Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Duke Gregor
“Ah, there you are, Your Grace!”
A hand claps upon my shoulder, and I emerge from the spell the thrum of the violins has cast on me. I turn to see the prince in his typical glittering black mask, though he should hardly have cause to need it. It is his aunt’s ball, after all, and expected that he attends.
“How are you finding married life, my friend?”
I shrug a shoulder, my gaze down on the dancers of whom I have a perfect view from my place on the balcony overlooking the dance floor.
The dancers twirl in time to the music, and my wife hovers at the periphery, doing her best to appear uninterested in the performance, though from where I stand, her eyes seem to follow every step.
The Crown Prince chuckles. “Surely it cannot be as bad as all that! Not so soon, in any event!”
I tear my attention from Freya and turn to him. “It is… not as I expected.”
His Highness quirks a brow, and I have no need to see his entire face to know he is amused. “Indeed? Pray, do go on.”
My irritation flares, but I pay it no heed. He does not mean to irritate; it is merely who he is and has always been—poking and prodding me for a reaction that might bring him greater amusement. “The feelings I expressed to you regarding Her Grace…”
“They have not resolved, as you hoped?”
Facing the dance floor once again, I simply shake my head.
“Whyever not?”
“Her Grace and I cannot seem to come to an understanding.”
“Oh, ho!”
The prince’s hearty chuckle has me rounding on him, giving him a censuring look few others would dare. “Someone shall hear you!”
“I implore you to forgive me, Your Grace.” He sounds not at all chastened, though he does lower his voice. “I must confess, this news leaves me scandalized.”
I assess him to see if he is in earnest.
“I cannot think of any reason you have not fulfilled your marital duty. It is the reason you wed the lady, is it not? Is there some flaw she conceals that would render her—”
“You go too far, Your Highness.” I am swift to cut off whatever else he may say of my lady wife. My indignation has risen so suddenly, I cannot stop it. I grit my teeth against worst words, clenching my hands at my sides lest I go any further.
“Forgive me, Gregor.” This time, the mirth in his eyes has vanished, and the tension in my shoulders recedes. “It was not my intention to give offense. You…you had me convinced you wished to…”
Returning my gaze to the dance floor, I give a single tight nod.
“Then, pray tell…I ask only as your friend.”
The gentle sincerity in his voice—so rare for a man always determined to be amused—convinces me he speaks the truth.
“I wish for her to understand that she will not lead me with her feminine wiles and desires. That I am lord and master of our home—of her. When I have her convinced of that, then we shall consummate our union.”
Though I do not pay him the honor of looking at him, I feel the heat of His Highness’s gaze. “So, you are still playing games then.”
I stiffen, though there is no accusation in his voice. “You do not understand. How could you? You are not married yet, and even when you are, you will not be wed to a woman who…”
“Because I will not be in love? Because I will one day be forced into reluctant rule?”
“No one will try to control you, Your Highness.”
My friend shocks me by laughing. “My dear Gregor, you surely cannot believe that! I see dozens of women paraded before me each fortnight, each bent on controlling me. The only question is how.”
I regard him seriously. For a change, his blue eyes are somber. “I am sorry, James. Truly. I know if you had a choice, this would not be the life you would have chosen.”
He sighs, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I made him melancholy. It is one thing to have a sad future monarch. It is quite another to have a sad friend. “That is how such things are. Just as you could not choose your parentage, nor could your lady wife choose her husband.”
His words make me freeze. I turn my attention back to the duchess. Even from where I stand, I can see how she unconsciously leans toward the dancers, though she attempts to appear indifferent.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I believe I am needed elsewhere.”
“Yes… I believe you might be correct.”
I barely hear him as I have already begun to make my way down the winding staircase, my attention focused solely on my wife.
Duchess Freya
“The lemonade is quite exquisite this evening, is it not?”
I startle and look up to see Lord Pembroke observing me. “Forgive me, my lord, I fear I did not entirely hear you.”
His lips curve softly and his gaze radiates warmth. “No need to apologize, Your Grace. I was simply recommending the lemonade.”
“Oh. Thank you, sir. I do not believe I have had cause to try it.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me to fetch a glass for you.”
A ready answer springs to my lips, but I hesitate. It is perhaps frowned upon to accept an offer of refreshment from a man who is not your husband, but I cannot ever recall hearing so.
