“I – I did not realize you could make love like that.” Feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy, Caroline busied herself with straightening everything that had been knocked askew on the dressing table during their…exertions.  

Eric grinned at her in the mirror as he tugged on his breeches. “There are all kinds of ways to make love. We’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

Her interest piqued, she stole a quick glance at him over her shoulder. “Do you know all of them? The ways, that is.”

“Hardly.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he yanked her against his chest. “But luckily for you, I’ve decided to devote myself to learning each and every one,” he whispered throatily into her ear.

A blush stole across Caroline’s cheeks. “That’s – that’s very naughty of you.”

He bit her neck. “I know.”

She watched snow fall from the pale, moody gray sky as she remained wrapped in the duke’s arms, content to listen to the shallow rasp of his breaths and the steady thump of his heartbeat. He was warm and comforting and on a soft sigh she let her head fall back against his chest as her eyes drifted closed and a small smile curved her mouth.

This was all she wanted. To feel loved. To feel special. To feel like a real wife, not a mistress to be picked up and discarded when the mood struck.

“This is nice,” she murmured, but no sooner had the words left her lips than Eric let her go and stepped back. Bereft of his body heat, she shivered as she turned, fingers sinking into her ribcage as she hugged her arms around herself. Then she saw his expression. His cool, distant expression. And she shivered for another reason all together.

“You may decorate the first floor as you see fit,” he began, speaking in the detached tone of a lord addressing a servant instead of a woman he’d just been inside of. “But leave the second and third floors alone. I won’t have my bedchamber filled with holly and mistletoe and God only knows what else.”

This time her heart didn’t ache.

It shattered.

“It will never be any different, will it?” she whispered as tears born of misery and despair burned the corners of her eyes. “You and I. Our marriage. It will never change.”

“If the bloody evergreens mean that much to you–”

“It isn’t about the evergreens!” she burst out. “I mean I suppose it is, a little bit. But it really isn’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not making a damn bit of sense.”

“And neither are you! How can you hold me so tenderly one moment and speak to me so coldly the next? Am I nothing more than a – a warm body to you?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You’re my wife.”

“Your wife. Your wife.” Hysteria bubbled up inside of her, pitching her voice up an octave and curling her hands into fists of bewildered outrage. “I am no more your wife than you are my husband. You said it yourself! This marriage is nothing but one of convenience.”

“And?” he said expectantly.

“Oh!” Reaching blindly behind her, she picked up the first thing within reach and launched it at her husband’s head. The perfume bottle missed by several feet and crashed against the wall, filling the bedchamber with the scent of honeysuckle and night jasmine. “If you were too thick-skulled to understand the first time, I am not going to waste my breath explaining it once more!”

“Now see here,” he growled, but she jumped back when he reached for her.

“No.” Hair whipped across her cheek as she shook her head from side to side. “You’re not going to lull me into complacency with your – your charm and your kisses. Not again!”

“Lull you into…what the devil are you talking about?”

“I am sorry your mother did not love you the way you needed her to.”

Eric’s eyes flashed a deep, ominous blue black. “This has nothing to do with my mother.”

“Of course it does!” she shrieked, and for the first time a genuine flicker of alarm crossed the duke’s countenance.

“Caroline–” he began, but she was not having any of it. Having gone this far, she wasn’t going to stop until she finally said what was in her heart. Her poor, battered, broken heart.

“Don’t ‘Caroline’ me. You may be blind to the fact that whatever poor relationship your parents had has given you a misguided notion of what love should be, but I’m not.” She drew a deep breath.

“I know you are capable of more than what you’re giving. I’ve felt it when you touch me. I’ve seen it in your eyes when you look at me. It would be easier if you really couldn’t love me. But I know you can. I know it.” Tears spilled from her lashes and streamed down her face. “You just don’t want to.”

“Caroline–” he tried again, but she no longer wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Please leave,” she said hoarsely.

“I really think we should–”

“Leave.”

“Fine.” He squared his shoulders. “You know, I am beginning to think this is really a marriage of inconvenience. I never should have picked you.” And with that last cold, cutting remark, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

 

Caroline allowed herself precisely one hour of self-pity. Then she picked herself up off the bed, dusted herself off, and walked out of her bedchamber as if nothing were amiss. If her husband truly did not love her – which he’d just proven yet again – then she wasn’t going to waste another second’s worth of time and energy trying to convince him otherwise. And she most certainly was not going to allow him to ruin Christmas.

Thankfully the manor was very large, and over the next few days she only saw Eric twice. Once while she was having breakfast in the solarium and she glimpsed him walking out to the barn, and another time when she ducked into the library late at night to pick out a book to help her sleep.

He’d been reading in front of the fire and they’d both caught the other off guard. For the span of a heartbeat their gazes had met before she’d snatched a book blindly off the shelf and fled with what little dignity she had left.

During the day she kept herself busy by decorating every nook and crevice she could wedge a piece of holly into, and by the time Christmas Eve dawned the house was nearly complete.

Candles burned in every window, clumps of mistletoe hung from every doorway. There was garland twisted through all of the bannisters and red bows pinned to the drapes. A large wreath hung on the front door and a matching one had been nailed to the mantle in the drawing room.

There was only one thing missing.

“You there,” she called out brightly to a footman. “Could you have Buttercup saddled for me, please?”

“You’re going for a ride now?” Emerging from the parlor balancing a silver tea tray, Anne glanced out the window. “But it will be dark in a few hours. And it’s cold.” Her nose wrinkled. “And snowing.”

Caroline wrapped a long wool scarf around her neck and drew up the hood of her fur-lined cloak. “I will not be gone long and I won’t be going very far. Just to the tree line and back.”

“If it’s fresh air you’re after the footmen have shoveled a path around the garden. Why not a short walk instead?” her maid suggested. “I don’t know if His Grace would want you riding out alone.”

Caroline’s mouth thinned. “His Grace doesn’t give a donkey’s behind what I do.”

“That’s not true,” Anne protested.

She lifted a brow. “Isn’t it? I won’t be gone long. I promise.”

“But where are you going?” Anne called out as Caroline opened the front door and stepped out into the lightly falling snow.

“The Yule log!” she called back over her shoulder. “I am going to get the Yule log.”