London, England

May 21, 1818

Can he not even do estrangement properly? The dark skies above London filled with heavy rain clouds mirrored Rain's mood as she ascended the steps to the townhouse belonging to the Duke of Winterbourne. Her husband. Over the past two years, they had perfected the estrangement dance; shifting in and out of their residence as needed, making sure they never had to see each other. Until suddenly, a few days ago, he had returned home with the excuse that his set at the Albany needed refurbishing. That was not the deal. She didn't want him there.

The only time they spent under one roof was during the annual Christmas house party held by her mother-in-law at their country residence. It was a tradition no one had wanted to change, so once a year, they spent a week in the same house—albeit not the same bedroom. In fact, even then they saw each other as little as possible. An easy feat in an enormous house filled with guests. But it was not Christmas. Their house was not filled with other people. It was only them and the servants, and she didn't want her husband that close. It brought everything back. The hurt. The betrayal.

A footman followed her inside with the packages from her trip to Bond Street. Shopping helped her clear her head. There had been a lot of shopping the past couple of days. Having Marcus in the same house had done one thing; it had spurred on a decision she had mulled over for months. It was time.

Leaving the footman to bring the boxes to her room where her maid could deal with them, she continued up the curved stairs leading to the first floor. She needed to have a discussion with her husband. He would most likely be in his study at the end of the hallway. It was where he spent most of his time. Even if she saw little of him, the simple knowledge that he was in the same house was enough for her nerves to curl into a tight ball. It was uncomfortable. As she continued down the long hallway, she slowly pulled her gloves off and untied the silk bows of her bonnet. The mundane tasks made her worry less about the impending confrontation. Putting the gloves inside the bonnet and dangling it like a little basket, she took a deep breath as she noticed that the door to his study was open.

Her mouth felt dry and prickles of wariness travelled along her skin. Maybe he wasn't home. The discussion could wait until another day. Her hopes were dashed as she found him sitting behind his desk, going through what she assumed was business correspondence. Stopping in the doorway, she took the opportunity to look at him before he realised he wasn't alone. The Duke of Winterbourne was a large man at well above six feet, with wide, imposing shoulders. His dark brown hair curled slightly over his forehead as he leaned over the desk. It was kept slightly shorter than the current fashion, but he had never been one to care much for the opinions of others.

She suddenly found herself staring into his hazel eyes as he lifted his head and caught sight of her. A flash of surprise came and went so quickly she wasn't sure if it was only in her imagination. Marcus had always been good at hiding his true feelings. Had she known that when they first met, she never would have made the mistake of marrying him.

"Miranda." He stood and motioned for her to enter the room. "I didn't realise you had returned home."

She walked up to stand in front of the desk, keeping her gaze steady and her steps calm. "I only just arrived back, but I wish to speak to you."

"I see." He gave her a thoughtful look before nodding towards the chairs next to her. "Please, sit."

"No, that's all right. I would rather stand. It won't take long."

When she didn't speak for a few moments, he cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

"I want an annulment."

The statement was met with complete silence. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but some kind of reaction would have been nice. Even if it was anger. Or happiness to finally be rid of her. Anything other than complete silence and a blank stare. She opened her mouth to explain her request further, but was cut off before she could say anything.

"No."

She frowned as her anger sparked to life. No justification. No feelings. Just no. He looked so calm where he stood behind the desk, they might as well have been discussing the weather. She had rehearsed and dreaded this conversation for months, and he didn't seem the least bit fazed. It wasn't fair.

"Why not?" She tried to keep calm, but a note of irritation laced her voice. "We detest one another. I don't see why this farce should continue any longer than it has to. It's already been two years."

Marcus came around the desk to stand in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck to keep eye contact. His sudden nearness made her want to take a step back, but she refused to let his much larger bulk and determined face cow her.

"You will not have this marriage annulled." His hazel eyes bored into her. "Believe it or not, I do have some pride, and I refuse to stand up in front of my peers and have them believe me impotent."

Silence stretched out between them as they stared at each other. How could he be so calm and in control when she was wound so tight she might burst any moment? He obviously didn't care one way or another, as long as no one thought him less than a man. She flexed her fingers, realising she'd been balling them into a fist.

When she believed herself calm enough to speak again, she took a deep breath. "I don't see why you have to be so unreasonable about this. You don't want to be married to me any more than I wish to be married to you."

He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his wide chest. Somehow, it made him appear even bigger and more forbidding. "Do not presume to know my feelings, Miranda."

"I have to," she said tersely. "Since you won't show any."

"Why?" he asked. "Why do you suddenly want an annulment now, after two years?"

Because it hurts. She pushed the thought away. He was watching her, a small crease between his dark brows the only indication something troubled him.

"It matters little," she said.

"If you want an annulment, I think I at least deserve to know why."

"You refuse to allow me one, so no."

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she realised he wasn't as unaffected by their conversation as he appeared. It made her feel just a little better to know he wasn't completely made of stone. Other than the muscle, his face was impassive, like a handsome statue. To think she had fallen for his charade. She shook her head. She should have known better. But when everyone said she would marry well, she'd believed them. As the Season's most popular young lady, everyone had expected her to make the best match. So when a handsome duke crossed her path, it felt like providence.

"Can you blame me?" he asked, bringing her back from her thoughts.

While she very much wanted to blame him for everything, she had to admit that she could understand why a man didn't want to admit to impotence. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction of agreeing, she shrugged.

"Why, Rain?" Her head shot up to stare at him. He hadn't called her by her nickname for ages. An intimacy he had avoided since their wedding day.

"I have met someone."

There was no obvious reaction to her admission. He was good at that. Not showing emotions. The rare times they were forced to converse, she never saw feelings reflected on his face. It frustrated her to no end, and today was no exception. She couldn't explain why, but she wanted a reaction. Anything. She wasn't expecting jealousy. It wasn't as if they had ever loved each other. Or, she amended miserably; it wasn't as if he had ever loved her. But it would have been good to see some response. Any sign that he cared. Even if only a little.

"I see," he said quietly, turning his back to her to gaze out the window. "Is it someone I know?"

"I doubt it."

"I thought perhaps it might be Dash."

Narrowing her eyes, she looked at his tall form. His shoulders were hunched as if warding off a chill, but she suspected he was actually steeling himself for her reply. Part of her—a less kind part—wanted to lie and say yes. His brother, Anthony Dashcombe—Dash—was a sore spot between them. Dash had been there when she found out about Marcus's betrayal. A good friend for years, he had comforted her when her world had been torn to shreds.

"No," she finally said. "It's not your brother."

"Who then?" He turned back around but didn't move closer.

"It's none of your concern," she said coolly.

Crossing his arms again, he gave her a haughty look. "If you want to be rid of me," he said calmly. "Then I suggest you get a divorce."

She gasped. "I would be ruined!"

Divorce might be legally acceptable, but it certainly wasn't socially acceptable. She would be a pariah, forever banished to exist at the edges of high society. No one would extend her an invitation to a ball or event. Something he was well aware of.

Moving away from the window, he walked over to a cupboard and retrieved a bottle and glass, pouring himself a brandy. With an unreadable look towards her, he leaned back against his desk.

"Then I'm afraid you will have to stay married to me, my dear."

She wanted to scream. To take the glass from his hand and toss it across the room. To grab his shoulders and shake him until he showed his true feelings—if he had any. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. He may have won this round, but she wasn't ready to admit defeat. Not yet.

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