Chapter 21
The door stood before Aurelia like an enemy.
Her gloved hand remained on the knob, yet she could not summon the courage to push it down. Her chest rose and fell beneath the heavy black satin, her pulse fluttering rapidly.
Can I do this?
A breath escaped her lips, and her hand slipped off the knob. She turned away from the door, choosing to take one last glance at herself in the mirror.
Her gown was everything it ought to be—elegant, radiant, and daring. Madame Lisette had done a great job with the finishing touches.
It was everything a duchess’s gown was meant to be. Yet, sometimes, Aurelia didn’t feel like one.
She should admire the gown. She should stand straighter and think herself victorious in beauty. But she could not.
Because she knew who waited on the other side of the door.
Because she knew what his hands had done to her in the dark two nights ago.
Her breath hitched at the memory. His mouth on her breast, his teeth grazing, his tongue relentless until her cries became breathy. His finger sliding deep inside her until she was trembling helplessly against him. Until she shattered around his hand and could do nothing but gasp his name.
Heat rushed through her so suddenly that she pressed her thighs together. Even now, standing alone, her body betrayed her—wet, needy, aching.
“Get yourself together,” she whispered fiercely to her reflection, but her voice quavered.
And she feared that part the most. The part that shattered in Percival’s presence.
How was she going to endure tonight? They would leave for the ball soon.
A ball meant hours spent in Percival’s company. Hours of standing near him, sitting across from him, brushing against his sleeve when he offered his arm.
Could she truly survive it?
“I’m afraid not,” she muttered, before lifting one hand to fan herself, her cheeks burning.
Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and tugged at her gloves until the fabric was smooth. Her gaze flicked to the door.
The door. She must face it. She must face him.
Before the little confidence she had mustered evaporated, she moved to the door and pulled it open.
And the world went still. One look was all it took to steal her breath away. There he was.
Percival lingered in the shadows with idle patience, though the way he was shrouded in darkness that invited either dread or worship was nothing close to idle.
His coat was immaculate, his black boots polished to a fine shine, every line of his body so poised that it hurt to look at him.
He was not waiting. He was hunting. And his prey had just walked into view.
His eyes found her instantly before she could even take a step forward. Blue. Piercing. Arresting.
She came to a halt, her breath seizing in her lungs. He looked at her as though she were wearing nothing, as though he had stripped her bare without lifting a hand.
Yet, he said nothing for a moment, and that was the part that always confused her the most.
“The gown.” His voice was thick with lust and admiration. “Charming.”
His gaze lowered, slowly trailing down her body. From the gleaming pearls at her throat, to the scandalous dip of dark satin across her chest, to the folds that hugged her hips.
His eyes lingered there, shameless, making her cheeks burn hot.
Desperate to break the silence before she shattered completely, her lips parted. “You’ve seen this dress before, Duke,” she said softly. “At the modiste’s. Surely it cannot surprise you now.”
His eyes rose from her gown to her face, and for a long heartbeat, he studied her, his expression unreadable.
“Do you think—” His mouth curled, not into a smile, not quite, but into something dangerous. “—that you fail to surprise me each day?”
The words slipped so carelessly, so smoothly, from his lips.
Her breath left her in a rush. She wasn’t sure of what to do. She should have laughed it off or scolded him for the way he spoke, for the power in his silence, but her tongue betrayed her, her lips too weak to form words.
And so she tore her gaze from the mesmerizing heat in his eyes. She pretended to look at the wall, as if it were suddenly of great interest. Perhaps staring at the portraits would stop him from noticing the tremors in her hands.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the faintest twitch of his mouth. He was fighting back a smirk, proving that he had most definitely seen them. And that realization came with something darker, the kind of pleasure one took in knowing that another was losing control.
“I would rather,” she finally managed in a whisper because the silence might be the thing to break her, “you did not look at me like that.”
“Like what?” His response was immediate, his head tilting slightly.
It made Aurelia pause, debating whether to be honest or not. However, knowing she would feel worse if she remained silent, she blurted, “As if I’m not decent.”
That word was a small, brittle thing. It felt ridiculous to say aloud, as if she were bargaining her virtue for coin.
Percival made a low sound in the back of his throat, almost like a half-chuckle, half-growl.
It made her look up, and when she did, a gasp escaped her lips. He had already stepped closer, so quietly that she hadn’t seen him do it.
“What—what amuses you so, if I may ask?” she stuttered, looking up at his face.
Percival took one final step until the space between them shrank to a breath. The warmth of him was undeniable as it brushed her gloved hand. She felt it through the fabric, felt in the breath she had not known she was holding.
“You are the most decent woman I have ever met,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “And yet tonight, I fear that decency will not save me.”
Her knees wanted to buckle.
Why is he speaking in such a manner tonight?
Every word he had uttered had made her clutch the satin at her waist to steady herself because shame and something akin to want were beginning to tangle deep in her chest.
She dipped her head, praying he would not see the blush that had bloomed in her cheeks.
But he saw it. Of course, he did. Because when she risked a glance at him, she found his eyes still locked on her, piercing through her composure until she wished she could melt into the floor.
At that moment, she realized that her heart no longer belonged to her. It beat for him. And she despised, so very much, the fact that he might already know it.
His voice broke the silence. “Shall we?”
The question was measured, as precise as a blade. Yet Aurelia didn’t miss what lay underneath it. The faint huskiness that betrayed his crumbling control.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Of course.”
The words came out softer than she had intended.
Quietly, he extended his arm, his sleeve black as midnight. She hesitated for only a breath before resting her gloved hand on it. The moment she did, heat rushed through the silk. Through her skin, through her bones… until it throbbed low in her belly.
