Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“What could go wrong?” she whispered to herself.
The answer was clear.
Everything.
Her stepmother’s warnings sounded in her mind. What of her sisters if she could not secure a match this season? It would be the end of her, and the disgrace of her youngest sisters.
And scandal? It would make things worse. She should know better.
The Duke of Redmoor was not courting her, she told herself. He had a bit of a reputation, but most of it was because he was Scottish. So far, she had not seen him indulging any other woman’s attentions. Then again, those things happened behind closed doors.
She blushed at the thought. She tried to ignore the way her chest tightened at the thought of him with another woman.
Of course, he’d eventually choose someone to be his duchess one day.
The night was moonless, as if it knew the illicit nature of her little adventure.
When she reached the servant’s entrance of the Duke of Redmoor’s home, her heart was galloping in her chest.
Earlier, her maid said, “Be careful, miss.”
Now, she was alone. She had a cloak on to cover her face and hair, but she didn’t feel protected.
A footman met her at the servant’s entrance. He was silent and discreet. He didn’t even greet her by name. Instead, he quickly guided her through the dimly lit corridors until they reached a parlor.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her manners overpowering her need to be anonymous.
How many women had traversed these corridors before her? The footman seemed used to it.
She stepped into the room with quiet hesitation.
The furniture had been pushed back, clearing a wide space at the center, as if for some secret ritual.
Candles lined the walls, their flames dancing shadows across the floor.
A woodsy, spiced scent curled through the air—earthy and warm, like smoke tangled with pine and something darker.
This was his domain, unmistakably, and she had crossed its threshold willingly.
“Ye made it,” the Duke said softly.
Did he truly give her a choice? He looked as though he’d drifted to sleep and woken again just to meet her: his hair tousled, his clothing creased and careless. The top of his shirt hung open, revealing the ridge of a broad, powerful chest—honed and solid, like something meant to be leaned against.
There was an ease to him, a quiet confidence, as if he already knew how this night would end.
“I told you I would, Your Grace,” she said simply, removing her cloak and resting it on a chair by the wall.
“We should start with the dull part first. We might have too much fun with the dancing later. You can give me my lesson first,” he said.
“More etiquette?” she asked. “You sound properly enthused. I am guessing the first lesson went well.”
“Aye, it did. But there’s still more to learn,” he said, “and I love being corrected. Especially by ye.”
Elizabeth felt more prepared this time. She’d rehearsed her greetings, braced herself for barbed remarks, and armed herself with calm replies.
She wasn’t just ready to endure him; she was ready to manage him.
She would teach him how to disarm rather than provoke, to charm rather than challenge.
If he tried to spark a quarrel, she’d simply shift the wind.
“If someone calls you a brute, what would you say?” she asked, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
“Thank ye for the compliment,” he snapped, his voice dry and defensive.
Elizabeth tilted her head, unbothered. “Mm. Or you could say you’ve heard worse from other men. It’s pointed, perhaps even amusing to some. It deflects without escalating.”
He let out a frustrated breath, his accent thickening with his irritation. “There’ll come a day when I can tell these bastards exactly what I think of them. One day, mark me words.”
She frowned. “You dislike most of the lords. Possibly all of them. You mock even the kindest of them. Think of Pomfrey.”
The Duke halted mid-step and frowned at her.
“So why try to wedge yourself into their world?” she continued gently. “Why push for their approval, their company? You don’t need their wealth or titles. You could marry well if you wished.”
He stood frozen, eyes shadowed by flickering candlelight. The play of flame carved hollows into his cheekbones, catching the edge of his jaw, casting darkness into the depth of his gaze.
For a moment, Elizabeth thought he’d shut down entirely, that he’d retreated behind that wall she’d come to recognize. That he’d send her away.
But then, unexpectedly, his voice broke through, low and taut. “I need answers, Lady Elizabeth.”
“Answers?”
“Aye.” His voice roughened. “Answers that’ll lead me to justice. I can handle the mud; I’ve walked through it most of my life. But me faither… he deserved better. I promised meself and him I’d find out what really happened. I swore it.”
She didn’t know the full story, not yet. Only fragments, murmurs she’d pieced together from others’ silences. But she understood now.
This wasn’t about ambition. It was about grief. About loyalty. And rage.
“That’s… noble,” she said quietly. “Your Grace.”
He gave a short laugh—dark, almost bitter. “I’m not a knight in shinin’ armor, lass. Daenae paint me as one. I’ve done things… things I’m not proud of.” He looked down, jaw clenched. Then, softly, “Me faither, on the other hand… he was the kind of man that should’ve worn armor.”
Elizabeth stepped towards him. “You’re not a knight, I agree,” she said, her voice gentle. “But you are certainly not the brute they accuse you of being.”
He looked up at her then, something sharp softening behind his eyes.
“Let’s get to yer dancin’ lesson, then,” he said gruffly, flashing her a grin that was all teeth and mischief. “Before I start believin’ ye like me.”
He held out a hand. “Come here, daenae be shy. We’ll start with a waltz.”
Even though no one else was present, Elizabeth still felt the peculiar self-consciousness of being watched.
Perhaps it was because he was the one watching her.
She stood near the center of the room, her hands poised uncertainly at her sides.
