A door hinge creaked the tiniest noise. The duke filled her doorway. Masculine. Robust. Dressed in dangerous black. A cutaway coat fit his shoulders like a second skin. Light kissed his auburn hair. No strand was out of place. Lacy, snow white cuffs rested evenly on the back of his hands—his persuasive, passionate hands.
It was foolish, her visual devouring of the man, but even the best-intentioned women slipped.
“You’re quite dashing, Your Grace.”
“And you’re quite…comfortable.”
She laughed and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Is that a euphemism for my ugly day gown?”
“You would be beautiful in burlap, madame.”
She sighed softly. By the tender octave of his voice, she believed he truly thought such a foolish thing.
He sauntered into the low-ceilinged room, searching for a chair, finding a dainty one at the escritoire, and hefting it high to plunk it directly before her. The duke’s hand slid under the back of his coat, flaring the cloth tails while he took a seat. Spine straight, he was imposing. A man in the prime of his life, and he’d come to sit with her.
“You’ve been crying. Is that why you’re not at the ball?” His silver-gray eye was hawkish. He’d give no quarter.
Her gaze slid to his letter on the side table. “Because I decided it was in the best interest of all concerned that I not go.”
“You’re making decisions for me?” There was irritation in his tone.
She’d matched it.
“No. I made this decision for me. You might have the power to make me weak-kneed, Your Grace, but I possess a strong mind. It’s the benefit of having used it at least a decade longer than the women who’ve flung themselves at you all week.”
Taking a deep breath, he set both hands palms down on his thighs. He tried to bite back a smile and lost the battle. “Weak-kneed?”
He said it with the most unusual blend of seduction and humor. How was that possible? The effect was butterflies in her stomach. Parts of her hidden under yards of ugly brown wool were doing a jig, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.
“Is that the reason you’re in here?” he asked. “The difference in our ages?”
“Of course, a younger person would say that.” She squirmed on her seat. “Youth is its own armor. You feel invincible…until the day comes when you realize you’re not.”
A sober shadow fell over his face, dimming the light in his eye. “I am twenty-six years old. Not a stripling lad. I faced my lack of invincibility last year.”
She winced. “Forgive me. That was a thoughtless, impulsive retort.”
“No harm was done, madame, and it was a truthful thing you said. It’s one of the qualities I admire about you.”
He studied her in the same manner he pored over his architecture plans. Every detail was worth consideration. She was conscious of her sloppy braid, and the faint lines etched at the outer corners of both her eyes. Her maid said they were from smiling too much.
Wherever the duke’s gaze touched, her skin got warmer. He traced a visual trail down her leg and back to her foot peeking half out from under her skirt. A white stocking covered her, but he stared with such interest that her skin pebbled.
“I spent a good portion of my night waiting for you.” He tore his attention off her foot. “Then I wondered why would a woman kiss me passionately, elicit my emotions, and hide.”
She twisted the edges of her shawl. “I already told you.”
Arms crossing, he leaned back in his chair. “You’ve told me nothing. You’re a confident woman, Mrs. Chatham. I don’t believe this is about our ages, or station, or wealth.”
She mirrored him, mulishly crossing her arms. “You appear to be well-informed about us. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
“We finally admit to our attraction, and
Oh, it frightened her out of her wits. Marriage to Mr. Chatham had been a comfortable affair. Sexual congress had been enjoyable, the occasional tup, but no exploration, no sharing of secret desires. She’d mourned her husband’s passing. They’d had a good life. He was a friend, a partner, but passion failed to burn bright.
It took a dalliance with a rake to open her eyes. Then a dalliance with another man, and another after him. Widows were afforded certain freedoms if they were discreet. But, the excitement, the sense of exploration eventually faded in favor of a new want—love.
Was it too much to ask for love
The first time their eyes had met devastated her.
Hot, lustful seeds were planted that day. She couldn’t deny it.
