Chapter 18 #3
“Then it is all the more reason you should,” Dorothy teased softly. “Children do not remember the perfection of the day, but they remember the joy in it. If she sees you willing to play, to laugh with her, that will matter more than anything else you might try.”
Magnus’s gaze lingered on her, the smile fading into something quieter, more searching.
“Sometimes I do not recognize the man I am starting to become,” he mumbled, loud enough that she heard him.
“It’s remarkable. It doesn’t feel wrong, so I cannot really complain about it.
Only a few months ago, I would never even have considered the idea of a picnic. ”
Dorothy felt her lips curve faintly. “Sometimes change is good,” she said softly.
“I have fought it often enough in my own life. I used to dislike it, despise it even. But I have come to realize that no matter how tightly one holds on, things still shift. Perhaps, if one stops resisting, if one dares to trust the process, change can be for good. That is what I try to hold on to, Your Grace.”
His eyes deepened, his expression sharpening with an intensity that made her insides tremble. “Magnus,” he said. “I think it is high time you stopped calling me Your Grace, Dorothy. After all, we are no longer strangers. We have shared secrets. Call me by my name.”
Dorothy’s breath caught as his words settled between them.
She looked at him then, really looked, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though she were glimpsing more than just the Duke of Walford.
He seemed pensive, almost adrift in thoughts he had not spoken aloud, and it struck her that he, too, was beginning to notice what she had. The shift in them both.
She had changed. The way she thought, the way she responded to him, the way her heart startled whenever he so much as glanced at her, and as she studied his face in that quiet, shadowed garden, she could not help but wonder if he was changing too.
Her gaze, unbidden, slipped to his mouth. The memory of his hand brushing her lips the other evening flickered to life, and before she could stop herself, the thought rose, and she wondered what it would feel like if she returned the gesture.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, but her hand lifted almost of its own accord. She hesitated only an instant, then her thumb found the curve of his lower lip. The warmth of it startled him, and he stilled, his eyes dropping to her hand in astonishment before returning to her eyes.
What am I doing?
The thought screamed in her mind, yet her fingers refused to obey.
She traced the line of his lip again, more deliberate this time, as though the intimacy of the moment had stolen all her restraint.
His breath caught, barely perceptible, yet she felt it, and his body gave the faintest shudder beneath her touch.
The world seemed to narrow to the softness of his mouth beneath her thumb, the electric stillness between them, and the dangerous, undeniable truth that all she wanted, more than anything, was to lean forward and kiss him.
She felt him shift, slow and deliberate, and her heart seized as his hand came up to cover hers.
His fingers were warm, firm, and with aching care, he lifted her hand from his lips, inch by inch, as though he were unwilling to break the fragile spell.
His gaze never left hers. It was steady, dark, and searching, as if he meant to uncover every secret thought in her head.
When at last her hand rested in his, he did not release it. Instead, he lowered it gently to his lap, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that felt far too tender for their supposed strained relationship.
“Dorothy,” he whispered.
Her name on his lips stole the breath from her chest. It felt like a plea, so soft... so unguarded. Something inside her fractured in that instant, surrendering to the pull she had been resisting for so long.
Before she could think better of it, before reason could barge in and stop her, she let instinct seize her. She leaned forward, closing the narrow space between them, and pressed her lips to his.
The world seemed to still. Heat coiled low in her stomach, and without thinking, she braced herself, slipping her left hand onto his lap, so she could lean closer, steady herself against him as her lips lingered against his.
The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming.
His warmth, his nearness, the faint hitch of his breath.
She did not stop until her own lungs protested, until her chest rose and fell too sharply to ignore. Breathless, she broke away at last, panting, her lips tingling from the stolen kiss. Only then did clarity return.
What had she done?
Her mind reeled. Her pulse hammered as she realized how far she had stepped—no, leapt—over every boundary he had set.
She dared not look at him, not when he sat so terribly still, not when silence stretched like a blade between them.
