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Kenclere Hall

Near Oxfordshire, England

27 June 1810

Late afternoon

From beneath hooded lashes, Stan regarded his wife of nine hours.

Ophelia was exquisite in her turquoise and black traveling costume, with jet earrings dangling from her ears. The lovebirds he’d given her perched in their cage on the seat beside her. She’d covered their cage with a cloth to keep them calm during the journey.

Every now and again, one would chirp or ruffle its feathers, and its mate would answer. He’d been told when he purchased them that they had been a pair for just under a year.

“Did you know that lovebirds mate for life?” he asked.

Ophelia gave him a startled look, then glanced at the cage and smiled. “I did. I think it’s sweet.”

Unlike birds in the wild, these lovebirds hadn’t chosen each other as mates. And yet, like their wild counterparts, they’d remain faithful and loving until one of them died.

It was the oddest thing, but that little tidbit gave Stan reason to hope that he and Ophelia might find happiness together. He wasn’t fool enough to hope for love. In truth, Stan wasn’t sure he believed in love.

His parents’ union had been an arranged marriage. His mother had died in childbirth when he was three, after giving birth to a stillborn daughter. Stan had been left in the care of servants and tutors until his sire’s death on the dueling field.

The previous Duke of Asherford had not been discreet when it came to his lovers. He’d cuckolded the wrong man and found himself on the deadly end of a dueling pistol.

“How do you tell them apart?” Stan was eager to keep Ophelia conversing.

She had been unduly meditative and quiet as she sat opposite him. Several times, he’d seen her smooth forehead furrow or her plump lips turn down. Nonetheless, not once had she complained about anything.

“Orsino feeds Viola.” She grinned. “Apparently, that old wives’ tale about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach is the opposite for lovebirds.”

Stan recalled a similar thought he’d had about Ophelia that day at Gipsy Hill.

Ophelia patted the top of the cage. “I hope they have babies. I think it would be splendid to have several lovebirds flying around a conservatory.” Giving a self-conscious laugh, she folded her hands in her lap and crossed her trim ankles. “I presume one of your estates has a conservatory.”

“They do. I have three, in truth as well as an orangery and a pinery.”

“You grow pineapples?” she asked, awestruck.

Stan chuckled. “I don’t, but my gardener does.”

Ophelia made a soft little humming noise before retreating into silence again, her focus somewhere beyond the window.

As much as Stan thought he knew about his new duchess, he’d realized this past week that his bride was an enigma to him in many ways.

That was perfectly all right. He and Ophelia had a lifetime to get to know each other through and through. Seeing that she was happy and content topped his lists of priorities. Just below protecting her.

She shifted slightly, and a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her.

What was she thinking?

Regretting their marriage already?

The noble thing to do would be to turn the coach around and have the marriage annulled. But Stan was a selfish bastard. He’d wanted Ophelia to be his duchess, and now that she was, only death would separate them.

His ribs contracted with sadness at her pensiveness before he tamped the useless emotion down. Ophelia would come ’round. Kenclere Hall was a vast and beautiful estate. One of four Stan owned—five if he counted the hunting lodge on the Scottish border.

He planned on introducing her to all of them eventually.