Without looking at her, Percival began walking, his breathing even, his stride steady. As they moved down the narrow corridor, it felt like the air itself had held its breath.
As they walked, their steps echoed softly against the floorboards. The silence that settled between them pushed unspoken words to the tip of her tongue.
Her mind wandered. Should she speak first? A word, any word, to break this suffocating hush? But what would escape her lips might be foolish, telling, something she could never take back.
Perhaps it was better to remain still and let the silence reign. Because beside her, his body was like a wall of heat, rigid with control. The faint scent of him—crisp linen and leather—titillated her senses.
Eventually, she cleared her throat, deciding to break the silence.
But he beat her to it. “You are quiet.”
The words stuck her like an arrow loosed into the hush, causing her to tense.
“Perhaps,” she returned carefully, “it’s because I do not trust myself to speak.”
That made his head turn sharply. His piercing blue eyes narrowed on her as if she had stepped into his trap. “And why is that?”
She lifted her chin defiantly, though her heart was hammering in her chest. “Because every word might be… unwise.”
The pause that followed was unbearable. His gaze slid over her face, then lingered on her lips and on the quick rise and fall of her chest. At that breathless moment, she could have sworn she saw his jaw tighten. As if something undid him, as though he was fighting a battle no man could win.
“Then perhaps silence suits you best,” he said finally. But his voice had darkened, dropped to a dangerously low murmur.
As though he had not emphasized it enough, his gaze flicked once more to her mouth, letting her see his hunger and restraint all at once.
“Though I wonder if silence is what you truly prefer.”
The words struck low, hot, and devastating. He had seen the way she kept quiet in front of her family, how she had allowed silence to reign as they made decisions for her. She had always chosen silence to please people.
And now, here he was, wondering if that was what she truly preferred.
The implication of his remark almost made her miss her step, the world tilting as she nearly lost her balance.
Without thinking, she threw out her hand and grabbed his arm. Her fingers curled tightly into his sleeve, not wanting to fall. The heat of him seeped through layers of fabric when he reached for her and grabbed her waist, squeezing it possessively.
Their eyes met, and they both stiffened at the heated touch. Percival’s head was bent slightly, as though against his will, staring deep into her brown eyes.
Say something, a voice at the back of her head screamed at her. Anything.
But no words came out.
“You should be more careful, Duchess,” Percival spoke quietly, before letting go. He straightened his back and resumed his steps.
The silence returned, alive and thrumming. But Aurelia sensed the faint tremor in his breath and saw his hand curl around his cane.
“You mistake me, Duke,” she spoke, not wanting to let his words hang in the cold air. “I am very fond of speaking.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That much I have noticed,” he said.
They stepped out fully into the night. Cool air rushed at them, and the city hummed faintly in the distance with the clatter of carriage wheels, laughter, and the glow of gas lamps.
Yet, Aurelia felt none of it. She felt only him.
“The night is beautiful—” She broke off as a gust of wind swept past, tugging a curl loose from her pins. It fell against her cheek, soft and rebellious.
She lifted her hand to tuck back the strand, but his hand was faster.
It was instinct, she knew. Nonetheless, she could not help but freeze when his fingers brushed her temple. She knew it was probably rehearsed courtesy, but there was something raw and honest about it.
It made her look up.
“You needn’t have done that,” she whispered, her heart pounding.
Percival paused and searched her face, then looked away. “And yet I did.”
Still rooted to the spot, her brow creased slightly. There was something about his tone that felt… blunt. Too random. Too… confusing.
“So you regret it?” she forced out.
His jaw tightened. “It was nothing,” he answered sharply.
Her lashes fluttered. “Nothing?”
Something had changed. He was acting that way again, making her feel they were taking a step forward as a married couple, only for him to take ten steps back.
Before her thoughts spiraled, he turned his gaze to her. “A curl of hair, Duchess.” His voice was calm, though his eyes were not. “Do not make a sermon out of it.”
The words cut deeper than he had intended, but it was too late to take them back. It was a blow, so strong that she had to lower her gaze, biting back the words clawing at her throat.
Unable to bear the sight, Percival turned and walked away quickly. But inside—God, inside, he burned.
Nothing. He had named it nothing.
But nothing did not make his heart pound like a drum.
Nothing did not make him imagine dragging her back inside and pressing her against the wall, devouring her until she was breathless.
Nothing did not make his hands itch with the memory of her warmth.
Nothing did not make his groin pulse with the memory of her moans.
A fool, he was. A weak, shameful fool.
Keep it together, Percival.
What had happened between them nights ago—her cries at his touch, her hips bucking against his fingers—was not pleasure. No, it was discipline. He had meant to tame her, to correct her wrong ideas. To assert control.
That was what he told himself. The lie he wanted to believe so badly.
But his body betrayed him, hard and aching even now at the memory of her lips, desperate to hear her gasp his name again.
He clenched his fists and swallowed a groan. But before he could disappear, her voice rang out from behind.
“If it was not nothing, then why—” She took a deep breath. “Why do you look as though it were everything?”
He stopped. He did not turn. He could not. Then, he spoke slowly, almost painfully. “Because you are mistaken. Entirely.”
Without waiting for her response, he resumed walking, quicker this time, as if the distance might shield him from the truth he could not face.
Aurelia followed behind, her steps deliberately slow, uninterested in keeping up with his pace. Her hands pressed against her hammering heart.
His denial had been sharp and cold. But she had seen his eyes.
And those blue eyes had confessed everything.