My Wealthy Husband Chose Me Because I Was Forgettable — Until I Learned His Real Motive
Part 2
In the days that followed, I began to explore my new prison.
The manor was less a home than a museum.
Every object was perfectly placed, and every surface gleamed.
But there was no sign of life or comfort.
I felt like a ghost haunting its grand, empty rooms.
My husband was a phantom as well, consumed by estate business.
He spent his days locked in his study or riding out to meet with his tenants.
We shared breakfast and dinner as two silent figures at opposite ends of a ridiculously long dining table.
The clinking of our silverware was the only sound.
One afternoon, seeking refuge from the oppressive silence, I found the library.
It was the only room in the entire manor that felt alive.
Two stories high, with towering shelves packed to the ceiling, it smelled of old paper, leather, and beeswax.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, dancing light over the thousands of books.
For the first time since my arrival, I felt a flicker of something other than despair.
I ran my fingers over the leather-bound spines, my eyes scanning the titles.
There were histories, philosophies, and volumes of poetry.
Then I saw it on a lower shelf, almost hidden away.
It was a complete collection of rare botanical texts, the kind I had only ever dreamed of reading.
My father, a quiet scholar, had shared his love of botany with me.
We could never afford such exquisite volumes.
“I thought you might find those of interest.”
I jumped, my hand flying to my chest.
Dan stood in the doorway, watching me.
I hadn’t heard him approach.
He was holding a small, worn book in his hand.
“I was just— I did not mean to intrude,” I stammered, feeling like a child caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.
“This is your home now, Brenda,” he said, his use of my first name startling me.
“You may intrude wherever you wish.”
“The library is for use, not for display.”
He walked towards me, his gaze falling on the botanical books.
“I had them brought in from the London collection.”
“I was told you had an interest in the subject.”
I stared at him, completely bewildered.
Told?
By whom?
My interest in botany was a private, quiet thing, known only to my immediate family.
A flicker of discomfort crossed his face before it was smoothed away.
“One hears things,” he said vaguely.
He gestured to the book in his own hand.
It was a slim volume of poetry by a famous poet, one of my absolute favorites.
“Do you enjoy his work?” he asked.
“Very much,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
He nodded slowly, his eyes on the book rather than on me.
“Indeed,” he murmured.
He seemed about to say more, but then he straightened.
The mask of the cold, efficient duke fell right back into place.
“I will leave you to your reading.”
He set the volume of poetry on a nearby table and left as silently as he had arrived.
I stood among the books, my mind reeling.
How did he know about my love for botany?
Why was he reading it?
It was a crack in his granite facade, a small, confusing glimpse of something I did not understand.
He had chosen me because I was supposed to be simple and unremarkable.
But that thoughtful gesture, the acquisition of those rare books, was anything but simple.
It was entirely personal.
Why would a man who claimed to only want a convenient, forgettable bride go to such lengths to learn my most private secrets?
