror.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said dryly as she moved to cover herself. “I’ve merely come to assure you that despite your reputation, I’ve no intention of taking advantage of you.”

Her eyes flashed. “Despite my reputation? What do you mean by that?”

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