Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Dinner at Ashmere alone was nothing new to Theodore. Dinner in company on a stormy evening had, he was discovering, a particular quality to it—something between a siege and a chess match, with excellent wine.
He was already seated when she arrived, his eyes lifting from the letter in his hand only briefly before he set it aside. He stood, manners intact, and waited until she was seated before resuming his own seat.
The footman poured wine. The soup arrived. Three full minutes passed in which neither of them said a word, and the rain outside said rather a lot.
“Well,” she said pleasantly. “This is not at all strained.”
He said nothing and simply reached for his wine. But Cressida only waited with every appearance of contentment. For a woman with so many opinions, she had apparently decided to keep them to herself until he shared one for her to argue against.
He would oblige her. This silence grew too much for him.
“Your dedication to your friend is admirable, Lady Cressida.” Theodore cut into his beef with more precision than necessary. “Though I would venture to say it borders on reckless.”
Across the table, his current obsession set down her wine glass with a controlled click that nonetheless conveyed volumes. “I suppose you would prefer I sit idle while watching people I care about make terrible mistakes?”
The candles between them flickered, casting shadows that made her eyes appear more vivid, more dangerous. Theodore found himself watching the way firelight played across her collarbone, exposed by that damned dress that Mrs. Agnes had somehow procured again.
“I prefer,” he said carefully, “that people consider consequences before charging headlong into disaster.”
“How very dull that must make your life, Your Grace.” Cressida took a deliberate bite of her meal. “Always calculating, never feeling.”
The barb struck deeper than she could know.
“Feelings,” Theodore replied, his voice hardening, “are what lead men to ruin.”
“And what leads them to happiness?” She leaned forward slightly, candlelight making her auburn hair gleam like burnished copper. “Or is that not something dukes concern themselves with?”
“Happiness is a luxury.” The words came out more bitter than he’d intended. “Sometimes people must make difficult choices for the greater good.”
“The greater good.” Cressida’s laugh held no humor. “How convenient that that phrase always seems to mean sacrificing what one wants for what society deems acceptable.”
“Society exists for a reason—”
“Society exists to keep people like you in power and people like me in our place.” Her cheeks had flushed, passion animating her features in a way that made his pulse quicken despite himself.
“You speak of duty and sacrifice as though they’re virtues, but truly, Your Grace, you sound like a man who doesn’t care about anything—anyone—at all. ”
The accusation slapped him across the jaw with the force of her conviction.
Theodore’s grip tightened on his fork. “You know nothing of what I care about.” He knew he ran the risk of sounding like a sailor’s parrot, especially with the way he continued to sound so defensive, but he could not help himself.
“Then enlighten me.” She spread her hands. “Because from where I’m sitting, you seem determined to keep yourself locked away in this castle, surrounded by portraits and books and—”
“Sometimes,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, “the choices one must make for the sake of duty leave one hollow. Would you prefer I inflict that hollowness upon others?”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the continued assault of rain against the windows. Cressida’s expression had shifted, curiosity replacing anger.
“What happened to you?” she asked softly.
Theodore did not like the way her tone wormed its way through his ribcage to entwine itself around his heart. “Nothing that concerns you.”
She shook her head. “I wonder… Does anyone actually know you, Your Grace? Or do you keep everyone at arm’s length with your duty and your burdens?”
“You understand nothing of burdens.” The words emerged harsher than he’d intended.
Cressida stood abruptly, her chair scraping across stone.
“Don’t I? I’ve spent two years scrubbing floors for an aunt who despises me because my parents found me too inconvenient to keep.
I’ve watched every friend marry while I became society’s cautionary tale.
I’ve had my choices stripped away until running across the countryside to stop a wedding seemed like the only path I had left.
” Her voice had risen, trembling with emotion.
“So please, Your Grace, lecture me again about burdens you think I couldn’t possibly understand. ”
She turned toward the door, and Theodore found himself moving before thought could intervene. His hand caught her wrist, spinning her back to face him.
“Let go of me.”
