Chapter 8
Carriage Ride
The ride to the old lady’s manor was mercifully short.
Though the incident in the park had begun as a farce, it had ended in genuine concern.
The elderly woman seemed more disoriented and a little dizzy, something that worried everybody, including the Duke.
Even Arabella, still warmed by mischief, could not ignore the pallor in the woman’s cheeks.
“Peter,” the old woman said as they reached her manor, “I am not feeling very well.”
“Do not worry, my dear,” the Duke played the part of the doting husband exceptionally well, “we are home, and shall be perfectly attended.”
They reached the manor, and the lady’s maid rushed inside to alert the staff, and soon almost everyone came to take care of the elderly woman, fussing over her, and they rushed inside.
Golden-hearted Winnie got caught up in the whirlwind as well, and worried as she was about the elderly woman, she followed the rest of the staff, ready to help, too.
The door of the carriage closed. Silence.
When the Duke saw that the elderly lady was safe, he turned to Arabella.
All worry and concern were shed, and now he made room for the feeling he had been suppressing from the moment Arabella had forced him to play the part of a departed husband to a woman who would have easily been his grandmother.
The patience he had exercised evaporated, and what remained was cold and sharp. He was ready for Arabella’s reckoning, and he would be swift and merciless at its delivery. But before he could utter a single word, Arabella’s restraint shattered.
The laughter she was holding escaped her lips and echoed in the confined space.
Abandoning all decorum, she bent forward, clutching her ribs, undone by the absurdity of it all, her body shaking.
The ridiculous wax grapes shook with her, and that made the spectacle seem even more comical, raising a new circle of laughter.
Deep down, she was worried that her laughter would provoke the Duke even more, thinking she was laughing at him in his face. So, through tears, she checked to see how close to death she was under his gaze.
Arabella saw the shift in real time. One moment, the Duke looked as if ready to rain hell on her head, making her pay for her humiliating prank. And the next time his look went darker. What had been righteous indignation now dissolved into something heavier.
The laughter faltered on her lips. She didn’t even have the chance to react; the Duke was not a man to hesitate.
He slid from his seat on the carriage and swiftly went on his knees in front of her.
He loomed over her even in this position.
His eyes, that deep forest green, fixed shamelessly upon her mouth.
“You have been a menace, Arabella,” he said in a whispering growl.
He was close enough for his breath to fan the last embers of her mirth till they were a fire of need. Her body locked, every muscle tensing, yet at the same time, she felt an inexorable pull, a yielding in the very core of her.
He slipped even closer, and the fabric of his breeches rustled against her skirts. He let both hands rest on the velvet cushion, caging her in. Arabella tried to summon common sense and restraint, but none answered the call, leaving her alone on the battlefield.
“Your Grace,” she tried weakly.
He chuckled and leaned closer; the warmth of his breath brushed her ear.
“Your Grace? Weren’t you the one who so freely called me by name, Arabella? Use it now.”
To hear her name whispered in that gravely deep voice so close to her ear made her shift uneasily in her seat. The sound alone sent a shiver through her, and the authority in his tone made her stomach flip.
“Gerald,” she breathed.
A deep rumble vibrated in his chest, and he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Arabella pressed into the carriage cushion, grateful she was seated, because her knees would have betrayed her under that look.
His gaze traced the line of her jaw, and soon his hand followed, awakening her body.
The leather of his glove against her skin was surprisingly soft, but even in her haze, Arabella knew this was deceiving.
There was nothing soft on the Duke. This thumb paused beneath her chin.
He caught it and forced her to focus on him.
Her instincts told her that if she looked frightened or ashamed, he would stop, he would retreat to his seat, and the moment would remain unresolved. But there was a hole in that solid plan. She could not summon any emotion other than a primal, overwhelming need.
He let his thumb linger beneath her chin a moment longer, holding her gaze.
His eyes went from hers to her lips, and Arabella felt it like a physical touch, her lips tingling.
Then, almost impossibly slowly, his lips brushed hers.
Just a feather touch, barely there, but unmistakably there nonetheless.
Her fingers fisted her skirt to hold on to reality. And then it was gone.
Arabella let out a gasping, needy protest and instantly hated herself for it. She knew she had to stop and push him away, but all this felt so wickedly right.
The Duke pulled back a little to study her face. She must have been looking like a mess if she were to judge from the satisfied smirk on his lips. He knew what he was doing to her, and he enjoyed her reaction.
In one smooth motion, he closed the distance fully.
This time, his lips claimed hers, not testing anymore; now they were tasting.
First, he claimed her lower lip, sucking it slightly.
Her hands flew, grabbing onto his coat to control her body.
