The Duke’s Sinful Bride (Vows of Sin #5)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

“ W here is Lady Fiona?” Yvette asked, her voice cutting through the stillness that had surrounded them for the past two hours.

She was gazing out of the carriage window, her pale blue eyes scanning the roadside as the wheels creaked beneath her.

It was her first time journeying in a carriage in years, and the views passed by like a memory, but her thoughts were anything but serene. A small furrow had formed on her brow as she’d noticed something amiss.

She’d realized there was no second carriage trailing behind them.

The silence inside the carriage felt suffocating. It wasn’t entirely unexpected—the duke had made no attempt at conversation, rather engrossed in a stack of papers he had brought with him—but Yvette found herself unable to ignore her curiosity.

He looked up from the papers, his warm-colored, yet steel-like, eyes locking onto hers. He studied her for a moment, as though assessing whether her question warranted a proper answer.

Finally, with a faint sigh, he placed the papers down beside him.

“She will be staying with our aunt in the countryside for the next month,” he explained evenly. “She was reluctant to come with us to Braemore, so it was decided that our time there would be viewed as a… honeymoon, of sorts. After the month is over, we will all return to London, where we will reintroduce ourselves into society. And focus on finding Fiona a suitable husband.”

Yvette nodded slowly, mulling over his words. She had imagined Lady Fiona’s presence would provide some solace during what promised to be an awkward start to this marriage. Now, she found herself dreading the idea of being alone with the Duke at Braemore for an entire month.

“Very well,” she said softly, glancing out the window again.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment before returning to his papers, the rustle of the pages filling the space between them.

For a while, the only sounds were the steady clatter of the carriage wheels and the occasional neigh of the horses outside.

Yvette crossed her arms, attempting to settle herself, but her mind wandered. The man sitting opposite her, with his rugged features and unreadable expression, was now her husband. The notion felt surreal.

A sudden clearing of his throat drew her attention back to him. It seemed like a habit, she noted, that both Braemores seemed to share. She turned her gaze toward him, raising a brow in silent inquiry.

The duke set the papers aside, leaning slightly forward. “Regarding our union,” he began, his tone clipped but deliberate. “I feel the need to remind you that this marriage is one of convenience. It is only meant to salvage the reputations of both our families, and that is all.”

Yvette’s back straightened, and she tilted her head slightly, her expression guarded.

“There will be no expectation of love or intimacy beyond what society requires,” he continued. “In public, we will present a united front, as a husband and wife should. But in private, we will live as independently as we wish.”

The audacity of his words struck her like a whip, though she had expected nothing less.

“Very kind of you to clarify the terms of our arrangement, Your Grace ,” she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm.

His jaw tightened. “I am merely ensuring there are no misunderstandings.”

She leaned forward slightly, her blue eyes flashing. “Let me assure you, Your Grace, that I have no delusions about this marriage. You need not worry about what I might think, or use your concern as a front to try and control me or make me your pawn.”

His brows drew together, his expression hardening. “Control ye? That was never my intent, though I appreciate yer preference for dramatics.”

“Dramatics?” she echoed, her voice rising. “If anyone here is dramatic, it is you, with your proclamations of duty and stoicism. Not to mention that you rushed to spill blood in the face of false rumors. I can only imagine the burden of being so self-righteous.”

His lips twitched, as though he were holding back a retort. His gaze remained locked on hers.

“Perhaps I underestimated yer temper,” he said after a moment, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.

“And I, dear husband , may have overestimated your ability to hold a proper conversation,” she shot back.

Husband . Her use of the word had kindled an unwanted flame in her. She still could not believe she was married to this man.

Though her simple use of the word was meant to sound like a cuss, Killian’s lips twitched slightly.

“I am perfectly capable of holding a proper conversation.” He responded in a clipped voice, which made her believe the slight twitching of his lips she had witnessed had been a fragment of her imagination.

“I highly doubt it,” she leaned back into the cushion, folding her arms across her chest.

“You seem to enjoy provoking me,” he remarked, his voice low.

“ Provoking you? Do you think me a woman who enjoys facing the anger of men? Trust me, my lord, I have had my fill of it,” she replied.

The duke studied her, his eyes glimmering with thoughts Yvette could not decipher.

For a moment, silence fell between them, but it was no longer the stifling quiet of before. This was charged. Electric. Killian’s gaze dipped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, and Yvette’s breath hitched.

“What is her name?” she asked, changing the subject, her brow slightly raised. “Your daughter, I mean,” she added.

The realization weighed heavy on her shoulders. She was expected to step into a role for which she was entirely unprepared. A wife of convenience was one thing, but a mother? That was quite another thing.

