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

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“ I t’s beautiful,” Yvette murmured as they drew closer to Braemore Castle, her voice barely above a whisper as they approached the main gates.

Their journey had lasted five days, and each day had been no different from the first. Long hours in the carriage were followed by brief stops at various inns along the way, and the routine became as predictable as the sunrise.

Yvette was grateful, however, that they had managed to secure separate rooms after the first night. The memory of the duke, shirtless and teasing, was one she could not seem to shake. Seeing him like that once had been challenging enough. Enduring it repeatedly would have been impossible.

The air was cooler here, carrying the crisp scent of impending rain. Yvette leaned slightly out of the carriage window, her breath catching at the sight that unfolded before her.

Braemore Castle stood proud and imposing against the rugged landscape. The massive stone castle seemed to rise out of the ground itself, its gray walls blending seamlessly with the rocky cliffs behind it.

The duke, seated across from her, glanced up from the papers he had been reviewing. He followed her gaze but said nothing.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and the footmen rushed to assist them. Yvette stepped down carefully, her eyes still fixed on the grand castle. She felt a strange mix of awe and fright.

This was her home now—a thought that was both thrilling and unsettling.

The castle’s staff gathered at the entrance, standing in neat rows as the duke led her forward. Their faces lit with smiles as he introduced Yvette to them.

“This is your new duchess,” he announced, his voice steady and authoritative.

The staff erupted into cheers and polite applause, their genuine warmth momentarily easing Yvette’s nerves.

Before Yvette could respond to the staff’s enthusiastic welcome, a high-pitched squeal pierced the air.

“Papa!”

A little girl of about six came hurtling out of the castle doors, her auburn hair, similar to her father’s, but lighter, bouncing in two tidy pigtails. Her yellow dress was clean and bright, but what caught Yvette’s attention most were the little gaps in her toothy smile.

The girl’s hazel eyes—the exact shade as her father’s—sparkled with unrestrained excitement. Behind her, a visibly flustered governess trailed, her expression that of exasperation.

“Papa!” Maisie cried, throwing herself at the duke with all the energy of a six-year-old.

He stiffened at the sudden embrace, his arms hovering awkwardly before finally settling around her small frame. Yvette observed the exchange, noting the unease in his stance despite the affection in his daughter’s expression.

When Maisie finally pulled away, Killian placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Maisie, this is Yvette,” he said, his tone softening ever so slightly. “She is my wife now.”

Maisie’s wide, curious eyes shifted to Yvette. For a moment, the child simply stared, as though trying to decide whether this new presence was a friend or foe.

Yvette crouched to the girl’s level, offering a warm smile.

“Good morning, Maisie. It’s very nice to meet you,” she said gently.

Maisie’s lips pressed together, her small hands clutching the folds of her dress nervously. She didn’t say a word, her shyness overtaking her.

“She’ll warm to you,” Killian said abruptly, his tone dismissive.

He gestured to the governess, who hurried forward to retrieve the child.

As Maisie was led away, Yvette straightened, her gaze lingering on the retreating figure of the little girl.

“You were rather cold with her,” she remarked, her voice measured but pointed.

His expression hardened.

“How I treat my daughter is no concern of yours,” he replied curtly.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode into the castle, leaving Yvette standing at the foot of the steps.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but she quickly unclenched them, drawing a calming breath. Before she could dwell too long on his abruptness, a woman stepped forward with a kind smile.

“Allow me to show you around, Your Grace,” the woman said, her tone warm and welcoming.

Yvette turned to her, grateful for the distraction. “Thank you,” she replied, returning the smile.

The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Calloway, the castle’s housekeeper, and led Yvette through the grand entrance hall.

The interior of Braemore was no less impressive than its exterior.

Polished wooden floors gleamed beneath her feet, and the air carried a faint hint of lavender, as though fresh sachets had been placed in every room.

The walls were adorned with large, gilded portraits of past dukes, their stern visages watching over the castle as though they still ruled its halls. Elegant chandeliers hung from high, vaulted ceilings, their crystals catching the dim light and scattering it in soft rainbows.

