Duke of Wicked Intentions by Harriet Caves

Chapter Nine

Miranda once more found herself lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, but this time it was not her bed nor was it her ceiling. Her first night in Morgan Manor was proving to be a sleepless one as anxiety ate at her. She didn’t know why, but it seemed worse than it had throughout the entire day. Perhaps it was because she’d been so overwhelmed by the wedding that she hadn’t fully noticed how she was feeling?

My wedding day was not the stuff of fairy tales.

When she and her father had arrived at the entrance to the Morgan Estate’s chapel, the inside of the little church had been all but empty. The only people who had attended the ceremony were Rowena, Aunt Pam, Benedict’s friend Lord Mortimer, and the Dowager Duchess. Benedict’s mother had declared that no one else should be present to witness her son’s humiliation, and no one had bothered to defend Miranda to her. Not even her father.

The ceremony had been brief. Her father had given her to Benedict, who’d loosely held her hand as if touching her was a chore. Miranda had wanted to cry, though not tears of joy as other brides were want to. The kiss at the end had been nothing like the one they’d shared in the garden. It had been a brief press of lips without passion or real emotion of any kind.

There had been a brief, awkward breakfast that followed, and then, before Miranda knew it, her father, Aunt Pam and Rowena had departed, leaving her alone with her new husband and his mother. Lord Mortimer had also not stayed around for long.

The afternoon had passed with her becoming acquainted with her new home, though neither her husband nor mother-in-law offered to give her the tour. It had been the butler, a kindly older man named Mr. Bevens, who had shown her around the Manor and part of the grounds.

She’d been so heartsick by the end of the day, she’d opted to have her dinner in her room, and so it happened that the day of her wedding ended without her seeing her new husband beyond their morning celebrations…if one could call them that.

Twisting her hands into her covers, she wondered if that was why she was having such trouble sleeping. She didn’t feel as though she and Benedict were off to a good start. Yes, they had agreed to all but lead separate lives, but how could they even pretend at being a couple in public when they never saw each other in private?

I have to speak with him. I have to know if this is really how the rest of my life with be…lonely and sad in a cold Manor filled with colder people.

If that was the case, she had made a grave mistake.

Miranda sat up and threw the covers away from her so she could climb out of the big bed. She grabbed her robe and slipped her feet into slippers before making her way to the bedroom’s door. She opened it and looked out into the hall to make sure no one was about, but it would be rather odd if someone were at that hour of night. Satisfied that no one would see her sneaking to her husband’s room, she quietly hurried down the hallway, trying to remember everything Mr. Bevens had shown her earlier that day.

The Manor was dark and eerily quiet, but she managed to find her way to Benedict’s door at last. Stopping in front of it, she took a deep breath as her heart began to race and her breathing grew short with anxiety. What would he think of her coming to see him like this in the middle of the night? Would he believe her there for indecent reasons?

She shook her head, banishing the thought. When he answered the door, she would explain herself thoroughly and quickly clear up any misunderstandings he might have. Throwing her shoulders back, she raised her chin in determination and lifted her fist to knock firmly on his door.

Silence greeted her.

He is likely in a deep sleep. It will take a little more effort to rouse him, no doubt.

She knocked again, though she was afraid to do so too much harder or louder, as she didn’t want to disturb anyone else in the house. Still, there was no answer.

Frowning, Miranda tested the door’s handle and found it was unlocked. She carefully twisted it and eased the door open just enough that she could poke her head inside. The large room was bathed in moonlight through the glass of an uncovered window, so it was not difficult to see. Her eyes found the bed, and she frowned.

It was empty.

Stepping all the way inside the room, she shut the door softly behind her. She crept forward, looking from right to left for any sign of Benedict. Had he fallen asleep in a chair or odd spot? No, all the seating in the room was empty. Miranda stopped next to the bed and frowned down at the undisturbed surface. Where could he be? Why wasn’t he here?

A sickening thought suddenly entered her mind. Had he gone to another woman on their wedding night?

A gasp escaped her lips at the possibility. Their marriage wasn’t a true one, and he had made it clear that his debaucheries wouldn’t come to an end, but…to go and visit a brothel or mistress the night of their wedding felt like a violation of some kind.

I have no right to be angry. I have no right to feel hurt. This was the arrangement.

Yet, despite those thoughts, she did feel angry. She did feel hurt.