“Maisie,” he answered simply.

“Does Maisie know about… us?” she asked, breaking the silence.

His hazel–green eyes met hers. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Finally, he said, “No. There was no chance to tell her, seeing as she’d left for Braemore before I met you.”

Yvette inhaled deeply, her gaze falling to the folds of her dress. The idea of being thrust into the role of a mother to a little girl she had never met was daunting. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.

“This… union, it might be good for her,” Killian added, his voice a little softer now. “She’s had no woman in her life besides her governess. Her mother died in labor.”

Yvette’s throat tightened. She wasn’t sure if that was meant to reassure her or heap further pressure onto her already burdened thoughts.

“How old is she?” Yvette managed to ask, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Killian seemed to consider the question for a moment before replying, “Six.”

A wave of doubt washed over Yvette. She had envisioned many possible futures for herself, but none involved navigating the unpredictable waters of motherhood, as she had also lost her mother at a young age.

Would Maisie accept her? Or would she see her as an unwelcome intruder?

Yvette exhaled softly and lifted her chin.

“And what about an heir?” she asked, her cheeks flushing as the words left her mouth.

The duke’s brows furrowed, and for the first time, he looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, his broad shoulders straightening.

“I wondered when ye’d bring that up,” he said, his tone half-amused, half-resigned. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded her. “Aye, we’ll need to produce an heir.”

Yvette’s heart skipped a beat. Or it might’ve stopped entirely, she wasn’t quite sure.

“A child,” he continued, his voice steady, “would solidify this marriage in the eyes of society. It would help to fully bury the scandal.”

Yvette nodded slowly, her mind latching onto his every word.

“And as a duke,” he added, watching her face intently as he said the next words, “I do need an heir. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” she echoed, tilting her head.

Killian’s lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Aye. It’s not a priority right now. We’ve enough to deal with as it is.”

Yvette bit her bottom lip, uncertain of how to respond. The implications of his words lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Her thoughts drifted to the practicalities of producing an heir. If she bore him a daughter, would they be expected to try again and again until a son was born?

The color in her cheeks deepened. Though she had spent her early womanhood in a convent, she was far from ignorant about the realities of marriage, for many oblates at the convent had been in a man’s bed, and they had told her about the expectations of the wedding night. Yvette understood precisely what was required to conceive a child.

The duke seemed to notice the change in her expression. His sharp gaze narrowed, a touch of curiosity lighting his features.

“Why do ye have that look on yer face?” he asked, his deep voice laced with intrigue.

Yvette’s breath hitched. How was she supposed to answer that? Should she confess that, despite her best efforts, she had allowed her mind to wander into dangerous territory? That she had imagined what it might feel like to be in his arms, his body pressed against hers as they fulfilled their marital duties?

No, she couldn’t.

She tore her gaze away, her heart pounding against her ribs. What was happening to her? This man, this frustratingly aloof duke, was not supposed to elicit such a reaction from her.

The duke leaned back, his expression once again unreadable.

“Ye should rest,” he said finally, not pressing again for an answer. “We have a long journey ahead.”

Yvette forced herself to nod, turning her attention back to the window. But the tension lingered, an invisible thread connecting them even as they returned to their respective silences.

And, for the first time since the wedding, Yvette wondered if surviving this marriage of convenience would be as simple as she had thought.

Yvette stirred awake to the gentle tapping on her shoulder. She blinked several times, her vision adjusting to the evening view of the setting sun outside the carriage.

The carriage, which had been rocking steadily for hours, was now still. Her gaze shifted upward to find the duke standing over her.

“We are stopping at an inn for the night,” he informed her, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever.

Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of the carriage.

Yvette followed him, stepping onto the gravel road, where the late evening air was cooler than she expected.

She shivered a little, rubbing her arms slightly.

Her gaze rose to take in the inn before them. It was a modest structure of wood and stone, with ivy crawling up one side. Its thatched roof sagged slightly in the middle, and warm golden lights spilled out of its small windows. A wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze, bearing the unreadable name of the inn, and showing the building had seen better days.

Their footmen remained outside speaking to the stable boys about the care of their horses and carriage, while Yvette followed closely behind the duke.

When they entered the inn, Yvette’s eyes instantly adjusted to the warm glow of the lanterns hanging from the wooden roof. The interior smelled faintly of ale and roasted meat. A stout, balding innkeeper with ruddy cheeks greeted them with a polite bow and a smile.

“My lord, my lady,” he said, his tone respectful but curious. It wasn’t every day a nobleman and his wife stopped at such an unassuming establishment.

Her husband wasted no time. “We’ll need three rooms for the night.”