“Are you in need of refreshment, Your Grace?”
“Ah… yes, I would welcome some lemonade. Thank you, Lord Pembroke.”
As we are standing near the refreshments table, he returns with the drink in short order.
“Thank you for your kind regard, Lord Pembroke,” I say as I accept the glass.
“It is my pleasure, I assure you.”
I sip the contents in my glass. It is first tart, then sweet, upon my tongue. “You did not err in your judgement, sir, it is quite refreshing indeed.”
“I am pleased you find it so.”
The polite niceties observed, my gaze is drawn back to the floor where the unmarried young women and men of the ton dance the quadrille.
“I hope you do not mind my saying—you were a vision on the dance floor.”
I do not look away as the ladies spin and twirl in unison. “Thank you, my lord, it is most kind of you say so.”
“Not at all,” he murmurs.
“I did not know how I would miss it,” I admit before I even realize my own feelings. Shock fills me at not only speaking so familiarly, but with a man I never have shared my thoughts with before.
I needn’t have worried. Lord Pembroke looks back with gentleness that is most underserved. “You need not miss it, Your Grace. You are married, not suddenly lame, I trust?”
The softness of his smile prompts one in return. “Not that I am aware of, my lord.”
“Very well. Would you care to have your glass refreshed?”
“If she does, her husband shall see to it.”
If my ears did not know the seductive timbre of his deep voice, my womb tightens at the words.
Lord Pembroke inclines his head. “Of course, Your Grace. How lovely to see you.” He withdraws without a word, or nary a glance.
It matters not. From the moment I hear my husband, my breath catches and my entire body tightens into a vise I have become quite accustomed to.
“My lady, if you are quite finished with your refreshment, I thought we might take a turn around the dance floor.”
These words capture my attention like few others can. “You… you are in earnest, Your Grace?”
He smiles and offers me his muscular arm. “One of these days, you must call me by my name, my lady. We are wed, after all.”
A pleasant tingling heat warms my cheeks. Still in disbelief, I put my hand in his and allow myself to be led to the dance floor to join the other couples. Even before the music begins, the beginnings of excitement cause my pulse to quicken, echoed by the way my blood sings through my veins.
“You look radiant this evening, my dear, in case I failed to tell you earlier.”
The rapidly growing inferno in the pit of my stomach spirals out in tendrils to fill the rest of my being before that searing warmth travels lower. Before I can thank him, the first notes of the violins tremble through the air.
It is well known that the Crown Prince does not dance, so his sister, the Princess Amelia is at the front of the line standing across from a French nobleman. The two of them begin the dance, with the princess covering her mouth to hide a smile at something the gentleman has said to her.
I face my partner and find his gaze already upon me, bearing into me with a gravity that makes me feel off-balance.
Illuminated by candlelight, his handsome features appear even more arresting.
I wish to look away so that I might steady my nerves, lest I forget the steps, but I cannot seem to, no matter how much sense tells me I should.
A small smile plays on his lips, and I feel my heart flutter.
Then it is our turn to join the dance. The duke and I join hands, and a fission of shock jolts me so that I nearly drop his hand but remember myself just in time.
He turns me around in time to the music, and when I take my place once more, the way he regards me is enough to leave me breathless.
It is the child… I should take nourishment… or drink…
But it is a hollow list of falsehoods. I cannot deny it any longer. Clearly, against my own caution and every whisper of wisdom, I am yielding to his man. It is maddening! It is illogical! And yet…I take in his face, trace his features once more, and my palms dampen.
I can acknowledge the truth to myself. But His Grace can never know. He will become even more insufferable if he does. I stand up straighter, stiffened with resolve. His Grace is stubborn, but so am I. Why should I be the first to confess amorous feelings?
I step forward and join hands with him once more, as the dance demands.
“Are you quite well, wife?” There is no hint of mockery or derision. Only soft concern that gives me pause.
“Quite well,” I answer when he brushes his thumb over mine.
“You are certain?”
I release his hand and return to my spot, pausing briefly as I await the next step. Then I pick up my feet, elegantly showing off quick, agile steps. His Grace surprises me with his own footwork, and I laugh in delight. I recover quickly, but not before he has taken notice.
He gives me a grand, sweeping bow in acknowledgement, and my smile breaks out once more.