“Everything here is quite magnificent,” Yvette murmured, her voice filled with genuine admiration.

Mrs. Calloway beamed. “I’m so pleased you think so, Your Grace. If there’s anything you’d like to change or add, please don’t hesitate to let me know. This is your home now.”

Yvette hesitated, unsure how to respond. While the older woman’s offer was kind, Yvette felt an unspoken constraint. This marriage was one of convenience, and she doubted Killian would welcome her making significant changes to his ancestral home.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Calloway, but I think everything is perfect as it is,” Yvette said tactfully. “If I decide otherwise, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The housekeeper nodded, her smile unwavering. “Very well, Your Grace. And if you need anything at all—anything—please do not hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you,” Yvette replied sincerely.

As they continued the tour, Yvette found herself more and more captivated by the castle’s beauty. The dining hall was grand enough to host a hundred guests, with its long oak table and intricately carved chairs. The library was a marvel, its towering shelves packed with books that ranged from historical times to more recent works.

Finally, Mrs. Calloway led her to a smaller, more intimate drawing room with plush sofas and a roaring fire.

“Pardon me for my directness, Your Grace, but this is one of my favorite rooms,” the housekeeper confided. “It’s quiet and cozy—perfect for a bit of respite.”

Yvette smiled, feeling a pang of gratitude for the woman’s thoughtfulness. “I think it might become one of my favorites as well.

Mrs. Calloway returned the smile and led Yvette up the grand staircase, her steps steady and her voice warm as she explained the details of the castle’s design.

As they ascended, Mrs. Calloway gestured to a series of doors that branched off from the hallway.

“This wing is reserved for the family,” she said, stopping in front of a wide oak door. “And here is your chamber, Your Grace.”

Yvette stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the room. The chamber was spacious and beautifully furnished with deep burgundy curtains that framed tall windows. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its canopy trimmed with gold embroidery. The hearth crackled with a warm fire, and the scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air.

“This, Your Grace, connects directly to His Grace’s chambers,” Mrs. Calloway said, motioning toward another door at the far end of the room, her tone casual, though Yvette felt her face flush.

The color deepened as Mrs. Calloway added, “His Grace wrote ahead to request this arrangement. He wished for everything to be perfectly prepared for his wife’s arrival.”

Yvette glanced toward the adjoining door as if it might open on its own. The thought of how easily he could enter her room—or how easily she could enter his—sent her mind spinning.

She nodded briskly, attempting to regain composure.

“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Calloway.”

The older woman gave a knowing smile, then turned as a knock at the door interrupted their conversation. A young woman entered, her dark curls tied back neatly beneath her maid’s cap. She curtsied low.

“This is Daisy,” Mrs. Calloway said. “She will serve as your personal maid. She’s dependable and will ensure you have everything you need.”

“Thank you,” Yvette said, offering the girl a polite smile. Daisy’s wide eyes sparkled with eagerness, and Yvette couldn’t help but take an instant liking to her.

Mrs. Calloway excused herself, leaving Yvette and Daisy alone.

“I’ll help you change, Your Grace,” Daisy said, already moving to untie the laces of Yvette’s dress.

As Daisy prepared a warm bath, the two engaged in light conversation. “Are you from Braemore?” Yvette asked, curiously.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Daisy replied. “Born and raised here. My mother worked in the kitchens for years. I started as a scullery maid when I was thirteen, and now…” She trailed off with a shy smile, gesturing to her current station.

“You must be very capable,” Yvette said kindly.

Daisy beamed as she adjusted the water in the tub.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

After soaking in the warm bath, Yvette found herself relaxed for the first time since the journey began. Daisy helped her into a nightgown before quietly exiting the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She drifted off into a light nap, only to be startled awake by a sharp knock at the door.

Rubbing her eyes, she moved to the window. The sun had completely disappeared, replaced by a navy sky dotted with stars. The knock came again, prompting her to cross the room and answer it.

A footman stood in the doorway, pushing a small trolley laden with covered dishes.

“Your Grace, dinner has been brought up for you,” he said with a bow.

