Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Lady Freya
“You must eat, dearest.”
I snap out of my daydreams and turn toward my lady mother. “Oh. I do not believe anything would sit well with me just now. Thank you for your concern, Mother.” I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze to show her I am in earnest.
She smiles faintly. “I must insist, Freya. I want you to maintain your composure, and coloring while you are with your betrothed. It will not do to have you faint or ill-tempered with His Grace.”
“I could not possibly eat a bite, Mama.”
“My dear, think of how warm it will be today, and—”
“This subject is best left alone, I think,” my father interjects, not looking up from his newspaper.
My mother falls into obedient silence, and for this, I am grateful, though my father has done little else to assist me since he learned of my condition. A week has passed since I was unwillingly affianced to The Duke of Fairwynd. In that time, my father has not spoken a single word to me.
He seems to have informed my mother of the change in my betrothal.
I have no way of knowing what he said to her, though I am nearly certain he did not disclose my secret.
For that, I am grateful. It has been enough of a shock to have him withhold his words and affection.
I do not believe I could bear it if my mother did the same.
All too soon, we have finished the morning meal and have scarcely moved into the sitting room when the butler enters to announce the Duke’s arrival.
“You look lovely, dearest, do not fret.”
I do my best to return my mother’s smile, but there is a wild fluttering in both my breast and my stomach that causes my lips to tremble. “Thank you.”
The soft murmur of voices draws my ear, accompanied by a wild leap of my heart that I scarce understand.
“Freya?”
I turn to my lady mother expectantly.
Her familiar gaze searches my own, as though she might discern the answers to the odd change of circumstances in my expression. “I trust… you are content with the… new arrangement?” Her voice is soft enough to be for my ears alone.
I glance at the doorway where my father is just outside the sitting room, politely entertaining the Duke while we finish preparing to leave. “I… I shall make the best of things, Mama.” I manage to smile at last, seize her hand and give it a squeeze.
I release her hand quickly and turn away, not trusting myself to say more on the matter.
My mother must understand, for she says, “Come, let us not tempt the gentlemen’s patience any further.” She takes my arm firmly, and we emerge together.
I am glad of her unwavering presence. As soon as the Duke of Fairwynd’s gaze is upon me, a warmth steals through me, though my body trembles despite it.
“We are pleased you could join us this afternoon, Your Grace,” my mother says, the picture of poise and grace. She squeezes my arm with subtle pressure, hidden from the gentlemen in the room, prompting me to remember my duty.
“Good afternoon… I trust all is well.” I scarcely look at him before lowering my eyes to the stone floor, not allowing my gaze to linger.
“Indeed, it is well.”
Even though we are standing well apart, his words caress my ear as though they have been whispered into it. I raise my eyes and risk a glance at him.
He is smiling that half-smile again, as though the devil can read my very thoughts.
My stomach is a mass of knots, and I fear my lady mother might be right after all. I am very unwell indeed.
Duke Gregor
I have never been an admirer of the many traditions the Beau Monde are forced to observe.
Particularly, I have never been overly fond of promenading.
But this day, or perhaps walking with Lady Freya, may yet reform me.
The way the sun shines on her makes it appear that Heaven beams down favor upon her—or perhaps it is for me, so that I might better admire her.
I am so ensnared by her beauty that I have done little more than offer polite murmurings in answer to Lady Denham who keeps attempting to draw me into conversation.
It is not my intention to offend, but I cannot seem to tear my gaze from Lady Freya.
Her dark hair gleams under the sun, and she has a natural rosy hue to her creamy skin.
Her full lips draw my eye and take me captive.
Then there is the pulse in her throat, beating hard enough to attract my notice.
It turns my thoughts to another afternoon we shared, with her draped over my knee, her pale bottom on display as long as I cared to admire it.
Of course, it did not remain pale for long. I made sure of that.
“Your Grace?”
Freya has paused in our walk to admire a tulip, an entrancing sight as she bends over it, her nose pressed to the flower. There is even a grace to her nose that delights the eye.
“Your Grace?”
I startle from my thoughts with the realization that I have been caught staring.