Then he slowly did the same to her upper lip, his other hand rose to her waist, and with one pull, she was flush against him.
Heat flushed her whole body, and her chest heaved in short breaths. He didn’t stop, and Arabella despised herself because she didn’t want him to stop. His hand left her jaw and moved to cradle her face, his fingers lingering at her neck. He leaned just a fraction and deepened the kiss.
Arabella felt as if someone else was commanding her body.
It couldn’t possibly be her who moaned lightly at his claim.
Nor could she be the one who swayed closer, both hands on his chest, her body against this.
Yet she did. Her lips moved greedily against his, answering him, betraying every shred of reason she had left.
“Arabella,” he murmured against her lips softly.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, testing, teasing, coaxing her to open for him.
Arabella felt her breath hitch, her hands digging deeper into his coat.
And against all that she knew, she granted him entrance.
A low growl filled the carriage as his tongue brushed lightly against hers.
The feeling left her reeling, leaning into it more, her head tilting just so to grant him even more access.
Her reaction spurred him more, pulling him flush against him, his kiss more insistent, more demanding, his hands exploring, slightly undoing her carefully gathered hair, upsetting her gown. And yet she wanted more. She needed-
No!
Whatever sense was left in her managed to find the courage to speak up.
What was she doing? Her hands that clung to him now pushed him.
Not that she could physically push his massive body away, but her gesture was clear.
And if that wasn’t enough, her head pulled back, her lips detached from his, and she looked down.
As she had predicted, the Duke stopped the moment she felt her disposition change.
His hand dropped from her, and he put distance between them.
But he didn’t move away, back to his seat.
He just looked down at her, searching her eyes that she cast away, ashamed of how easily she surrendered to his touch.
“Arabella,” he demanded.
“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head.
That simple word hit him, and he finally retreated to his seat in the small carriage. She started to nervously adjust her hair and smooth her dress, her movements nervous and curt.
“Arabella, look at me!”
“We need to call upon Winnie and leave,” she demanded, still avoiding his look.
“I said, look at me,” he ordered.
His tone pierced through the dangerous concoction of emotions that brewed inside her. And went straight to the only thing that ensured distance: anger. Her chest tightened, heat flaring through her cheeks.
“There, Your Grace!” She looked at him, her look feverish. “His Grace ordered, and everyone needs to obey.”
“Arabella,” he warned.
“Or what, Your Grace? What more would you demand of me?”
The look that they exchanged spoke nothing of two people who were tangled together, kissing passionately. They weighed each other as if they were rivals. They were rivals. Arabella felt like a fool for letting his charm fool her into forgetting who that man was.
“Perhaps you will have more than my freedom.” She hissed.
“Your freedom?” The Duke insisted.
“You are forcing me to marry you when I told you I didn’t want to,” she said and straightened her spine. “But this mattered little to you. You saw something that fit your plans, and you simply strolled in and claimed it.”
His look turned icy cold.
“Your father-”
“My father had no choice! You are the Duke of Albury! The richest under the royal family and feared across the ton. If he declined the offer, you would annihilate our family.”
“You don’t know-”
“Oh, I know. I know you very well. You think the world belongs to you, that you have every right to dominate others and terrorize them into submission unpunished.”
The Duke regarded her with a stony look, as if he raised a wall to her accusations. Of course, he did. Her words were meaningless, had no consequence on his decision. He walked in with a ridiculous paper, and he decided that it held the weight he threw behind it.
“You didn’t even hesitate to threaten my sister to have me submit to you,” she accused. “You saw a fragile girl, and your instinct was to use her as a tool.”
His lips tightened, his hands rolled into fists, but he kept looking at her without saying anything.
“You truly are a ruthless monster. No wonder you had to threaten a bride to take you. What woman in her right mind would marry you?”
“A monster,” he repeated coldly.
“I would never marry you! I don’t want to marry you.”
The Duke leaned back, and his chin lifted as if she had taken an actual blow to him. His jaw ticked, his teeth ground together.
“I see,” he delivered with no emotion. “You have made your opinions clear.”
He inhaled as if dealing with something annoying and straightened his jacket and cufflinks.
“If that is the case,” he adjusted his gloves, “you can rest assured. You are no longer attached to me. I will revoke the marriage license.”
She looked at him, dumbfounded. She watched as he took his hat and his cane. He gracefully exited the carriage. Stood there at the open door with his back to her.
“Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Arabella,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “You are free.”
And he left. Leaving Arabella in a wrecked emotional battlefield. Victorious. Her final assault did exactly what she set out to do. She was free. Then why did she feel as if she was defeated?