Chapter 10 #2
His soft chuckle makes my heart hasten in my breast. Does this mean it is well and truly over at last?
“I am going to help you to stand and allow you to make your apology.” With gentle hands, the duke moves me from his lap and turns me to face him.
I duck my head, sniffling. “I… I am heartily sorry to have offended y-you, Your G-Grace.”
“Look at me, wife.”
My heart jolts in my chest, even more than when he called me by my name. Slowly, I raise my face until I am looking him in the eye.
“Again,” he orders softly.
“I am heartily sorry to have offended you, Your Grace,” I whisper, struggling to ignore the burning torment of my backside and the equally distressing ache between my legs.
“Louder, if you please, my lady.”
The heat in my face grows, but I feel no fury at his attempt to humble me. I know it is well deserved. “I… I am sorry I offended you… Your Grace.”
The stern line of his mouth gives me pause, but he nods. “You will think better of your behavior in the future, will you not, Freya?”
His words are soft, yet full of authority, and it makes me feel quite small indeed. “I… I shall… Your Grace.”
“And if you do not, you know there shall be consequences to correct your folly?”
The combination of the smarting in my hindquarters, the fierce look in his eyes, and the scolding are having a strange effect upon me. I cannot understand it, but the voice I use to reply to him is softer and more subdued. “I… I do, my lord.”
“Very good, lass. Is there anything else?”
He is watching me expectantly, and I wonder what I am lacking. “I… I will endeavor to do better.”
The duke smiles, a soft curve of his lips that makes his face even more worthy of admiration. His dark eyes radiate a steady warmth that causes my heart to lunge against the wall of my chest before going still. “So you said.”
“And… and… whatever else you should like.”
He chuckles softly. “Indeed?”
I nod earnestly, but my brow furrows when he laughs. “You do not believe me, my lord?”
“No, in truth, I do not, Freya. Make no mistake, I am certain you mean what you say now, but you are a spirited imp.” He lifts his hand and cups the side of my face. “Do not fear, my dear. I love you for who you are, I am not trying to compel you to be something you are not.”
His words set free the knots in my stomach and the tension in my shoulders as though magic resides upon his tongue. But after a moment, my brow furrows once more.
The duke notices and caresses my brow. “What is it, poppet? You do not believe me?”
“I wish to,” I say, my words slow as I process my thoughts. “But if you do not wish to change me, then why…” I am growing more comfortable speaking to him by the moment, but not so much so that I wish to voice the rest of my thought aloud.
“Why did I smack you?” He does not wait for my answer before he chuckles. It is rich, and throaty, and full of abandon. I find I quite like the sound of it. “That is for behavior you yourself know is wrong. Behavior that is unbecoming. But that is not who you are, is it?”
Wordlessly, I shake my head.
“Good lass.” He moves his hand from my cheek and tugs on my loose curl.
All of the praise combined with the heat radiating beneath my dress has made me feel quite unlike myself indeed, but it does not feel unsettling.
Indeed, I feel freer than I ever have. As the duke catches my gaze, his eyes tell me he sees me—truly, in a way no one in society, not even my mother and father, ever has.
It gives me the courage to speak candidly.
“At the ball tonight, Your Grace…”
“Yes, my pet?” His eyes move over my face with wonderous delight that is nearly enough to cause me forget my thought entirely.
But I must not. If I do not speak my mind, my concerns will rise again, and perhaps to much more disastrous results. “I… I do not wish to anger you again,” I admit. I feel my lower lip begin to quiver, so I trap it beneath my teeth before I begin to cry anew.
My husband’s face becomes serious, and he clasps his hand in mine. His hand is un-gloved, and my breath catches as I look down and see the ivory silk of my glove in his large, strong hand.
“To me, if you please.”
I raise my head to look at him. When my swift obedience causes him to smile, my stomach swoops. Perhaps it is the vulnerability of this moment, but it would appear I like to please him.
“What is on your mind, dearest?”
He asks gently, with evident concern, and yet, I am feeling quite tongue-tied. What I had the misfortune to overhear at the ball and the fury that followed feels like many fortnights ago.
“You can tell me anything, my lady. If it concerns you, I wish to know.”
Heaven help me, I believe him. His gaze is earnest and sincere, and his eyes never leave mine. “I… I fear you will not like it,” I admit before trapping the traitorous bottom lip once more.