Shame prickled hot in her chest, and she fumbled for words, for some feeble excuse.
“Magnus…” Her voice faltered. “I—”
She never finished.
In the next breath, his hand slid to the back of her head, and he drew her forward again. His mouth captured hers with none of the hesitation she had shown, none of the restraint. The kiss deepened instantly, erasing her doubts, devouring her apology before it could even be formed.
The kiss was nothing like she had imagined. It was fierce, consuming, like a pent-up hunger she had no idea was burning inside her. Her hands, no longer trembling, framed his face as though she were afraid he might vanish if she let go.
He released her hand at last, only for his arm to slide boldly around her waist. In one swift pull, he drew her so close that she was no longer merely seated beside him; she was leaning into him, her stomach pressed firmly to his.
A low sound escaped him, a moan muffled into her mouth, the kind that sent shivers darting through her.
His hand at her waist tightened, anchoring her against him as though he had no intention of letting her retreat.
The other found its way upward, threading through her hair with restless intensity, disheveling the neat arrangement until curls spilled freely about her face.
Her pulse raced wildly as his touch traveled higher, over the line of her neck, until at last both his hands framed her face.
His thumbs brushed her cheeks with startling tenderness even as his mouth claimed hers with unrelenting fervor, as though he could not decide whether to devour her or caress her.
She clung to the lapel of his coat, undone, overwhelmed, every sense sharpened by the sensation of being so completely consumed.
At last, Magnus tore his mouth from hers, though only barely.
Both of them were gasping, their foreheads against each other, their breaths mingling in the space that separated them by no more than a whisper.
Dorothy’s chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he must feel it against his own.
His gaze fell to her lips, as though he could not bring himself to look anywhere else.
His fingers brushing her mouth in a slow motion.
He stroked at her lips with care, his thumb tugging lightly at the corner, the pad of his finger lingering as if memorizing the shape.
The look in his eyes made her shiver. It felt hungry, intent, as though he might consume her if he dared give in further.
She dared not move, spellbound, her pulse tripping faster with each unhurried caress.
He looked as though he were studying her mouth with the curiosity of an artist and the possession of a man undone, and when he bent again to capture her lips, the kiss was softer this time, gentler, yet no less demanding.
His thumb stroked the delicate skin just below her ear, slow circles at the side of her neck that sent heat sparking along her spine.
The tenderness in that touch contrasted with the fervor of his mouth, and the contradiction made her tremble.
Another low sound broke from him, but it was echoed by the unsteady gasp that escaped her own lips at the same moment.
Dorothy’s arms slipped around his neck, clutching him close, pulling herself nearer until there was scarcely any part of her that was not pressed to him.
It was not enough. The need to be closer, impossibly closer, surged through her as though she could burrow into his very skin, hide herself within him and never emerge again.
The faint rustle of footsteps on gravel reached them, a reminder that the garden was not wholly theirs. Voices drifted faintly from a path beyond the hedges, too distant to make out, but close enough that Dorothy’s heart lurched with alarm.
Magnus broke the kiss, his breath unsteady, and for a suspended moment, neither of them moved.
Then Dorothy drew back quickly, slipping from his hold, her hands trembling as she pushed a wayward curl back into place.
She smoothed her skirts, fussed with her bodice, anything to compose herself, though her pulse thundered like a wild drum against her ribs.
Her fingers tangled once in her hair, and she bit her lip as she tried to tame the loose strands, praying she did not look as thoroughly undone as she felt.
Magnus sat back as well, chest rising heavily, his hand raking once through his disheveled hair before he tugged at his coat, setting it right.
They sat side by side in the flowered alcove, their breaths ragged, their silence thunderous.
Dorothy’s cheeks still flamed, her lips tingled, and her very bones felt unsteady.
Whatever just happened, she thought with trembling clarity, had changed everything.
The trajectory of their marriage, the carefully drawn lines she had promised herself she would keep.
All shattered. There was no mending them, no going back to the complicated distance that had once seemed safer.
There was no going back at all.