When one is the rightful heir and the other wants everything just for himself. Josephine realised that she was caught in the middle of a succession war.
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Hero couldn't seem to bring himself to look away from his wife, even as he wished he could erase the memory of her stunned expression, her disappointment in his response. Her thinking that she would come to know him better assumed that she knew him at all—which she didn't. She knew Eros, and she would soon know Eros better. Perhaps he should tell her the truth of the situation. But to her he would be an impostor. He wanted to talk to her, desperately, but he feared discovery of his deception—he was the rightful duke but not the man she thought she was marrying.
It had been easier for Eros to imitate Hero because he'd been around to see how Hero acted, to whom Hero spoke, how he addressed people and they addressed him. Hero was lost, drowning in a sea of unknowns.
Even the most innocent statement, uttered without complete thought, could betray him.
They'd not spoken once since she'd joined him and the coach had sprung forward to continue the journey. Her gaze was locked constantly on the scenery beyond the window. Even as darkness fell, she'd provided him with only glimpses of her profile as the evening shadows began to work their way into the coach. Eventually she'd removed her hat and set it aside.
Upsetting her seemed to have had the effect of silencing her. Now she seemed like a wounded creature, nursing its injuries. He desperately wanted to apologize, but this way was better, and in the end, she would be grateful that he had sought to distance himself.
Her profile was lovely, but what did he expect when her face was that of an angel? An angel who had married the very devil himself.
A part of him thought he should despise her on that fact alone. Yet he couldn't quite bring himself to feel anything except...enchanted by her loveliness.
Her scent should have faded away by now, but it still lingered. The moonlight limned her perfect profile. He watched as she lowered her head slightly, then jerked it upright. Falling asleep, trying to stay awake.
He contemplated telling her to give in to the weariness, but he feared she might say something about other journeys they'd made together, and how would he respond then? He didn't remember the night he met her because he hadn't met her at night, hadn't met her at a ball, and he certainly hadn't been confident when he had met her.
Once they were at Tiffin House, they would be situated in different wings—he would no doubt have to come up with an explanation for that circumstance. He could pretend to be ill, but what if she wished to nurse him back to health?
Fucking hell! She was a complication he didn't need.
And how to explain his unwillingness to bed her? Only it wasn't an unwillingness. He was most willing indeed.
His body ached for the surcease a woman's body could offer. He found himself drawn to this woman, even though he had no wish to be.
She finally dropped her head to the side and allowed it to stay there. He'd spent many a night sleeping in an uncomfortable position, and he knew, come morning, she would suffer because of the odd angle at which she now slept.