He released her wrist, stepping back.
She stood there, breathing hard, glaring up at him with those impossibly green eyes. He watched disappointment flicker across her features as the distance between them remained.
“You are disappointed, Cressida. Why?” The question escaped before he could stop it.
Color flooded her cheeks, and the sight of it spreading made his heart kick. “I—I…”
“Is there something you want?” he asked, his voice low now. “From me.”
She did not answer. That in itself was an answer.
Theodore felt something tighten low in his belly.
Cressida looked as though she had words prepared and had lost them somewhere between thought and speech.
He took a step closer. Watched her. She didn’t stop him.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“Do you want me to stop, Cressida?” He came closer still, her lavender scent enveloping him.
She only shook her head.
Theodore took another step forward, watching her pupils dilate, her lips part. “So be it.”
Then he was kissing her, his mouth claiming hers with all the pent-up frustration and desire that had been building since he’d first dragged her from that church. She made a sound against his lips, surprise or pleasure or both, before her arms came up around his neck.
This was madness. Complete and utter madness. But Theodore couldn’t bring himself to care, not when she tasted like wine and defiance, not when her body pressed against his with unmistakable need.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer until no space remained between them. The tight dress meant he could feel every curve, every rapid breath. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to sting, and the small pain only heightened his hunger.
He backed her against the wall, his mouth leaving hers to trace the line of her jaw, the column of her throat. She arched into him, her head falling back to grant better access, and he bit down gently on the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
“Your Grace,” she gasped.
“Theodore. Say my name,” he growled.
“Theodore,” she gasped again, and the sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him.
His hand slid up her ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through too-thin fabric. She trembled against him, making sounds that would haunt his dreams for weeks.
Thunder cracked overhead with such violence that the windows rattled in their frames.
The sound penetrated the haze of lust. Cressida stiffened in his arms, and he felt the moment reality crashed back for both of them. She pushed at his chest, and this time he let her go, stepping back quickly enough that she nearly stumbled.
But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she gathered her skirts and fled, leaving him alone in the dining hall with her taste still on his lips and the echo of thunder mocking his loss of control.
He pressed his palms against the wall where she’d been, trying to slow his breathing, trying to remember all the reasons this was impossible.
It didn’t help.
The next morning dawned clear, sunlight streaming through the breakfast room windows with almost offensive brightness. Theodore sat alone with cold coffee and the London papers, trying not to think about how empty the castle felt without her there, arguing with him.
He heard her footsteps before she appeared. When had he learned the rhythm of her walk?
She was wearing a traveling dress that Mrs. Agnes must have procured from somewhere, and her expression was carefully neutral.
“The storm has passed.” She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I should return to London.”
Theodore nodded once, not trusting his voice.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”
The formality stung more than it should have.
He opened his mouth to respond when a voice filled the room with characteristic drama.
“Theodore, darling, when the servants said you’d returned from the wedding early, I simply had to—Oh!” Lady Seymore stopped short, her sharp gaze immediately landing on Cressida. “My, my. And who might this be?”
Damn.
“Aunt Julia.” Theodore stood with rather more haste than dignity. “This is Lady Cressida Whitaker. I encountered her on the road during the storm. She required shelter.”
“How very dramatic.”
Cressida narrowed her eyes at him, clearly noting his omission of certain details, before she curtsied. “Lady Seymore, I am honored to meet you. His Grace was very kind to provide me with refuge.”
“Oh, kindness.” His aunt’s smile turned knowing. “Yes, my nephew is positively overflowing with kindness, aren’t you, Theodore?”
“Lady Cressida was just preparing to depart,” Theodore said firmly.
“What a shame.” Lady Seymore was studying Cressida with unconcealed interest. “Though I do believe we’ve met before, have we not? The Fairmont wedding, three years ago?”
To Theodore’s surprise, Cressida’s expression brightened. “Yes! You were discussing Italian art with the Duchess. I so enjoyed listening.”
“Were you? I don’t recall seeing you—”