Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Duke Gregor
Though I am surprised when my lady hurls the urn in my direction, it does not prevent me from neatly sidestepping the object before it falls and shatters. The small bouquet of flowers wilt on the stone floor, floating in a small river of water.
“Your Grace, please forgive my daughter. I have no idea what has overcome her. Freya, please recall your manners this instant.”
It is as harsh as I have ever heard from his lordship, and indeed, almost certainly the sharpest rebuke he has ever given his daughter.
The high-born lady has already retrieved a book from the table and whirls on me, her mouth twisted with fury before she hurls it in my direction. I dodge it and turn my head in time to see the book slap against the wall before sliding down near the water.
“Freya. Do restrain yourself.”
Much like his former rebuke, his command does little good. She either does not hear him, or she is beyond hearing. She has turned to the table once more, and is eyeing the remaining items, clearly intent upon doing me serious bodily harm.
’Tis true I did not expect her to rejoice at the prospect of marrying me and to merely do as she was instructed like a meek little lamb… actually, I suppose that is what I expected. Despite Lord Denham’s mottled horror, I find his daughter all the more intriguing for the fact that she did not.
I have had enough, however, and I swiftly close the distance between us. She has just turned, holding a crystal candelabra, when she finds me in front of her.
Her eyes flash at me, and she lifts the candelabra, but I seize the cool crystal and pull it from her grasp.
I turn, unsure where to place it, and find the silent butler reaching for the candelabra. I hand it over and turn to face the furious Lady Freya in time to see her raise her empty hand. Nothing remains to be thrown because she has quite cleared the table.
Glaring, she strikes my shoulder with all her might.
“Freya.” Her name is a harsh reprimand on her lord father’s lips. “What has gotten into you? Forgive her, Your Grace. I fear her good sense has quite deserted her.”
“I do not wish for his forgiveness,” she says, regarding me as though she wished she could set me alight with her fiery gaze.
“Please do me the honor of calling me by my given name,” I remind him, though I do not take my eyes from the seething lady. It might be to my own injury if I do so.
“Very well, Gregor. I do thank you.”
It is quite an odd thing indeed for him to thank me while his daughter—and my intended wife—stands before me, breathing hard, her tiny fists clenched, clearly wishing to do me harm.
Yet, I do not remark upon it. Though this encounter has not gone quite how I imagined, I am more captivated than ever by the Lady Freya.
“My Lord, might I make a request that may sound strange to you?”
“You are free to inquire, Your Grace.”
“I feel words of correction are availing little,” I remark as I gaze down at Freya, whose chest heaves hard with frustration.
“Indeed, you observe rightly.”
“Then perhaps a firmer reprimand might be more appropriate.” I do not take my eyes from my lady whose cheeks are flushed. Her breathing seems to have quickened.
“I am open to your suggestion, Your Grace.”
I allow my gaze to assess her face. Her jaw is clenched, her lips pressed together so tightly they have lost all color.
My heart yearns to comfort her, for me to gather her into my arms and reassure her of the life I intend to give her.
And yet, I can do neither of those things while she is still immovable in her resentment.
“I am well aware that such measures are not normally taken with genteel ladies, but I feel in this case…”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
At long last, certain there is little harm she can do me, or herself, I meet his eyes. “I think Lady Freya would benefit greatly from a sound smacking.”
Her horrified gasp sounds as shocked as it is frightened.
Yet, I maintain his lordship’s gaze, waiting for his judgement. While I intend to run my marriage as I wish, we are not yet wed.
He scrutinizes me with the interest befitting a future son-in-law. Then, when I am nearly certain he will refuse me, he inclines his head. “As you see fit, Your Grace.”
Every muscle tightens at this most unexpected display of faith.
When I hear the moan Lady Freya tries to stifle, I examine her expression once more.
Her pulse is beating rapidly beneath the creamy skin of her neck.
She can’t hide it from my gaze if she tried—indeed, I feel quite certain she is unaware.
For a stretch of time, I find my gaze locked on that tiny, fluttering show of nerves. I yearn to place my lips to it—to kiss, to suckle, perhaps to even capture it with my teeth. But all of this must wait.
“Father—no!” Lady Freya finds her voice, her expression twisting most disagreeably.
