Rain stifled a yawn as she tried to read the page of her book again, but the words were swimming in front of her eyes. And yet she didn't want to go to sleep yet. Marcus sat at her writing desk again, nursing a glass of brandy and reading through papers. True to his word, he had not left her side for more than a few moments at a time for the entire day. He'd even come outside to sit with her in the garden in the afternoon.

Spending time with him away from crowded ballrooms had been surprisingly pleasant. They had played cards and chess. Her sister, Nick, had come over for tea at one point and Marcus had left them alone, but she had seen him keeping watch from the window in his study.

She watched his broad shoulders as he leaned back in his chair, studying a document in his hand. He'd written a few letters earlier, which he'd sent off with a servant, and for a while now he had been busy dealing with a pile of documents.

"Is that spy stuff?" she asked, putting her book down.

He didn't answer at first, but she could see his movements still. Finally, he turned around to look at her. The flickering light from the oil lamps keeping the room alight cast his angular face in sharp relief.

"I am no longer employed by the War Office," he reminded her.

"I remember, but you spend too much time with papers for it to only be related to your estates." Her brother was a marquess, so she felt she had a fair idea of how much time one spent on dealing with such things. Even considering that Marcus's estate was considerably larger than Nathaniel's, it didn't account for the enormous amount of time he spent in his study.

"That's an astute observation." He indicated the piles of paper with a nod of his head. "I have businesses other than my estate and I take a keen interest in them. Also, occasionally, the War Office does still send me things when they cannot crack the codes."

"What businesses do you have?"

"I have invested in several as a silent partner during the last few years, and I am a part-owner of one where I actively step in and do work. Usually writing case files and helping with sorting through the information."

She hadn't expected him to answer. Curious to know more, she moved closer, coming to sit in the middle of the bed, cross-legged. "What business is that?"

"The Rose Agency."

Her jaw dropped. "I've hired them once or twice."

"I'm aware." Was that a trace of amusement in his voice?

"Why are you telling me this now?" She frowned. He was being awfully forthcoming for someone who rarely shared anything.

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I trust you to keep this information secret. Also, I believe it is a wife's prerogative to know her husband's affairs if she so wishes."

"That's rather unusual." It was more or less unheard of. Women usually took charge of the household accounts, talking to the housekeeper and butler about restocking the pantries and hiring servants. They didn't really get to take part in anything else.

"Perhaps if my mother had been privy to my father's affairs, she would have been able to stop him from bringing us to the brink of ruin." There was a tightness to his voice that had not been there before.

She had always suspected that Marcus had been in financial straits. Why else would it have been so important to find a wife with a large dowry? But to hear he had been at the brink of ruin was a little more dire than she had imagined. Dash had never let on that there were issues with cash flow in the family, and their mother had continued her lavish Christmas house parties every year. Had Marcus been behind the scenes, pulling strings to make everything happen for his family while trying to keep them afloat in a sea of debt?

"I never realised it was that bad," she admitted, suddenly feeling guilty for all of her expensive shopping trips. When she was unhappy, she would often find herself on Bond Street, buying a new hat or some ribbons. Maybe a new dress or two.

"I have invested well and we are now turning a profit. Improvements to the farms on the estate mean our yearly income has increased, more than making up for the money I used to do it. It's taken some time, but we got there in the end. I will pay off the last creditor in a few months."

It was no wonder he was such a severe man. The burden of his responsibilities must weigh heavy on his shoulders. He had borne the brunt of the knowledge of their affairs while his mother and brother had continued their lives as if nothing was amiss. Perhaps she needed to reevaluate some of what she thought she knew of her husband.

"I didn't know," she said, looking down as Sir Claws crawled into her lap and settled in the cradle of her crossed legs.

"How could you?" He stood, the glass of brandy still in hand, the shadow of a grim smile playing across his lips. "I never told you."

"And I never asked."

"True." Taking another sip of his drink, he watched her quietly.

She wondered what he was thinking. Was it about how childish and vindictive she had been early in their marriage? When she had gone shopping in anger, wanting to show her displeasure by buying unnecessary things. The memory of her behaviour was mortifying. In her mind, she had simply been using the money he had got from marrying her. Which was technically true, but it sounded like he had needed it for much more important things. In her anger, she had never stopped to consider why he needed money so desperately that he would marry someone he didn't care for.

"I'm sorry for behaving so badly early on. My temper often gets the better of me. It's not an excuse, but maybe an explanation of sorts. I hate to think I made a critical situation worse."

His gaze wavered, and he looked at the glass in his hand. "You had every reason to be angry. What I did was inexcusable."

"Maybe if you had told me of your troubles." When he opened his mouth to reply, she cut in. "I realise that would most likely never have happened. Men do not wish to speak of their finances at the best of times, as it is a crass topic. And to admit to someone you are courting that you are not financially sound, I imagine is even lower on a man's list of things he wishes to divulge."

"If I had been less proud..." He sighed. "Perhaps our lives would have looked different today." His hazel eyes found hers, and her stomach lurched awkwardly. "Perhaps you would not have gone straight to my brother's bed."

Her anger sparked back to life. Shooing the cat out of her lap, she slid off the bed. "Perhaps if you weren't so proud, you would not have made so many assumptions, but actually asked the question."

She could see no emotions on his face, but for a slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Some things are better left unsaid." The knuckles on his hand were white as he gripped the glass too tightly.

Maybe what he said was true. He wasn't a man without feelings, simply one accustomed to hiding them. As she was spending more and more time with him, she was coming to recognise the small signs that, beneath the surface, he did feel things. For someone who wore her emotions on her sleeves, it was a difficult thing to understand, but their upbringings could not have been more different from what she understood.

