He nodded. “I have to return to London. I can’t stay down here any longer. I have important things to deal with and I can’t attend to them from here.”

“You’re leaving?”

He nodded. “In the morning.” He barely looked at her, just frowned at the documents on his right. He rarely brought correspondence to the breakfast table.

A cold lump formed in her belly. “Tomorrow?”

He glanced up. “Yes. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but this little sojourn, delightful as it has been, must come to an end.”

The lump hardened, and something was blocking her throat. “What about the boys?”

“What about the boys?” But it wasn’t really a question. His blank look confirmed that as far as he was concerned the boys were her business.

George’s porridge congealed slowly in the bowl. He was saying it was over. The honeymoon—the honey month—was over. And he was returning to his life in London, and she was going on—to what?

And the terrible thing was, this had been her idea. She was the one who in the settlements had specified a house of her own, a house in the country, separate from the duke. She hadn’t done anything about looking for a house yet.

“Can we stay here for a while? The boys and I?”

His brows snapped together. “Here? You want to stay here?”

She nodded. “I don’t have a house of my own yet. I suppose we could go to my uncle’s place, Ashendon Court, for a while, if you don’t like us staying here.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “No, stay here as long as you like,” he said coldly and returned to his correspondence.

“If you’ll excuse me,” George blurted, “I have things to do.” She hurried from the room and made for the privacy of her bedchamber—only she didn’t have a bedroom of her own. There was no privacy here. Everything in it evoked his presence.

Those wretched settlements. She’d thought back then that it was how she wanted things, but now she’d changed. She’d done what she’d thought impossible—fallen in love with the duke. But she wasn’t going to go back on her promises.

He said he’d want conjugal visits. She would respect that—and if she dreamed about him every night, well, wouldn’t that be almost as good as having him in her bed?

No. She knew the difference now. And it wasn’t just his lovemaking she’d miss.

Or the look in his eyes when he was thinking about taking her to bed. Or the way his voice would deepen and turn to warm, dark chocolate. And melt her from the inside out.