“You have earned that and more, I shall wager.” He bows, turns for the doorway, and stops before reaching it. Over his shoulder he tosses back, “You will, of course, protect…”
I suspect he was about to say her virtue and finds himself unsure of how to proceed, in light of the recent revelation. “I intend to be a good husband to your daughter, my lord. No harm shall befall her under my care, I assure you—save that of a sore backside when she is deserving.”
His lordship nods his assent just before he departs. I find myself pleasantly surprised to realize I like the man.
But it is his daughter I must attend to now, and my gaze sharpens on her—my attention reserved for her alone.
Her wide-eyed stare betrays her fear, but her flaring nostrils and scowl speak of defiance, too.
Heaven help me, but I find her more desirable than ever before.
Lady Freya
Never in all my life has such a tumult of emotion washed over me while I stand cornered by the duke.
I stab at him angrily with my gaze while I fight the desire to run—or to stamp his foot.
I have never been given to such horrid displays of temper, and I have no idea why I feel compelled to throw things at him.
Though it is a pity none managed to strike the target.
He thinks more highly of himself than he ought.
The notion that he has proposed to… to smack me as some form of chastisement merely proves he is not genteel, and far from gentlemanly.
The shock of his suggestion has worn off quickly, for in all honestly, what can one expect from a bastard of low birth?
When my father agreed to his uncouth proposal, I was struck to my very core.
The shock is still coming, with the twist of his full, arrogant lips.
With the way his eyes dance at me—haughty, self-assured.
It reminds me all too much of his demeanor at the ball, and I want to claw at his eyes until he can never look at me like that again.
“Let me pass, sir,” I say in my coolest, most regal voice.
“Hmm, I had thought the table quite good for a smacking, actually. You could bend over it and—”
I stamp on his foot after all, with all my strength and with great pleasure that is only marred by the fact that he does not make a single noise. His jovial, amused expression does vanish, however.
“You are playing a game you cannot hope to win, my lady.” His voice is no longer amused, either, though it has taken on a low, husky tone that makes me shiver despite myself.
I cannot fathom it. I do not have a chill—indeed, I’ve never felt more overcome with heat. Which is particularly peculiar as I do not recall noticing it when I first entered the room.
“Ladies do not play games, Your Grace,” I retort with impudence, lifting my chin and stomping his foot again for good measure.
He smiles—baring his teeth at me in a way that quite reminds me of a wolf. His eyes may no longer dance with merriment, but they are not sober, either. They seem lit from within, making him look even more the part of a dangerous predator.
“Stand aside,” I demand through gritted teeth. Somehow, me baring my teeth does not seem to have the same unsettling effect on him.
“I shall, when I have dispensed my duty.” He reaches for my arms, and there is no hesitation or shyness on his part. Indeed, he seems to know exactly what he is doing as he spins me around.
He moves my hands to the tabletop, and stares at my fingers splayed wide against the cool marble surface.
What is happening now feels akin to the kind of terror that only comes in nightmares when one is fast asleep in bed.
I nearly wish it so, though the feeling of his large, broad hand on the small of my back makes me feel certain this is no dream.
His fingers press into me—not harsh, nor unseemly—but their presence cause my skin to tingle and hum despite the many layers of thick fabric barricading against his touch.
My breath catches and I feel much as I did the night at the ball, as though I may swoon. Then his hand shifts, and my skirts rustle as the layers of fabric are lifted. The marble begins to swim before my eyes.
I cannot bear it. With all my strength, I shove back against his hold and spin around.
He lifts an eyebrow—surprised, but nothing beyond that. “Yes, my lady?”
“I cannot do it,” I confess. “Please… I know I was horrid, I know I should not have… thrown things at you. Nothing actually hit you,” I remind him. “Even so, I am sorry.”
“Are you?” There is not a trace of laughter in his expression, only mere curiosity that forces me to examine the question.
Am I? Not particularly. Yet, I feel certain expressing that honesty will not end well. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He studies my face as he considers me then nods. “I had hoped you might be truthful with me, my lady. I wish to begin our marriage with you well aware of my expectations, and honesty is chief among them.”
Before I can examine what he has said or offer a protest, he has taken my arm and is pulling me toward the settee.
“What… what are you doing?” I squeak, so shocked as he sits down that I forget his honorific.