Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Mrs. Agnes will see to your comfort,” the Duke’s voice cut through the driving rain as they stood in the entrance hall, water pooling at their feet on the ancient flagstones.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his attention already turning toward a corridor that presumably led deeper into the castle.
“Your Grace.” A woman of perhaps fifty years, with steel-gray hair, appeared as if summoned by thought.
The housekeeper, Cressida assumed.
The older woman had sharp, assessing eyes that softened considerably when they landed on Cressida. “Oh, you poor dear. Come, let’s get you warm and dry.”
Cressida opened her mouth to thank the Duke, but he’d already disappeared down the shadowed hallway, his coat dripping a trail behind him.
“Don’t mind His Grace,” Mrs. Agnes said, her tone suggesting long practice at making excuses for her employer. “He’s not accustomed to guests. Come along now.”
Her hand was gentle but firm on Cressida’s elbow, guiding her up a grand staircase that had likely seen centuries of aristocratic feet. Portraits lined the walls, stern-faced men and women whose painted eyes seemed to follow their progress with disapproval.
“We rarely entertain,” Mrs. Agnes continued, her voice echoing in the vast space. “Why, I cannot recall the last time we had a lady staying over. It’s quite wonderful, truly. Gives the staff something pleasant to fuss over.”
Cressida found herself warming up to the woman despite her exhaustion. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Agnes.”
“Kindness costs nothing, My Lady.” The housekeeper pushed open a heavy door, revealing a bedchamber that took Cressida’s breath away.
Rich burgundy curtains framed windows that overlooked the storm-tossed grounds, while a fire already crackled in the grate. Soft velvet upholstery and deep blankets invited her to reach out and touch, and the fire beckoned with promises of warmth.
“Now, I’ll have a bath drawn immediately,” Mrs. Agnes said. “You’ll catch your death in those wet things.”
True to her word, servants appeared within minutes bearing a copper tub and steaming buckets of water. She shooed them out with brisk efficiency once the bath was ready, then turned to Cressida with an assessing look.
“I’ll find you something suitable to wear. Though…” She tilted her head. “You’re a bit more…”
She gestured vaguely at Cressida’s figure.
“Generously proportioned than most?” Cressida supplied wryly, having heard various euphemisms throughout her life.
Mrs. Agnes’s lips twitched. “I was going to say womanly, dear. There’s no shame in having a proper figure. I’ll see what I can manage.”
An hour later, Cressida descended the staircase feeling simultaneously refreshed and acutely self-conscious.
The gown Mrs. Agnes had procured—pulled from who knew what dusty wardrobe—was a deep sapphire blue that might have been lovely, had it actually fit. Instead, it clung to her curves with almost indecent precision, the bodice straining across her breasts and the fabric pulling tight at her hips.
She’d tried to protest, to ask for something else, but Mrs. Agnes had assured her it was this or remain wrapped in a dressing gown. And Cressida, whatever her other faults, refused to appear at dinner in her nightclothes.
Even if this was barely better.
“The dining hall is just through here, My Lady.” Mrs. Agnes’s eyes sparkled with what might have been amusement.
Cressida stepped through the doorway and immediately felt the Duke’s gaze land on her with almost physical force. He stood at the far end of an absurdly long table, one hand resting on the back of a chair, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
His dark eyes slowly traveled from her face down the length of her body, lingering on the places where fabric strained against flesh. When his gaze returned to hers, heat flickered in those depths before his expression shuttered once more.
“Lady Cressida.” His voice was carefully neutral.
“Your Grace.” She moved toward him with as much dignity as she could muster, her heart pounding at the base of her throat, hyperaware of how the dress restricted her movement.
He pulled out a chair, not at the opposite end of the table as she’d half-expected, but close to his own seat.
So he has some manners, at least.
Cressida sat, and he settled into the chair beside her rather than across from her. The proximity sent a flutter through her stomach that she firmly ignored.
A footman appeared with wine, then disappeared like a ghost. The silence that followed felt oppressive, broken only by the continued assault of rain against the windows and the occasional crack of thunder.
She couldn’t bear it.
“Thank you,” she said finally, the words tumbling out. “For not leaving me out in the storm.”
Despite all the trouble I gave you.
She didn’t say that part out loud, but she knew he heard it all the same.
The Duke’s head snapped toward her, his expression darkening. “I wouldn’t abandon a woman to the elements. Not even–” He cut himself off.
“I don’t know you,” she replied honestly. “So I cannot assume what you’re capable of.”
His jaw clenched. “Precisely, Lady Cressida. You don’t know me.” He leaned forward, and suddenly the space between them felt charged. The golden flecks in his eyes burned somehow brighter.