“Hmm. I see.” His Grace appears most solemn as he considers my words. “Is it something you have done?”
I shake my head.
“Then something you have said?”
Again, I shake my head.
“This is quite the puzzle, Wife.” He smiles, his eyes dancing despite the mystery. “It is something someone else has said or done?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ah, I see. I hardly think something someone else said would get you into more trouble.”
My surprise must show on my face, for he chuckles again.
“Yes, I did think that might be on your mind.” He reaches for me with confident hands and pulls me into his lap. He moves me until we look into each other’s eyes once more. “Now, what is it?”
I duck my head. I fear I will not be able manage the words if I must look at him. His dark gaze is most distracting, but I force myself to speak before he chastises me. “At the ball tonight… before the, ah, waltz….”
His grip tightens on my waist, encouraging me to continue.
“I went… I had to… refresh myself. Only…after a time, I was no longer alone, but the ladies did not see me. But I… I heard them.” Recalling the incident stings anew, but being seated upon his lap makes the humiliation stronger.
“Pray continue, my dove.”
“I… I heard them speaking… of me. Of… us.” My gaze leaps to his face, against my wishes.
He does not appear shocked, or even mildly surprised. He merely gazes back steadily, patiently waiting for what I might reveal.
I drop my gaze once more and stare at my neatly folded hands. “They were saying… that people are… whispering about us.” Despite being held on his lap, and the warmth of my backside, or perhaps because of those things, I feel my throat constrict.
“What do they say, Freya? Do not be afraid—as long as you keep your speech sweet and respectful, you may tell me anything.”
His warm assurance bids me to look at him once more. He appears utterly sincere.
“They know,” I breathe the words in a horrified whisper. “They know… we have not consummated our union. That you… you do not want me.” My throat burns with unshed tears. I close my eyes so that I do not have to see how he will respond.
“And so?”
There is a change in his voice, but I do not trust myself to meet his gaze for fear of what I shall read there.
“And… and so, my lord… when my child comes… they shall know. And… I realize this must have been your intention all along.” I peek at his face and the stony wall his features form where softness and devotion resided only moments ago causes me to burst into tears.
Duke Gregor
I feel as though I have been hit over the head with a mallet. I sit stock-still, my arms around my wife whose shoulders shake with distress, while I sit frozen and unable to assist. As her words play over and over in my mind, I struggle to make sense of what she implies.
The Ton knows? They know enough that she overheard them gossiping? That is enough to induce fury, for whatever happens or does not between us is our business alone. But what does she imply? That I knowingly and deliberately shame her?
Why does she not see? I have tried to show her my tireless devotion.
But have I? Have I ever spoken to her of my feelings?
No. I have played games in an attempt to compel her to confess feelings that, for all I know, she does not possess. Sudden realization makes me grit my teeth, but not for anything she has done, not even what others whisper about us. After all, most of the Ton is quite bored indeed.
My irritation is due to my own actions—and because seems Prince James is correct, and I hate that, even if he never comes to know it.
I turn my focus to the weeping woman in my arms. She is shedding many tears indeed, and I cannot help but worry. It is not good in any state, but particularly not in this condition, for her to be so distraught.
“Freya, look at me, sweeting.”
It takes several moments and many sniffles, but finally my words break through the shroud of her sorrow.
I cringe to see the anguish on her face. Anguish I caused, even though I never thought to do what she accuses me of. It is no matter—I can see how she would come to such a horrid conclusion, and nothing I have said would give her cause to question the folly of her mind.
Her green eyes are lighter in color than I have ever seen them, as though grief has robbed them of their vibrant hue. That too I am responsible for, and I am furious at myself for being so thoughtless.
I am careful to keep my voice gentle, however, as I speak to her. “My love… forgive me.”
Her eyes widen and her lips part, though she does not say anything.
“Forgive me for causing you distress, for that was never my intention.”
“It… it was not?”
I shake my head and catch her chin to keep her from averting her gaze. I need her attention as I say this. “No, my love. I would not do that to you. I would not do that to a child. What you said earlier about my parentage…’tis true, of course.”
She tries to pull out of my grasp, embarrassment coloring her cheeks, but I hold her firmly.