The innkeeper hesitated, then scratched the back of his head. “I’m afraid I’ve only two rooms left, my lord. Business has been good, and there’s been no shortage of travelers.” He gestured apologetically to the narrow staircase at the back of the wide space. “They are fine rooms, but one had two single beds and the other only one bed.”

Yvette felt her cheeks flush. She glanced at the duke, waiting for him to argue or demand better accommodations.

Instead, he simply nodded. “Very well. Prepare the two-bed room for our footmen. My wife and I will take the other one.”

She stiffened. “Surely there must be another inn nearby,” she said, her eyes fixed on the man.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Not for miles, my lady. The road ahead is dark, and you’ll find no finer lodging this late.”

Without further debate, Killian handed the man some coins for the two rooms, one belonging to them and the other belonging to their footmen and gestured for Yvette to follow him. She did so reluctantly, her unease growing with each step up the creaky wooden staircase.

The room they entered was small but clean. A modest four-poster bed with a faded quilt sat in the center of the space, with a simple wooden chest and a washstand nearby. A single window overlooked the forested road behind the inn, and the faint hum of voices from the common room below was muffled but audible.

The duke’s sharp eyes found Yvette, quickly noticing her discomfort as she stared at the bed.

“I shall sleep on the floor,” he said, closing the door behind them.

“Good,” she replied quickly, folding her arms. “Because I am not sharing the bed with you.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk before he bowed his head.

“As my wife wishes.”

Without another word, he stepped out of the room to allow her privacy to change after their belongings were brought up.

Yvette let out a sigh of relief, setting her satchel on the bed and rummaging for her nightdress. She changed quickly, feeling oddly exposed despite being alone.

When he returned, she noticed immediately that he avoided looking at her for whatever reason, his gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards as he crossed the room.

She’d sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting her belongings, when the sound of rustling fabric behind her caught her attention.

She turned, startled, to find the duke pulling his shirt over his head.

Her breath caught. She turned away abruptly, her face burning.

“Must you do that?” she asked with her eyes closed, but the image of his half-naked torso was already burned into her memory.

He glanced over his shoulder, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Aye, must I? Or are ye pretending to be shocked by the sight of a man’s bare chest?”

“I am not pretending,” she replied stiffly.

His scoff was low, almost mocking. “Don’t play coy, duchess. Ye’ve seen a man’s body before.”

Her head snapped toward him, her jaw tightening with fresh fury.

“The rumors you are referring to were untrue. Just as the ones about your sister were.”

The duke approached her on the bed, his stormy gray eyes meeting hers with intensity.

“And yet,” he said, his tone low and teasing, “ye’re looking at me now, as if trying to prove those rumors false.”

Yvette stiffened, her cheeks flaming, but her gaze betrayed her. She couldn’t help but glance—just once—at the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles, and the light dusting of hair that disappeared beneath his trousers.

He noticed, of course. His grin widened. “Like what ye see?”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning away, but her tone lacked conviction.

He inched even closer, his footsteps barely making a sound on the wooden floor.

“Just how insufferable am I, when you can barely keep your eyes off me?”

She felt the mattress dip beneath his weight as he sat beside her. Her pulse quickened.

He was close. Too close for comfort, and she had to find a way to put some distance between them.

“You think you know me,” she said, her voice quieter now, as the manly smell of him infiltrated her nostrils.

“I don’t think,” he replied, his tone softening. “I know ye better than ye think, lass .”

Her breath hitched as his hand came to rest beside hers on the bed. It must’ve been a mistake, she thought, yet he made no move to shift away.

The air between them seemed to hum with tension. Slowly and deliberately, he leaned closer, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her lips.

“If you think the rumors about me are true, then you know nothing about me,” she said.

She couldn’t let him get away with teasing her like this.

“Then there’s only one way to find out,” he muttered and leaned forward.

Yvette didn’t move. She couldn’t, she felt she’d be losing if she did, or perhaps deep down, she wanted what he was offering. Her heart pounded, her body frozen between anticipation and panic.

And then came a knock.

They both jolted apart, the spell broken. Killian stood swiftly, running a hand through his hair as he picked up the shirt he’d just removed, and put it on to answer the door.

A young maid stood there, holding a tray of steaming food.

“Dinner for my lord and lady,” she said, her gaze flickering curiously between the duke and his wife.

“Thank ye,” Killian said, his voice curt.

He took the tray and closed the door, setting it on the small chest.

Yvette remained seated, her cheeks still burning as she tried to compose herself. Killian, however, seemed entirely unaffected as he uncovered the dishes and gestured for her to join him.

“Eat,” he said simply.

It was the only word exchanged between them for the rest of the night.