Chapter 2 #3
Then, realizing I have been observing his chest, I snap my gaze back up to his face. His smile curves and is slightly mocking.
I have been caught. It is evident in the sardonic lift of his lip, the way his eyes light up with amusement. The heat in my cheeks intensifies and I tear my eyes away from him and turn my head so that I can look out over the balcony.
There is a beautiful garden below, and I focus on it, hoping my thoughts will follow suit.
There are manicured hedges bordering the gravel walking paths.
I count three such paths, each with their own ornament.
One has pink and white rosebushes. The second has pots of fragrant herbs along the path.
The third boasts a reflecting pool resplendent with water lilies and marsh marigolds.
All the paths converge at a stone statue of Hercules.
What the devil is the matter with me? My heart is thudding hard against the wall of my chest. I gaze across the deep navy of the sky, lit by the silver light from the moon, and glittering with a scattering of stars, I try to calm my heart.
Breathe, Freya. But the damned corset is too tight.
I must let my lady’s maid know not to lace it so tightly next time.
A sweep of a finger gliding across my glove makes me jump. I turn to face him, my chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. What is he playing at?
“Careful,” he murmurs. There is no contrition in his tone for his breech of protocol—only soft amusement. “If you were to fall, who would enchant the ballroom with her elegant performance?”
He is making fun of me, which casts him in a different light, and not the flattering one courtesy of the moon.
“It is you who should be careful, my lord,” I snap as I snatch away my hand. “You are playing a dangerous game. I am to be married.”
“To Lord Pembroke,” he says, and it isn’t a question. Yet, it does not trouble him, if his relaxed countenance is any indication.
Which only confirms that he is toying with me. I am horrified that, for a moment, I nearly fell victim to his charms. “Yes, to Lord Pembroke.” My voice does not carry the gentle refinement a lady ought to have—at this too, my mother would be astonished—but he has earned my displeasure.
“Forgive me, my lady, I must have missed the announcement of your betrothal.”
There is no contrition in his gaze, nor upon his face. I know I should go back inside, but I cannot seem to make my body comply with my good sense.
“Perhaps the gentleman has changed his mind? Perhaps you wish him to?”
I gasp at his presumptive nature, then clasp a hand to my mouth, furious with myself for giving him the satisfaction.
Indeed, his eyes leap, and I despise him for mocking me, even if he does so without a word.
“You overstep, Your Grace.” My words are acidic, but he does not seem to notice. “It will be announced this very night.”
The duke leans against the balcony, eyeing me as though he is indifferent. “Yet, your spirits seem less bright than usual. What is the cause, I wonder?”
I narrow my eyes at him. He steps dangerously close to impertinence. “Whom, my lord.”
A dark eyebrow lifts even as his smile widens. “Whom, then.”
This is nothing more than a game to him!
I am furious with my body for betraying me but mere minutes ago, and for judging so wrongly!
“You, Your Grace, surely you guessed it. I merely want to be free of your presence.” I move toward the doorway, but he swiftly blocks my path.
My surge of frustration is so strong, I have to clamp my lips together to stop my scream.
Either he does not notice my distress or does not care. Knowing him even as briefly as I have, I suspect the latter. “Do you?” His words are a soft murmur that seems to reach for and gently caress my ear. “Do you truly?”
The heat from his body radiates toward mine—it, too, reaching.
It has been an unseasonably warm night, and the exertion from dancing has left me flushed and tired.
But that is not the warmth I feel, and unconsciously, I lean toward it.
It is not gentle, nor comforting, but the kind of heat that can sear. That can burn.
My breath quickens along with my galloping heart. I want to demand he stand aside—indeed, the words rise to my lips, but they seem to catch in my quickly tightening throat. I do not understand. What is happening to me?
He is not touching me, but his nearness consumes my entire awareness.
My eyes are drawn to the chiseled lines of his now unsmiling face.
His golden-brown hair is thick and curls at his nape.
That I notice this when I have never noticed such a thing about a man before, rankles me in a way I fail to fully comprehend.
I barely manage to hold onto my composure, but inside, I am shaking. My knuckles prickle where he touched them, tinging with heat that threatens to singe through the silk of my gloves. If his touch could ignite such feeling through the clothing I wear…
The trembling has swept through me and come to rest between my thighs that quiver until I can hear the rustle of my petticoats.
I grit my teeth to keep from acknowledging it aloud—if I must see that self-satisfied smile on his lips once more, I may slap him.
Mere seconds later, I become aware of something new.
My stomach flutters oddly, then seems to grow still, moments before it tightens into a ball of agony.
I let out a groan before I realize it is coming.
“My lady? Are you quite well?”
There is no time for words. The dread and disdain builds, and the pain in my stomach intensifies. I whirl, launch myself toward the balcony, and lean over it, just in time. I close my eyes and am horribly, violently sick.
I barely register his hand on my elbow—this touch meant to steady, and nothing more. Nor do I hear him calling for assistance. The world feels as though it spins beneath my feet, and I sway, again unaware as I am pulled away from the balcony.
“Oh!” I gasp as I stare into his eyes. They are dark brown, and I see flecks of gold in them as he looks at me with a furrowed brow.
That is the last thing I register before I crumple in his arms.