Chapter 5 #3
Her frown is reflected in the glass—and my own cheeks, reddened by thoughts of myself held prisoner over the duke’s lap. I turn away and busy myself with pulling on my gloves before she can realize I am flushed with something more than the rouge she applied to my cheeks.
Before either of us can say one word more, a sharp rap sounds on the door. “Lady Freya! It is nearly time. Do make haste.”
My eyes leap to Kate’s face, and her gaze shines with emotion that is both eager and wistful.
I feel only the latter. I pivot to take in my bedchamber, the room that I will surely never see in the same way again: my bed—a four-poster draped with light blue muslin fabric that I have slept in every night since I was a child.
The muted cream-and-gold gilded wallpaper.
The simple wooden nightstand with the frosted glass oil lamp.
The ornate rug with its flowered pattern.
I lay upon the latter more times than I can recall, a book in my hand, trying to hide and avoid some societal duty my parents would thrust upon me while I allowed its safe, plush comfort to transport me to another time and place.
“My lady!”
I am jarred from my memories and sweep my gaze across the room one last time, trying to burn the image into my mind, before turning to face the door. I draw a deep breath, and release it slowly then I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and walk through the doorway—into a future unknown.
Duke Gregor
The moment the Lady Freya enters, it seems the room collectively holds its breath.
Only her parents and the Crown Prince are present.
A rumor has done the rounds that he has another wager going concerning whether the lady will indeed wed me, and as I have not expected his presence today, I am compelled to believe it true.
Even the Prince seems struck by her beauty.
But no man is more so than I. She is the embodiment of temptation in a blue gown and moves toward me, her gaze flitting around the room, without finding anywhere to settle.
I am not troubled by her lack of eye contact. It gives me as much time as I would like to drink in the stunning sight of her. Her dark hair is pulled atop her head, a loose tendril on each side to frame her lovely face, and her waist is tiny, while the swell of her breasts is most attractive.
I am so close to having the object of my desire—my chest tightens as she draws closer still, mere inches away.
The minister begins, but I can scarcely hear him. I study her face, indulging in the perfect lines of her flawless complexion. Her lips are full and invite the mind to consider what a kiss will taste like.
As though she feels the heat of my scrutiny, she turns ever so slightly toward me.
Her green eyes find mine, and she immediately turns away, resolutely facing the minister. She can hide her gaze from me, but not the pink hue that suffuses her lovely cheeks.
My shaft stirs, imprisoned by my trousers. The air changes, and I can feel it—her body imperceptibly pulling away from me, fighting her urge to lean closer. It would be an impossible task not to be pleased.
“Your Grace?”
I startle at the sound of my title—evidently, I am still growing accustomed to it.
“Your Grace, wilt thou have this woman as thy wedded wife to live together in the holy estate of matrimony?”
My attention drifts back to the lady in question.
She still does not look at me, even while the minister rattles off all the expectations I shall have as her husband.
But she is slowly losing the battle. Her hands hang by her sides, but one has been inching ever nearer and her pinkie nearly brushes my trousers.
“And, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
There is a beat of silence, and the air, thick with tension, swells around us. I answer without hesitation, “I will.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” He turns to address the Lady Freya. “Wilt thou have this man…”
My heart is hammering, my pulse picking up speed, and my palms are moist. I cannot understand it.
I know I have nothing to fear. The lady has been brought up properly; she will not refuse me.
I know by the faint stain of her flushed cheeks, by the subtle way she leans into me despite battling her own desire, that she does not wish to refuse me. Why then do I feel such apprehension?
My eyes caress her face and I can feel the shift of her movements, though they are imperceptible to all but myself.
I will her to look at me, but this, too, she fights.
Her breathing is rapid, and the swell of her breasts rises and falls in quick succession while a faint pulse beats at the hollow of her neck.
I will do my best to be a decent husband. I shall make sure she knows she will be well taken care of, even once my passion for her has subsided.
“…and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”
My lady gazes resolutely at the crimson runner on the floor.
She has gone quite still, and the tension enveloping me grows thicker with each passing moment of silence.
I can practically hear the Crown Prince silently congratulating himself.
I clench my fist around the cane I carry.
The Prince gave it to me when I greeted him—a gift, he said, and a tradition in his family he wanted to share with me to bring me luck on my wedding day.
Perhaps it is all a part of his bet, but if so, he will lose it, because I know exactly what to do.
With care, I brush it against the lady’s backside.
I am quick in my movement, and it is soon on the floor beside me once more.
Anyone who managed to catch sight of it would merely think I had forgotten I held the cane and made a misstep.
But my lady knows exactly what I am inferring, and her eyes leap to my face at once. The pink in her cheeks spreads, and in mere moments the color deepens. Her eyes rob me of breath. Her luminous depths, too deep for me to fathom. They are wide just now, and the tiniest bit frightened.
“I… yes.” Her voice comes out soft and barely audible, but it is the right answer. “I shall.”
“Who giveth this woman…”
The words fade, and my world constricts until all I can focus on is the Lady Freya and my own desire.
I have wanted her from the instant I first beheld her, but in the weeks since I concocted the scheme to possess her, she has become lovelier still.
And the way she is so conscious my every movement, but determined to pretend she is not, is a most arousing game.
“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” The minister closes his book with a thud that echoes through the church.
It is deliberate and final, and Lady Freya startles as though frightened.
My lips quirk, though I quickly squelch it.
The lady’s eyes widen in a way that is most becoming, as is the way her cheeks stain with lovely color.
I am always near enough to hear the way her breath hitches and stays trapped in her chest that, once she exhales her breath in a loud exhale, begins rising and falling with quickening breathing.
For the lady, it is as though she and I are the only two people in the room. I know everyone else has ceased to exist, for she would never allow herself to be observed thusly.
This does nothing to squelch my need for the woman who is now my wife.
In fact, it intensifies my desire tenfold.
I reach for her, and the flinch that shudders across her body when my hand grasps her own is obvious.
She does not pull away, however, and her eyes find mine.
She looks very much as hunted quarry does in the moments before its fate is sealed.
She has never looked more enchanting.