Their eyes locked. Cressida’s breath caught at the intensity she found there—not anger, though that simmered beneath the surface, but something else entirely. Something that made her skin feel too tight and her pulse quicken.
Want. He wanted her.
She could see it in the slight dilation of his pupils, the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth before jerking back up.
And if she was being truly honest—
No. Stop it.
“Why did you do it?” The question came out softer than she’d intended. “Why were you so adamant about letting Harriet’s wedding proceed?”
The Duke reached for his wine, taking a long sip before answering. “I’ve already told you. Miss Barnes is a respectable lady. It’s only right she should marry well.”
Something about the careful phrasing made Cressida’s spine straighten. A memory surfaced; gossip she’d overheard during her last Season in London, whispered behind fans at some tedious ball.
She tilted her head, studying him. “Tell me, Your Grace, what makes Lord Whitebrook such a respectable match? Is it the drinking? Or perhaps the gambling? I seem to recall hearing about an incident where you had to physically remove him from an establishment because he couldn’t stand on his own.”
A muscle ticked in the Duke’s jaw. “What I do with my friends is none of your concern.”
“Then you understand why my dearest friend’s future is very much my concern.” Heat crept into her voice despite her attempt at composure. “I don’t want her married to a man who will humiliate her, who will break his vows the moment temptation presents itself.”
Now, the Duke was scowling. “You speak of things you don’t understand.”
“Don’t I?” Cressida leaned forward, matching his intensity. “I understand that rakes rarely reform. That they promise fidelity while keeping mistresses. That they—”
“Miss Barnes is the third daughter of a lowly baron,” the Duke interrupted, his voice hardening. “Now, she’s a marchioness. She has security, a title, and wealth. What more could she possibly want?”
“And I’ve told you this before: Harriet deserves love!” The word burst out of Cressida with more force than she’d intended. “And respect! And a partnership based on more than social advancement and financial convenience!”
“Fairy tales,” he gritted out. “The world doesn’t work that way, Lady Cressida. Marriage is a contract. A merger of families and fortunes.”
Cressida rolled her eyes at the boorish words. “How romantic,” she drawled sarcastically.
“Romance is a luxury for those who can afford it.” He reached for the wine decanter, refilling both their glasses with movements that spoke of rigidly controlled tension. “Your friend has made an advantageous match. She’ll want for nothing.”
“Except happiness.” Cressida took a sip of wine, welcoming the warmth that spread through her chest. “Except genuine affection. Except the knowledge that her husband chose her for who she is rather than what she could provide.”
“And you know this with certainty?” The Duke’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You’ve spoken with her? Confirmed her misery?”
“I…” Cressida faltered. “No, but—”
“Then you’re making assumptions.” He leaned closer. “Just as you’ve assumed I’m some villain for preventing your theatrical rescue attempt.”
“I never said you were a villain.”
“Are you casting doubt upon my memory? Or should I be worried about yours?” His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there for a heartbeat too long. “You’ve called me arrogant, a brute, a kidnapper. What else should I add to the list?”
Cressida’s cheeks heated, but she refused to look away first. “I apologize for that, but you must understand my frustration. You would have done the same, had it been your friend.”
His hands clenched. “You’re mistaken if you think you understand me, Lady Cressida. What I do with my friends, or anyone else, is none of your concern.”
His voice had dropped, low and dangerous, a register that sent shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.
“You keep saying that,” she whispered. “But here we are. Alone in your castle. Me in a dress that barely fits, you looking at me like—” She caught herself, heat flooding her face.
“Like what?” He stood up from his chair.
Cressida’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Like…”
She faltered. She’d heard about desire, about lust, about what men and women did when they were overcome by those.
But even during her time out in society, she’d never experienced anything more than a dance, than a polite bow. Gloves and fans and courteous formalities, nothing that breathed.
The Duke of Ashmere was much more intense, as though he belonged to an entirely different world.
A very tempting world.
“Like what, My Lady?” he asked, standing above her, then lowering himself closer to her face. So close she could feel his breath on her cheeks.
She opened her mouth to continue. The intensity of his gaze, the proximity of his body to hers—they all made her freeze in place, waiting to see what he would do with a strange, excitable curiosity.
“So quiet now… I wonder what else I could do to tame that sharp tongue of yours,” he murmured.
A shiver skittered down Cressida’s spine, her heart beating so hard she was certain it’d punch right through her chest and her damned tight dress.
His eyes drifted towards her lips, and she bit her lower lip, too aware of his gaze.
The Duke looked back up into her eyes, then he stood straight, the air between them now suddenly cold. Then, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
“We’ll speak again in the morning.”
The door closed behind him with a decisive click, leaving Cressida alone in the vast dining hall with her racing heart and the uncomfortable realization of how much he had affected her with only his eyes.