Chapter 6 #2
“Then we shall put that up right over the pianoforte.” She waved down a footman, who came equipped with the tools to begin displaying the piece. “What about another?” She hummed, dancing her fingers through the air over the art. “How about this one?”
It was of a couple dancing, lines of silver wrapping around them, as if it were music brought to life in color and visuality.
The couple’s hands were pressed together, fingers linked, and while they were not in as fine clothes as Isabella, they were perfectly dressed for the occasion.
The lady’s dark hair fanned out around her like an ink spill, and the man’s auburn hair caught the sun on the outdoor dance stage.
“I like this one,” Thomas said decisively. “It reminds me of my mama and papa.”
Isabella smiled, thinking of her dance with the Duke, the two of them aligned even as strangers. She had felt so overwhelmed with the intensity of dancing with her then-fiancé, even though she had barely spoken several words to him.
“What could a dance feel like, full of love, like this one in the painting?”
“Miss Duchess?” Thomas probed. “Can I put this up near the harp?”
Isabella startled back into reality. “Yes, most certainly.”
Together, they picked out two more pieces to decorate the room with, and she saved the others for other rooms to be done later. But as they left the music room, a shadow fell over the floor, and Thomas, skipping in his excitement, crashed right into the Duke of Rochdale.
An ear-piercing shriek left the boy’s mouth when he realized who it was, and he threw himself back immediately, bowing over and over.
“Your Grace!” he shouted. “I am so sorry, Your Grace! I am sorry! Please do not shout at me.”
“What is going—”
The Duke’s raised voice and Thomas’s shriek broke the overall silence of the castle, and, from the hallway, Morris began barking wildly. He darted down toward them, skidding on the floor, rounding into the music room.
The art pieces fluttered up in the air, scattering alongside sheet music. Morris’s hulking body skirted frames that held violins, sending them crashing to the floor as he kept barking.
Isabella spun, startled, unsure of where to look.
At Thomas’s red face, his tears shining in those curious eyes; the Duke’s tight anger fixed on the whole scene, and Morris, who was still going wild.
The Duke stepped forward, pointing down the hall. “Thomas, leave. Now.”
“But I did not mean—”
“Leave.”
With a jump and a whimper, Thomas scampered away, already calling for his mother.
“What are you doing, frightening the poor child?” she approached the Duke with a sense of wonder. “He was only helping me.”
“He was wreaking havoc.”
“He is a small child who was excited to be able to help the new mistress of the household. You cannot scare such a young boy. He cannot defend himself the way that—” she cut herself off, biting her tongue.
“The way that who can?” he challenged.
Isabella tightened her jaw and lifted her chin. “You may go around scaring men like Lord Peregrine, who can fight back, and you can try to scare me with your silence and orders because I can understand them to a degree, but he is a child.”
“And he can handle himself. He is old enough.”
“So that is why he ran away in tears?”
The Duke’s cheek muscles twitched as he bit back his annoyance. He looked around the music room, turning to look into another room behind them. “And what do you think you are doing to my house?”
Isabella smiled, pleased with herself. “I am redecorating our house,” she corrected. “And adding a little light and some brighter décor is hardly a drastic change to lose yourself over. If that is the worst thing you can confront me about, then I am not doing too badly as your wife.”
Her husband’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening. “Watch yourself, Duchess.”
“Oh, I am, because nobody else is watching me. You do not even care to be in the same room with me for longer than necessary. In fact, you hardly attend any room at all, so why does a bit of light bother you? Are your shadows so deeply comforting to you that you are afraid of some brightness?”
She eyed his scarred face, dropping her attention to his scarred hands. The Duke followed her gaze and clenched his fingers.
“No,” he said, but it did not sound true. “But when you are looked at the way I have been, light is sometimes not a friendly thing.”
“And who is looking at you right now? You are in the light, Your Grace, and I am looking right at you. I am not flinching away, am I?”
Her question caught him off guard; she could sense it. His shoulders tensed, and he turned his face away from her as if suddenly self-conscious of her bringing attention to his face and how she regarded him.
“I require privacy, Duchess,” he growled. “I like order. I like having things my way.”
“Well, whether you like it or not, you invited me into this castle through marriage. That was your offer, and you cannot expect me to live in the shadows. I crave light and warmth, and I cannot change that.”
“As I cannot change my own needs.”
“Yours are borne from fear,” she confronted. “My needs are born from life. Can you not simply open up to the possibility of light? Try living in it—just one day, if that is all you can give me. But please… let me have this.”
A torn sort of expression split his face, curling his mouth, tightening his eyes as he inhaled deeply. He moved closer, so close she could feel the brush of his breath on her temple.
“Repeat what you said just now,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through her chest.
“I asked you to try for one—”
“Before that.”
Her lips parted, a breath escaping before she could stop it. “Please.”
His eyes darkened, heat and something far sharper flickering there. “Mm. I knew pleading would suit those lips of yours, wife,” he whispered, the rumble of it grazing her skin like a touch.
Her heart lurched, her throat tightening as words tangled uselessly on her tongue. She wanted to deny him, to scoff, to retreat—but his nearness stole her reason.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just shy of hers, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off him, a tormenting ghost of contact.
“Perhaps I should reward you,” he said, softer now, “for being so very good and polite.”
Her pulse thundered, her body betraying her with the smallest tilt forward, as if she were the one seeking the kiss.
And then, his mouth pressed to hers.
Her gasp was lost in the heat of his lips, the gentle sweep of his tongue along her lower lip. But he kept the kiss closed, letting only his lips find a rhythm with hers. For a second, there was a slight graze of teeth on her lip, and she shivered at the sting.
Her hands lifted to his face, feeling the bumps and ridges of his scars. His own fell to her waist, and she found herself falling into him.
The stumble she gave, her chest meeting his body, had her staggering back, her gasp ragged as she pulled away. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes fixed wildly on her husband, shocked.
The Duke’s gaze rested on hers, heavy and confused. There was a slight pull to his dark brows.
“I…” He began, stepping back.
Isabella realized too late that her shock must have looked different to him. Disgusted or horrified, perhaps.
“Wait!” she called out, but the Duke was already shaking his head, walking away.
Isabella stood in the hallway alone. The light suddenly felt colder than she thought it would.