Chapter 2 #2
He looked larger than she remembered, more substantial, filling the room with a gravity that pulled at her very soul.
He turned slowly.
Diana braced for the frost. She expected the polite, bored assessment of a man looking at a piece of furniture he had forgotten he owned.
Instead, the Duke’s eyes—green as a deep, sunless forest—ignited the moment they landed on her. There was no calculation in his gaze, no distance. There was only a raw, searing heat that moved over her in one unbroken sweep. It was a gaze that stripped her of all defenses.
His eyes moved from the arch of her brow to the exposed curve of her shoulders, lingering on the swell of her breasts above the silver lace before returning to her mouth with a hunger so naked it made her breath hitch in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Before she could gather the strength to speak, he moved.
He crossed the distance between them with steady grace, closing the space until she was forced to tilt her head back to look at him. Up close, he was overwhelming, and she gulped to keep herself from panting.
“Diana,” he murmured.
She shivered. The way he spoke her name was a revelation, low, vibrating, as though he were tasting the syllables for the first time. Which, it was, actually.
“Your Grace,” she began, her voice a whisper of defiance. “What are you—”
The rest of her sentence was lost.
For his hand shot out, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumb tilting her chin upward with a firm, uncompromising pressure.
And his lips crashed against hers.
Diana froze, her mind shrieking a protest that her body refused to hear.
His mouth was hot, demanding, his lips moving against hers with unrestrained pressure. His other hand settled at the small of her back, his fingers splaying across the silk, crushing her against the hard planes of his chest until she could feel every thud of his heart…or was it hers?
A traitorous, white-hot fire coiled low in her abdomen. For one stunned, shameful second, she forgot the past year. Her fingers fisted into his waistcoat, pulling him closer as her own lips parted in a soft, broken sound of surrender.
Then, the cold reality of his betrayal crashed back in.
She shoved him away. It took every ounce of her strength, her hands trembling as they pushed against the solid wall of his chest.
The Duke released her immediately, though his hands lingered for a fraction of a second at her waist, a phantom, possessive weight that left her skin burning through the silver silk.
She raised a hand to her lips; they felt swollen, branded, still tingling with the impossible touch of him.
The Duke didn’t look sheepish or regretful. He stood his ground, his feet planted wide, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the room. He looked at her with an expression of profound confusion.
“Have I made a mistake?” he asked, his voice a low, vibrating growl of certainty. His presence seemed to expand, filling the air she was trying so desperately to breathe. “Are you not my wife?”
“I am,” Diana snapped. She was as offended by his bluntness as she was bewildered by his poise.
“Then I fail to see the source of your outrage,” he interrupted, his brow creasing into a sharp line between his eyes.
He smoothed the front of his waistcoat with a slow, methodical grace that drew her eyes back to the strength of his frame.
“There is no reason for a woman to be scandalized by the touch of her own husband.”
He watched her with a greedy alertness, his emerald eyes tracking the frantic pulse in her throat as if he could feel her heart hammering from across the room. Even through her fury, she yearned to lean back into him, an instinct she couldn’t suppress.
He took a slow step toward her, his shadow stretching over the silver silk of her gown.
“You look at me as if I am a ghost, or a monster,” he said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to settle deep in her bones.
“When I fear that I am merely an invalid. I have been told of my departure, but the truth, Diana, is that I remember nothing. My mind is a blank slate, scrubbed clean by an accident.”
Diana’s stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot.
“An accident?” she asked.
Alexander gave a faint shake of his head, a shadow of frustration passing over his expression. “So I am told.”
“You do not know what happened?” Her voice trembled as she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“No.” His jaw tightened slightly, the muscle there shifting beneath the shadow of his beard. “I regained consciousness in the street, here in London. A hackney recognized me and brought me here.”
Diana felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, shallow breath. “And you do not remember what you were doing? Before the accident?”
Alexander gave a faint shake of his head. The movement was controlled, but irritation flashed briefly across his face, as though the very question offended him.
“I remember nothing.”
Her stomach twisted painfully.
“‘Nothing’?” Diana asked, her voice quieter now, though she had not intended it to be.
For a moment, he did not answer. He simply watched her, and the weight of his gaze was unnerving. Those green eyes studied her with a strange mixture of intensity and confusion, as if he were searching for something familiar in a face that refused to yield its meaning.
“I mean,” he said at last, each word deliberate, “that my memory is entirely gone.”
Diana felt her fingers tighten unconsciously around the folds of her skirt.
“My name, my house, my title,” he continued, his voice lowering slightly. “My own past. I woke with none of it.”
A cold ripple slid down her spine.
“Nothing at all?” she whispered.
Alexander’s expression hardened faintly, frustration stirring beneath the surface of his composure. He exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself.
“My valet informed me of the particulars of my life a few moments ago,” he went on, his tone edged now with restrained impatience. “Without him, I would not even know that you are my wife.”
The words struck her like a blow. She searched his face desperately, hunting for the smallest flicker of deception, some hint that this was an elaborate cruelty, but his features remained steady.
“Well then… This is a curious predicament,” she mumbled, looking away for a moment.
As she returned her gaze to him, he looked her up and down, then, with raw hunger. His gaze lingered on the exposed curve of her throat, then dropped to the swell of her breasts before returning to her mouth.
“But I can certainly see why I married you, Diana. Looking at you now… it would not be difficult at all to imagine you beneath me, gasping my name.”
The sheer, arrogant carnality of his words sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. It was a crude declaration, and yet, her body responded with a liquid thrum of desire that horrified her. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, her lips, her entire skin.
She opened her mouth, a blistering retort perched on her tongue, ready to flay his arrogance, but the heavy oak door of the studio burst open.
“Your Grace! The physician has arrived!” The valet, a man who looked as though he had aged a decade in a week, hurried in, followed by a somber-looking man carrying a black leather bag.
Diana stepped back, pulling her dignity around her like a shroud. The physician introduced himself briefly as Dr. Arbuthnot, gave her a respectful nod, then dismissed her entirely to begin a rigorous examination of the Duke.
Her husband endured it with restless energy, his eyes never truly leaving Diana, even as the doctor checked his pulse and peered into his eyes.
“Physically, His Grace is in remarkable health,” Arbuthnot finally concluded, turning to Diana. “His strength is unimpaired, his reflexes are sharp. However, he has received some trauma to the cranium, and it has resulted in a profound case of memory loss.”
“Is it… permanent?” Diana asked, her fingers twisting the silk of her skirts.
“I cannot say, Your Grace. I have never seen a case quite so… focused.”
The Duke sat on the edge of the desk, his arms folded over his chest, looking every bit the dominant lord of the manor.
“Doctor, I have no intention of being paraded as a curiosity,” he said, his voice hard. “No one outside this room is to know of this… deficient condition.”
“You require stability, Your Grace,” Arbuthnot added, then turned his head to look pointedly at Diana. “Familiar surroundings and people. I suggest he remain here, under your care, Your Grace.”
Diana was almost speechless. “He is to stay? Here? With me?”
The Duke stood up, his height dwarfing the physician. He walked over to Diana, stopping close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest. The cold, distant man who had left her was gone; in his place was a husband who looked at her with a terrifying, awakened hunger.
“I shall remain in London,” the Duke announced, his voice low and certain, echoing through the studio. “I intend to never spend another moment away from you.”
He reached out, and this time, he didn’t miss. His fingers brushed the line of her jaw, a slow, possessive caress that made her breath catch.
“And until my memory returns,” he murmured, his eyes darkening with a promise that made her heart thunder in her throat, “I intend to begin exactly where I left off.”