Not by the lady herself, who seems quite as taken with the blossoms as I am with her unmatched beauty, but by her mother.
“Forgive me, Lady Denham, I fear I was distracted. Would you be so kind as to repeat your inquiry?”
The lady’s eyes are alight, and I daresay she is not offended, but amused. “Indeed, Your Grace. I was merely asking when we might meet your parents?”
I struggle to maintain a semblance of a smile.
Surely, she has heard…she has undoubtedly been informed…
My gaze goes to Lord Denham, but he seems stoic and uninclined to assist me.
Another glance to the left shows that my lady is still amusing herself with the flowers.
I clear my throat, and aim to speak delicately.
“I have not spoken to my lord father for many years, my lady. And my own lady mother died some time ago.”
“Oh.” She nearly catches her gasp in her gloved hand, but not before it reaches my ears.
“I am so sorry. Pray, forgive me, I did not know.” And in a gesture that is as surprising as it is warm, she steps forward and reaches for my hand.
Her touch is light and brief upon my hand.
“It must pain you not to have your parents. Family is everything.” She glances to her husband, and I follow her gaze.
He is observing her with a steady devotion that is quiet but undeniable.
Suddenly, I am seized by the realization that not only are they are a family of great standing, they are also a loving one—something I cannot say I have ever known. Nor something I feel I ever will, as my intended has been polite, but aloof.
“Do not trouble yourself, my lady.” I smile, touched by Lady Denham’s warmth.
“Shall we make our way home?” Lady Freya has rejoined our group, and her voice draws my gaze like a moth to moonlight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Lord and Lady Denham exchange glances.
“I think it wise to acquaint yourself more fully with your intended. It will serve you both well,” her father says as he takes his wife’s arm, gesturing to the gardens several feet ahead of us.
They start in that direction, though I sense Lady Denham’s confusion and unease at the lapse of propriety.
Lady Freya observes their retreat, her expression unreadable, save the ever-so-slight tightening of her lips.
“Is all well?” I feel compelled to inquire.
She does not look at me, and the pollen that dusts her delicate nose enthralls me.
I am quite certain she is unaware it is there, and would be horrified if she did, yet I find her more captivating for its presence.
“I am quite well. Thank you for your concern, Your Grace,” she returns with stiff formality.
I tsk my tongue. It seems merely a week is all it takes for her to forget the demure submission she displayed in her father’s sitting room. “Come, my lady. We shall be wed soon, and despite what you might think, I intend to be a good husband to you.”
She does not soften at my words but begins to move forward, her eyes still on her father and mother. She walks ahead of me, glancing back only once, her eyes full of defiance.
Mirth wells up, threatening to become a laugh, but I swallow it down.
She will soon enough learn that I am not affronted by her insolence.
It only proves her to be the perfect companion I knew her to be from the moment I first glimpsed her.
Even so, she will be made to show proper respect, even if it is a lesson I must repeat nightly, with her over my knee and squirming in protest as my hand reddens her bewitching bottom.
I allow myself to watch that bottom, currently obscured from my gaze by the flowing brocade of her gown, before I fall into position beside her.
She does not speak, but the heat of her gaze stabs at my face.
“What troubles you, my lady?” I try once more. We walk several steps in silence, and I consider compelling her to answer when she stops.
She glares at me in a manner that is most improper, and particularly unbecoming given the public venue. Yet, I cannot feel anything but delight as my palm tingles promisingly. “You are what troubles me, Your Grace.”
Ah, the haughty hostility of a lady whose sore bottom has faded, allowing her to forget her manners. Does she not realize we will soon wed, and she will be taken to task for every offense I wish to recall?
It is a diverting thought, and yet, something else prompts me to look closer. She is smarter than this—I know, for I have observed even when she was unaware of my presence, much less my gaze.
“Surely you do not find me so disagreeable.”
Her gaze only grows more heated, and I see her gloved hands clench into fists at her sides.
I cannot help but wonder if she is aware of the emotion I seem to awaken in her?
“I do find you so, Your Grace.” Though her voice is low enough to ensure her words are not overheard, her venom cannot be missed as she hisses the words.
“Why, might I inquire?”