Benedict had shown his true colors to her back when he’d abandoned her for a life of debauchery and freedom. She had been a fool to think for a moment that he had changed in any way.

* * *

“I never took you for a coward, Benedict. Yet here you are, running and hiding from a petite woman who by all rights you should be bedding at this very moment.”

Benedict glared at Mortimer, unamused by his teasing. The two were sitting in Mortimer’s study, drinking brandy because Benedict wasn’t able to sleep.

“I’m not running from her,” he snapped. “I am merely avoiding making a mess of our arrangement.”

Mortimer snorted, taking a long drink. “An idiotic arrangement, if you ask me. That woman might not be worth your love and loyalty, but she is still your wife and a beauty. How are you supposed to get heirs off her if you don’t bed her?”

Benedict regretted confessing the truth of his marriage to his friend. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone what he and Miranda had agreed to, but when he’d shown up on Mortimer’s doorstep several hours before, an explanation had been needed.

“There won’t be heirs,” he growled, turning his gaze away from the Viscount.

“What?” Mortimer sounded genuinely stunned by this. “No heirs? My God, Man, even I know that someday I’ll have to find a wife in order to produce an heir. What do you intend to have happen to your title and Estate without one?”

“Perhaps I’ll leave them all to you,” Benedict spat. “What do I care what happens to any of it when I’m dead and gone?”

“It’s your family legacy. Don’t you want to see that carried on?”

In truth, Benedict did wish to see his line continued. He didn’t want to be the point at which his family came to an end, but he didn’t think he really had much of a choice in the matter. He would never bed Miranda. If he touched her, he knew he would fall under her spell again and would likely have his heart broken once more. The pain she had inflicted upon him had left a deep scar on his soul, and he was never going to let himself go through such torture again.

His resolve to stay away from her had almost crumbled that evening, which was why he had fled his own Estate to seek refuge at Mortimer’s. She’d looked so beautiful that morning during the wedding. Even though it had been clear neither of them had been comfortable during the ceremony, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from desiring her as he’d gazed at her. He’d been so startled by the bubbling lust that kept growing stronger and stronger within him, that he’d avoided her as soon as the wedding and subsequent breakfast had finished.

Benedict had thought it’d be enough to just not see her, but he’d been wrong. As the day had begun dissolving into night, his urge to go to her had grown stronger. It was their wedding night, after all. He would have been well within his rights to seek out his wife’s company and her bed. At one point, he had even found himself wandering the hall toward her bedroom, almost without conscious thought.

That’s when he’d decided it was too dangerous to stay in the house. He’d fled, just like the coward Mortimer had accused him of being.

“There are likely distant cousins or such that can carry it on for me,” he shrugged in response to Mortimer’s last question. “I don’t have to worry about such a thing for a very long time, luckily.”

“I suppose not,” Mortimer begrudgingly agreed. “Still, it’s a rather sad way to spend your wedding night, isn’t it? Drinking with me?”

Benedict raised his glass in salute to his friend. “Let’s consider it my stag party, since I was denied one before the wedding.”

“If that’s the case, we should go see Madame Cynthia and her girls,” Mortimer suggested with a grin. “They’d show us a proper good time.”

Any other night, Benedict would’ve leaped at the chance to visit one of his favorite brothels, but that night…the thought left him cold.

“I’m not in the mood,” he confessed. “I won’t stop you if you’d like to go, though.”

He glanced toward Mortimer, who was studying him intently.

“She is already having quite an effect on you, I see,” his friend grumbled, sitting back in his chair glumly. “She’s sucking all the fun right out of you.”

“I’ve only been married a day, and I hardly saw her at all during it,” Benedict replied. “She hasn’t had any kind of effect on me.”

Mortimer snorted. “Oh, you poor, foolish bastard. I told you not to marry her. The new Duchess of Morgan will only bring you trouble and heartache. I guarantee it.”

“You’re wrong,” Benedict insisted. “I don’t care enough about her for her to have any ability to cause me pain. She is my wife, but we might as well be strangers for how much time our marriage will be spent in each other’s company.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re right,” Mortimer replied, though he didn’t sound at all convinced.

Benedict didn’t say anything more and polished off the rest of his drink. Mortimer was wrong. Benedict had nothing to worry about. Miranda had gotten her claws into him once before, and it had nearly destroyed him. He wasn’t fool enough to let it happen a second time.

He would continue living his life as he wished, as if he didn’t even have a wife, and Miranda would not get the chance to hurt him again.