When the Duke extended his hand, she placed hers into his without a word, only to shiver at the contrast between his rougher, warmer palm and her own. It was a simple contact, and yet she felt her pulse jump in multiple places—her wrists, her throat, her chest.
His touch grounded her. It also scattered her.
He moved them into the first position, their bodies aligned just enough to suggest the shape of a dance, and she felt her breath grow shallow.
“Straighten that back. Lift that chin,” he instructed softly, his brogue gentled with purpose. “Ah. That’s better. Almost perfect.” A slow grin curved his lips. “But ye do have to look at me, me lady.”
“I am looking,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze.
“Are ye?” he teased. “You look at me like I’ve just crawled out of the wall and started shriekin’ for revenge.”
She bit back a smile. “You’re absurd.”
“And yet here ye are.”
They began to move, slowly, her body unsure of each step, her limbs stiff with resistance. He corrected her posture with light touches, one hand guiding her elbow, another tilting her chin back to center.
“Try again, lass,” he murmured.
She obeyed, but her motions were still awkward. Her spine locked. Her breath uneven.
He sighed dramatically. “Ye’re stiff as a brick, woman. I’ve seen corpses with more rhythm.”
“I am relaxed!” she said defensively.
“Ye’re about as relaxed as a nun in a brothel.”
That pulled a bark of laughter from her, and she swayed slightly.
“There,” he said approvingly with a grin. “Ye laughed. Now ye’re starting to feel like a person instead of a mannequin. Ye must get out of yer head.”
“I prefer my head,” she grumbled. “It’s safer there.”
“Ye’ve got a body too, ye know. It’s time ye let it join the conversation.”
Her brows pinched, uncertain. “You speak as if I’ve ignored it.”
He looked at her with quiet intensity. “Ye have. But yer body is wiser than ye think. It knows hunger. Pleasure. Joy. Pain. Ye can ignore it for a time, but eventually it knocks on yer ribs and demands attention.”
His voice had changed. Lower now. Rougher.
“And aye,” he added, watching her closely. “I am talking about pleasure.”
Her breath caught. She’d felt things—moments in the dark, touches that lingered longer than they should. The heat she sometimes felt at night in her belly… the ache between her legs she didn’t fully understand.
“Aye, lass,” he said gently, answering the question she hadn’t fully voiced. “There is heat in us all. A fire that flares without reason. Even when ye lie in bed alone and quiet… yer body still knows it’s alive. That’s no shameful thing.”
“Your Grace—”
“Alasdair. Here, we’re alone, and me name’s Alasdair,” he corrected, his eyes piercing into hers.
“It’s very improper,” she protested.
“In contrast to every other part of this moment?” he countered.
Her jaw tensed. He was right. This moment was downright scandalous, ruinous. Uttering his name wouldn’t make it any better.
“A-Alasdair,” she repeated softly, testing the sound on her tongue.
His eyes fluttered, as though he’d heard the sweetest melody.
This was making it all much, much worse.
“Good. And as for me previous statement, I’ll not apologize,” he said, voice still calm. “I’m not here to scandalize ye. I’m here to tell ye the truth. There is a pulse inside ye that belongs to ye, and no one else. It is yers to claim. Yers to explore. Ye need not wait for a husband to know it.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned, her mouth slightly ajar. He made her feel exposed, as though he’d peeled back every layer of polite society and seen something raw and real underneath.
“You’re a scoundrel,” she whispered.
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “ye haven’t run.”
No. She hadn’t. Her feet refused to move.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted as though waiting for breath or words or something more.
He looked at her then with something close to reverence.
“Ye’re beautiful when ye blush, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “And right now, ye’re blushing all the way down yer neck.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
The air in the room seemed to change. Thicken. Elizabeth could feel it pressing down on her like a storm. The teasing in his gaze had vanished. In its place was something darker, deeper, an ache barely contained.
Then he kissed her.
It was not rushed. Not demanding. His mouth brushed hers once, then paused, as if asking permission. Her body, trembling and uncertain, gave him an answer.
She leaned in just slightly, but it was enough.
The next kiss deepened, slowly at first, then with rising hunger. His lips coaxed hers open, his hand sliding up her back to cradle the base of her skull. Her fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, needing something to hold on to as the world tilted.
Their bodies moved closer, his arm locking firmly around her waist, drawing her flush against him. She could feel the shape of him—solid, warm, dangerous. Her senses were aflame, her mind fading like mist in morning light.
She wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t pretending.
She was feeling.
He kissed like he fought: intensely, with focus and fire, as though the moment itself could devour them both.
And in that moment, Elizabeth stopped caring about what was proper. What was expected. She only knew that she had never been kissed, and she’d never imagined she could be like this.
But she also knew it had to end.
Her knees trembled. Her breath came in shallow pants. She pulled back just enough to speak, though the words came out hoarse.
“I… I should go.”
His eyes were glazed, unreadable. His chest heaved with breath. He didn’t move to stop her, but his voice was low when he finally spoke.
“Aye. But ye’ll come back.”
There was no arrogance in the statement. No triumph. Only quiet hope, frayed around the edges.
She couldn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.
She turned and fled.
The moment she stepped outside into the hallway, a single tear slipped free and rolled down her cheek. She didn’t know what it meant—guilt, confusion, regret… or something far more dangerous.
His kiss had awakened something inside her. Something wild and ravenous.
And now, she wasn’t sure if she could ever put it back to sleep.