Yvette frowned. “Is no one dining together?”

“His Grace and Lady Maisie have already eaten separately, Your Grace,” the footman explained, his tone professional.

She thanked him and wheeled the trolley inside, but an unexpected pang of disappointment settled in her chest.

Even at St. Catherine’s nunnery, communal meals were encouraged. It wasn’t about rules; it was about fostering a sense of belonging, a semblance of family, even though all the girls did was gossip at the table. She found herself missing that closeness now.

As she uncovered the dishes, the aroma of roasted chicken and fresh bread filled the room, but her appetite had dimmed. Sitting alone at the small table by the window, Yvette stared out into the darkness, wondering if this new life of hers would always feel so solitary.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the new Duke of Domesticity,” Lachlan quipped as Killian approached.

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he gestured for Killian to join him at a table near the hearth.

The tavern Killian rolled into was dimly lit, with the smell of aged wood, pipe smoke, and spilled ale mingling in the air.

The lively hum of conversation came from clusters of patrons seated at uneven tables, their voices rising and falling with bursts of laughter or heated debates. In the far corner, a musician struggled to play a mediocre tune.

“How goes the blissful union, then? The duchy hasn’t stopped buzzing about it.”

Killian groaned, taking the seat opposite him.

“If ye came to mock me, I’ll be needing a stronger drink,” he said with a frown.

Lachlan barked out a laugh and signaled for the serving girl, who brought over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“I’ve missed your humorless charm.” He poured the amber liquid into the glasses, sliding one toward Killian. “To the new Duchess of Braemore.”

Killian’s scowl deepened as he raised his glass and knocked back the whiskey in one gulp. The burn was sharp but welcome, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts.

“Ye’ve got it all wrong,” he muttered, setting the empty glass on the table with a thud. “This marriage is nothing like what ye think. It’s not a grand love match.”

Lachlan leaned back in his chair, his expression one of feigned innocence.

“Oh? Then enlighten me, old friend. What could possess you to finally tie the knot after all these years?”

Killian gave him a pointed look, but there was no escaping Lachlan’s curiosity.

With a resigned sigh, he recounted the events leading up to his marriage—the scandal involving Fiona and Edward, the rumors that threatened to ruin them all, and the convenient union with Yvette to restore the family’s reputation.

When he finished, Lachlan whistled low, shaking his head.

“No blood on yer hands, a beautiful bride by yer side—sounds like ye came out on top.”

Killian’s glare was immediate. “And how do ye know she’s beautiful?”

Lachlan smirked, leaning forward with a sly expression on his face.

“I did not know, but judging by that scowl on yer face whenever ye talk about her, I’d say she’s got under yer skin. And that, my friend, only happens when a woman is stubborn and beautiful.”

Killian scoffed, but the heat rising in his face betrayed him. He downed another glass of whiskey, willing away the image of Yvette’s cherry lips and flushed cheeks when she was embarrassed.

Her defiance infuriated him, yes, but there was no denying that she was captivating in every sense of the word.

“Ye’re wrong,” he muttered, though the conviction in his voice was weak.

“Am I?” Lachlan teased, raising an eyebrow. “Yer face tells a different story.”

Killian didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

Instead, he set his glass down with a sharp click and changed the subject. “I’ve not come here to discuss my bride, Lachlan. I’ve a task for ye.”

Lachlan straightened, his teasing demeanor replaced by one of readiness.

“Name it.”

“I need ye to find out who started the rumor about Fiona and Edward,” Killian said, his tone firm. “Start in the north. If that leads nowhere, head to London. I’ll not rest until I’ve the name of the one responsible.”

Lachlan nodded, his expression serious now. “Consider it done. But are ye sure ye want to stir this pot? Sometimes the answers ye seek come at a cost.”

Killian’s jaw tightened. “Fiona’s honor was dragged through the mud for no reason. Edward’s reputation was almost tarnished. Lady Yvette and I had to marry to fix this damned situation. I’ll not let the one responsible walk free.”

Lachlan studied his friend for a moment before nodding again.

“Very well. I’ll leave in the morn.”