Chapter Four #2
When she finally answered him, her response was a surrender.
It was timid at first, then deepened with desperate honesty.
Blackwood’s breath caught, a ragged sound, and his posture softened in recognition of her choice.
The guarded armor he wore so effortlessly loosened for a singular, crystalline instant, revealing a man capable of wanting without a single calculation.
Suddenly, the carriage jolted, beginning to halt. Reality rushed back in with the creak of wheels and the muted call of the driver outside. Blackwood drew back, his breath uneven now, his hand lingering only a moment longer at her waist before falling away entirely, his composure returning.
His eyes searched hers—dark, intent, and troubled.
For several seconds after he withdrew, Elizabeth could not move.
The space he left behind felt abruptly cold.
Her pulse raced, unsteady and insistent, while she pressed her palm to her bodice in a futile attempt to quiet it.
The memory of his mouth lingered because it had been controlled, demanding, and unmistakably restrained until she had failed to deny him.
The sheer depth of her own wanting frightened her.
It was not merely the kiss, but rather that excruciating heartbeat of agency he had granted her, along with the choice placed squarely in her hands.
She had always believed herself a creature of logic who was sensible and cautious and immune to the reckless whims that governed the women of the Ton.
And yet she had tilted her chin. She had invited the ruin.
The carriage came to a full stop, bringing her back into herself as reality flooded back. The door opened, allowing in the rush of the cool night air.
Blackwood was already a statue of ducal propriety.
His expression was shuttered, his features set in the same unreadable mask he had worn in the ballroom, as though the feverish intimacy of the last few minutes had been a shared hallucination.
Elizabeth watched him, marveling at the terrifying ease with which he reclaimed his distance while her own blood hummed with the aftershock of his touch.
He stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand.
Elizabeth hesitated a fraction too long, the silence stretching until it became an admission of her weakness. The pause cost her more than she liked, a small surrender of the high ground. She finally placed her hand in his, her fingers trembling faintly against the broad, warm strength of his palm.
By the time her slippers met the uneven pavement of her street, her resolve had begun to reassert itself, but it felt as thin as a brittle sheet of glass over a turbulent sea. She straightened her mantle, drawing upon the muscle memory of her upbringing instead of any true conviction.
“This should not have happened,” she said quietly, the words hanging like a confession in the chill air. She wasn't certain if she was rebuking him or herself.
Blackwood’s gaze flicked to her, sharp once more. He didn't offer an apology, nor did he acknowledge the transgression. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice dropping into that low, executive tone that brooked no argument.
“I will call for you later this week,” he said, the command disguised as a courtesy. “The opera.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt, and her first instinct was refusal.
She had no business entangling herself further with a man whose power and whose interest were equally dangerous.
She had experienced the force of his presence at close range and understood too well the influence he exerted without effort.
To step nearer again would invite scrutiny she might fail to withstand and awaken a pull she might be unable to resist.
Yet Mark’s face rose in her mind, unbidden and steadying.
She saw his easy confidence, how he had welcomed her into his work, the unquestioning trust he had placed in her judgment.
That trust was not a light thing to accept or abandon when it became inconvenient.
If danger gathered around him, she would meet it first. Drawing closer to the Duke might expose her to harm, yet it remained the surest path to the truth that could shield Mark from betrayal.
Elizabeth hesitated long enough for him to notice.
“I don’t make a habit of accepting invitations from strange men I don’t fully understand,” she said carefully.
“Nor do I offer them without reason,” Blackwood replied, signaling to Elizabeth that the carriage ride had done little to rid the Duke of his suspicions of her.
She searched his face, found no reassurance there and made her decision anyway. “Very well,” she said. “The opera.”
Blackwood’s gaze held hers for a heartbeat longer. “Good.” He bowed, formal, exact, and entirely devoid of the heat that had consumed them moments ago, then turned away. The carriage door clicked shut with the finality of a gavel, the wheels churned against the cobbles, and he was gone.
Elizabeth remained motionless until the sound faded into the night. Only then did she step inside and close the door behind her. She leaned against it. What madness had possessed her to act that way tonight and then to again agree to see him?
The memory of the kiss surged forward. She recalled his hesitation, the demand for her consent placing her in control, the way restraint had collapsed the instant she failed to deny him.
Her pulse quickened in spite of herself.
Seeing him again would be reckless. Which meant she needed answers before recklessness became a habit.
She straightened, her resolve hardening as she drew a steadying breath.
She would stay clear-eyed. The danger that hovered at the edges of this night would be uncovered on her own terms.
Tomorrow morning, she would go to Mark’s office. She would review his books herself: every entry, every irregularity that might hint at something amiss. If there was a threat lurking beneath the polished surface of his affairs, she would find it without placing herself in a Duke’s keeping.
The opera would have to be declined. She told herself this firmly, clinging to the thought. As she turned away from the door, Elizabeth knew with a sinking feeling that resolve differed from certainty and that Alistair St. James, the Duke of Blackwood, was a man difficult to dismiss.