Lucien’s lips tighten into a fine line, but he doesn’t argue with me.

“Come on, let’s see the rest of the house, it’s not that big. I’m only a Count.” I say with false cheer.

“You’ll be a marquess one day,” Lucien says softly.

My breath hisses in. The little shit. Is this really the reason he is deigning to tolerate me? Is this the reason he agreed to marry me?

“Just like your daddy? Well, sadly for you, my father is in perfect health, so you are going to have to wait a long time to be a marquess consort.”

Silence stretches. I cast a glance over at Lucien. His head is down and his entire body language is conveying deep sadness. A twinge of guilt twists at my gut, but I shake it off. He probably didn’t like being caught out, or hearing the truth, or realizing that I’m not going to be wrapped around his little finger.

I pinch the bridge of my nose to try to ward off this blasted headache.

Damn it. This marriage is going to be even worse than I was dreading.

Chapter five

Drew

Escaping from Lucien halfway through the day was cowardly. I know it was. But now spying on him, from the safety of my study window, tells me that it clearly was the right thing to do.

The little git is now hassling my poor gardeners, and my temper could not cope with that. He even has a clipboard! A clipboard, of all things! And those dark green wellies should look ridiculous.

He bends over to inspect something, and the material of his good quality trousers stretches tight over his incredible ass. It is nothing less than a tragedy that I’ve had that ass, yet can’t remember a single thing about the experience.

I groan and snatch my gaze away. It’s a little after midday, but sod it. I need a whiskey.

The act of pouring myself a drink feels like a soothing ritual. Amber liquid cascading from a crystal decanter into a sparkling cut-glass tumbler. The sight. The sound. The delicious aroma. It’s all a balm for the soul. Unlike my new vessel. The whiskey burns down my throat, and I grimace.

The arrogant little snob had a bad word to say about every single member of staff that lined up to meet him in the great hall. Even I know that the presentation is supposed to be merely a formality. The new consort of the house is not actually expected to criticize the servants. I’m going to have no flipping staff left at this rate! They are all going to resign.

Gregory is going to have so much to say about all of this. My oldest friend can be a nightmare, but he was dead right about Lucien. I can’t face calling Gregory to let him know he predicted everything perfectly. That’s a problem to be faced another day.

My gaze drifts back towards the window, as if drawn by a magnet. Some part of me wants to see more of Lucien. Even if it’s just the sight of him stomping around the garden in too big wellies, berating the innocent gardeners.

But I will not give into my baser instincts. It’s absurd that my libido has such low standards, but the depressing truth is I’ve wanted Lucien for many years. How can I crave someone I don’t even like? Someone with no redeeming qualities save for their looks? Am I truly so very shallow as that?

Another gulp of whiskey burns its way down to my stomach. I have plenty of work to be getting on with. I don’t need to see Lucien until dinner. I don’t need to think about him until then.

A loud, very undignified snort escapes me and echoes around the empty room.

Who am I kidding?

The gentle clang of cutlery against crockery is the only sound in the West dining room. The noise bounces dully off the wood paneling and does nothing to alleviate the silence.

Lucien’s head is down, and he is cutting his food into ridiculously tiny pieces. A fire is burning merrily in the hearth. I usually like this room. It is cozy. Warm. Intimate. But not when my vessel is in it. He is making it cold and frosty. Awkward and uncomfortable.

It’s like we have been married for thirty years, not for one measly day. Is this really how the rest of my life is going to be?

“How did your day go?” I try. That should be formal enough for him.

“Very well, thank you, my lord…Drew. How was yours?”

He looks up at me briefly. A quick flash of dazzling emerald and then he is staring down at his food again. As if I am barely worth noticing.

I unclench my jaw and shovel another forkful of food in. This duck parfait is delicious. Trisha has truly undone herself. No doubt Lucien will find some fault in it.

“What do you think of dinner?” I ask.

He nods while he finishes chewing his food. “It’s delicious.”

He sounds enthusiastic, but that cannot be right. I can feel my eyebrows raising along with my incredulity.

Lucien graces me with another glance. His eyes widen and his fork freezes halfway to his mouth. A faint flush of color spreads over his cheeks.

“Though, it could do with a little more butter. I’ll have a word with the cook,” he says.

I knew it was too good to be true.

“If you must,” I growl as I take a sip of my pinot noir.

Lucien carefully places his knife and fork on the table. His shoulders droop and his head hangs down even lower than usual. He looks like a kicked and dejected puppy.

What the hell? He cannot expect me to be pleased with his critiquing of my very wonderful chef’s abilities? Does he honestly think I want to hear that?

I put down my knife and fork too. This little asshole is even ruining my appetite.

George swoops in and clears both our plates. I adore that Katy has put him on duty tonight. It is a perfect fuck you to Lucien. Lucien’s gaze tracks George’s movements, but he says nothing. I know he said George serving at informal dinners would be acceptable, but it was clearly a begrudging compromise. I hope his perceived ignominy of being served left-handed is eating up at him.

Dessert is swiftly placed in front of us. A dark chocolate and orange meringue, by the looks of it. Very enticing, though probably still not good enough for Lucien.

A loud clang makes me flinch. Lucien has dropped his dessert spoon onto his plate. He blushes prettily and hastily retrieves it. That’s not like him. For all his flaws, he is stupidly graceful. I can’t imagine he has a clumsy bone in his body.

I watch as he reaches for his wine. His hand is shaking ever so slightly. What is wrong with him?

The first mouthful of dessert melts into my mouth. A hum of delight escapes me. I savor the delicious flavors until I’ve scraped the plate clean.

I look over at my vessel. He has only taken one spoonful. His elegant fingers are resting on the stem of his wineglass, but he is not drinking either.

“What’s wrong with dessert?” I snap.

He flinches. “Nothing. It is quite lovely. I’m simply full.”

Full? He barely picked at his starter or his main. Quite clearly, the food I provide does not meet up to his exacting standards.

I throw my spoon down onto my plate and lean back in my chair with a huff of exasperation. What a flipping awful dinner that was.