While she had lost her parents fairly young, Aunt Jane had showered her with love. Never in her life had anyone made her feel like her feelings weren't valid or unwanted. Even her older brother, who had been forced to take on the mantle of head of the family far too early, had always been quick to show his affection. And being hot-tempered himself, he had certainly never begrudged her when she had her fits of rage. Though he had cautioned her against throwing precious vases across the room.

She watched as Marcus took one more sip of the glass before putting it down on the writing desk. Maybe she should have told him the truth back then. But she had been so angry. So hurt by his betrayal that she had not even considered it. He had made her feel like she meant nothing to him other than what money she brought to his coffers. Nothing but a bet to be won.

"Do you love him?" The terse question surprised her. Marcus was staring intently at her, his eyes burning with the need to know.

"Dash?" she said, forcing a light tone. "No. He is a dear friend."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Do you often sleep in your friends' beds?"

"No. I can't say that I do." She was torturing him now, and she knew it. Yet she wasn't able to stop. There was something about being able to push his buttons. Something she had not realised she could do until recently.

"You should sleep," he grumbled, obviously not wanting to discuss the distasteful topic anymore. "You went through quite an ordeal the other night, so it would do you good to get some more rest."

Truth was, she was exhausted, but her anger still simmered just beneath the surface. "Is that all you have to say about it?"

"There is nothing else to say."

She searched his impassive face for clues to what he might actually be feeling. Had she been wrong? Did he truly not care? She wanted to believe he did. Wanted to believe she wasn't the only one hurting. Walking up to him, she craned her neck to meet his eyes. His breathing was measured like he was purposefully trying to remain calm. Good. She lifted her hand to poke his chest with her finger as she scowled up at him.

"You must stop doing this. It frustrates me to no end when you clam up," she said. "We were having a decent conversation. You shared details with me you never have before. Why would you stop now?"

He looked down at her accusatory finger against his shirt, and remembering what had happened the last time she jabbed him, she quickly pulled it back. Not that she had minded. Not really. It had been more exciting than she wanted to admit when he had pushed her against the wall, his large imposing body hovering over her. Part of her wished he had kissed her then. He had hinted that he was holding back with her when they kissed, and she wanted to know what it would be like if he let go of the iron hold he had of his feelings. Of his passions.

Swallowing, she took a step backwards, a little wary of her own thoughts. She shouldn't want that. She wanted an annulment. Wanted out of this marriage. Did she not?

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, breaking their eye contact, allowing her to take a shuddering breath. Dragging his hand over his face, he finally looked back at her, his expression weary.

"Honestly? I think on some level I have not wanted to hear you say it out loud." He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "As if that would somehow make it less true."

Why did he care? She was his prize. The wife he had acquired for the sole purpose of saving his failing estate. While she could appreciate his intent, she could not forgive him for letting her believe he loved her. It had been a cruel joke. Was it another case of his male pride? The same pride that made him refuse to have their marriage annulled.

"It's not," she blurted out.

"Pardon me?" He frowned as if he had not heard her, or did not understand her meaning.

She raised her chin. "If you had ever asked," she said slowly, enunciating every word, "you would have known it is not true."

His chest expanded as he drew a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. "I found you in his bed," he said, equally slowly.

"I... After I found out the truth about why you pursued me, I was angry and hurt. Dash ran into me, saw how upset I was, and brought me to his chambers so no one else would see me. We stayed up late, talking, and must have fallen asleep. Then you found us." The words came out in a rush as she wanted to explain the events. "I would have told you the truth then, but I was so angry, and you didn't even bother asking—only assumed—which only stoked my anger further."

The muscle in his jaw twitched again. "You let me believe you had slept with my brother for two years," he bit out. "For two years you were happy to let me believe the worst of you."

"I did not think you cared. Does it really matter what I do? You got your money."

"And you got your title."

They stared at each other and she had to stop herself from finding something to throw at his stubborn head. She had never been interested in him because of his title. Yes, on some level, she had been flattered that a duke took an interest in her. Especially as Marcus was currently the only duke of their generation, the others being considerably older. But a title mattered not when choosing a husband. She was lucky in that she had that choice, but she had wanted to marry for love. And she had thought she was. Until reality crashed over her.

"I suppose we both got what we wanted," she said sarcastically.

"I suppose." He shook his head in disbelief. "I knew you loathed me. Part of me felt—still feels—like I deserve it. But to allow me to think you slept with my brother for two years..."

With a last look at her, he stalked across the room and left, closing the door behind him. She stared after him, not quite sure what had just happened.

"You said you wouldn't leave me alone!" she shouted angrily at the closed door.

"I am here," came Marcus's muffled words from the other side. "I just... I need a moment."

She shifted from one foot to the other as her anger pushed her to follow him, to confront him. To yell at him for daring to believe she married him for a title. But the strangled tone of his voice gave her pause. The revelation that she had not slept with Dash had shaken him more than she ever expected. She flexed her hands. Should she check on him? Surely the unfeeling Duke of Winterbourne was not brought down by the simple fact that his wife had not broken her marriage vows?

Walking up to the door, she placed her palm against the hardwood. "Marcus?"

"Go to bed, Miranda."

With a huff, she turned around and marched to the bed. Getting in, she settled under the covers only to find herself staring up at the ceiling, unable to settle. Guilt niggled at the back of her head. It had been cruel not to tell him for so long, but she had truly thought it did not matter to him. With a groan, she turned around and buried her face in the pillow. She screwed her eyes shut and counted sheep. When that didn't work, she turned her head to look at the door. What was he doing out there?

~~~~~~