BY THE TIME ADRIAN gave up on the ball, and made his way down the long corridor toward his bedchamber, exhaustion clung to him like a heavy cloak. The day had been endless—first the wedding, then the interminable ball filled with smiling faces and hollow congratulations. He hadn't even seen Lady Evelina since he dismissed her.
His legs ached beneath him, and every step over the thick carpet felt like a battle against sleep. He guessed she must have also been exhausted because she hadn't even come down for the ball. Downstairs, the guests were already departing, their laughter fading with the rumble of carriage wheels outside the manor gates.
He sighed. If not for his father, he wouldn't be doing this.
All he wanted now was a bath, solitude, and the oblivion of sleep. But when he opened his chamber door, the sight that met him sent his breath hitching sharply.
Servants—half a dozen of them—were scattered about the room, bending and bustling over trunks, gowns, and dainty parcels wrapped in silks and lace. The air smelled faintly of lavender and perfume.
For a heartbeat, Adrian could only stare.
"What," he demanded, his voice cutting through the hush like a blade, "is the meaning of this? Why are Lady Evelina's things being moved to my room?"
The servants froze mid-motion. One of the maids—a slight young woman with trembling hands—dropped into a hasty curtsey, her eyes fixed upon the carpet. "Apologies, Your Grace," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "It was Lord Percival Montrose who gave the order, sir."
Adrian's brow drew sharply together. "My father?!" The disbelief in his tone made the girl flinch.
He bit back the rest of his words. It would do no good to lose his composure before the staff. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned on his heel and strode back into the corridor, his footsteps echoing with restrained fury.
Downstairs, the ballroom had emptied to a few lingering guests and weary footmen collecting glasses. The chandeliers still blazed above him, a mockery of the celebration he wished to forget.
"Where is my father?" he asked curtly of a passing servant.
"In his chambers, Your Grace," came the timid reply.
Adrian didn't bother to thank him. He climbed the stairs to the far end of the west wing and, without the courtesy of a knock, pushed open the heavy oak door.
What met his eyes stopped him cold.
"Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaimed, turning sharply away.
Two half-dressed women sat bolt upright in the bed, their startled gasps filling the room. The air reeked of liquor. Between them lounged Lord Percival Montrose—his father—the once-celebrated Duke of Langford, now stripped of dignity and decency alike.
The old man, unfazed, waved a dismissive hand. "Off with you, darlings," he said with lazy amusement. The women gathered their clothes in embarrassed silence and hurried past Adrian, who stood stiff as a statue, jaw clenched.
When the door shut behind them, he turned back, his expression thunderous. "Father," he began tightly, "you ordered Lady Evelina's belongings moved to my room?" He didn't bother asking about the women and his shameless act because he wasn't the least surprised.
Lord Percival took his time pouring himself another glass of brandy. The amber liquid sloshed softly as he raised it to his lips. Then, with maddening calm, he said, "I did."
Adrian's temper flared. "Why?"
The old man sank into his armchair, gesturing idly with his glass. "Because, my dear boy, it is neither proper nor sensible to isolate your wife. She is yours now. Let her be where she belongs."
Adrian stared at him in disbelief. Belongs? His father spoke of her as if they shared more than an understanding. "I have no intention of isolating her, Father," he said, his tone measured though his pulse pounded. "But neither do I intend to—"
"To what?" Lord Percival interrupted smoothly. "To treat her as a wife?"
Adrian's hands curled into fists at his sides. "We share no affection. No understanding. You cannot expect—"
"I expect," the old man said sharply, his composure cracking at last, "that you will act as a husband should. You will not dishonour your name or this family with neglect. I never isolated your mother, and my father never isolated his. You will do the same."
Adrian's mouth tightened. He was weary—too weary to fight another battle tonight. "Father, you cannot force affection where it does not exist. I do not love this woman."
Lord Percival's eyes gleamed with cold amusement. "Then learn it," he said softly. "Form it. And while you are at it, give me a grandchild before I'm too old to hold him."
Adrian felt the words like a slap. "This is madness," he muttered.
His father rose to his feet with sudden authority, displeased. "Enough, Adrian!" The crack of his voice echoed against the walls. "You will do as I have said. You will share a bed with your wife—or else."
For a moment, the two men stood in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken defiance.
Then Adrian turned abruptly, his jaw set, and left the room without another word.
Down the corridor, his mind seethed with frustration. A puppet. That is all he was to him—a puppet to carry on his name and appease his pride.
He thought of every way to get her out of his private space. But then, he remembered that he had proposed an idea to her the day she arrived, so he relaxed a bit. Just six months and this madness will be over, and he'll get back to his life.