Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Aromantic at heart, Duchess? How conventional.”
Beatrice started at the sound of the Duke’s voice, the leather-bound volume nearly slipping from her grasp as she turned toward the doorway.
Her husband stood framed against the darkened corridor, his tall figure casting a long shadow over the Turkish carpet. The lamplight caught the angles of his face, softening the usual severity of his features in a way that made him appear almost… approachable.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged, hastily closing the book and setting it aside. “I did not expect your return until much later.”
“Clearly,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her with deliberate slowness.
Beatrice was wearing a simple evening gown of deep sapphire silk, and her hair was loosely tied with a ribbon rather than arranged in an elaborate coiffure.
“I heard you were reviewing household accounts,” the Duke remarked, moving further into the room with the fluid grace that characterized his movements.
“Yet I find you immersed in…” He reached for the discarded volume, examining its spine with evident amusement.
“The Mysterious Earl’s Secret Passion. How edifying.
I do not recall that being part of the Stagmore collection. ”
A flush of embarrassment rose to Beatrice’s cheeks, though she lifted her chin with characteristic defiance. “The book is mine, Your Grace. I brought it from Ironstone. And the accounts were completed an hour ago. I see no harm in seeking a diversion once my duties are fulfilled.”
“None whatsoever,” he agreed, his tone suggesting exactly the opposite as he leafed through the pages with exaggerated interest. “Though one wonders what insights into the complexities of human nature might be gleaned from such… elevated literary pursuits.”
Beatrice rose from her chair, straightening to her full height, which still left her at a distinct disadvantage, as the Duke towered over her.
“I would not expect a man of your reputation to appreciate the nuances of romantic sentiment, Your Grace.”
“No?” His lips curled into a smile that held dangerous promise. “You believe rakes incapable of understanding romance, Duchess?”
“I believe them more concerned with conquest than connection,” she said, keeping her voice steady even as awareness of his proximity made her pulse quicken. “More interested in momentary pleasure than enduring attachment.”
His expression shifted, the amusement in his eyes giving way to something darker, more intent. He stepped closer, close enough that Beatrice could detect the scent of sandalwood that seemed to cling to his skin, mingled now with the cooler notes of the night air.
“You speak with remarkable authority on matters in which, I suspect, your experience is somewhat limited,” he murmured. “Tell me, then, how extensive is this experience of yours?”
She hesitated. “Limited,” she said at last, lifting her chin in defiance. “But I have read enough to form an opinion.”
“Ah.” His smile grew. “So your education is theoretical. A pity. I’ve always preferred practical lessons.”
Her pulse leapt, though she refused to look away. “Then I suggest, Your Grace, that you apply your preferences elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” he echoed softly, taking a step closer. “And deny you the chance to put theory into practice? That would be uncharitable.”
“You presume much.”
“Only that you are curious,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.
“Allow me to satiate your curious mind. A rake, as you term it, understands pleasure with a precision that eludes most men. He has made a study of desire, learned to read its language in the subtlest signals—a quickened breath, a heightened flush, the barely perceptible dilation of pupils when interest overcomes propriety.”
Beatrice felt her heart flutter treacherously, her body betraying exactly the reactions he described.
“Knowledge is not the same as understanding,” she countered. “One may catalog the signs of lust without understanding its essence.”
“Oh, but the essence is where true mastery lies,” the Duke replied, his voice a low murmur that seemed to envelop her. “A rake understands that genuine pleasure requires attunement, an awareness of precisely how a touch might be received.”
His fingers brushed against her wrist, a contact so fleeting she might have imagined it, yet so deliberate it sent a current of awareness through her entire body.
“How a glance might kindle anticipation.” His gaze held hers, the blue of his eyes darkened to midnight. “How words, properly employed, might create sensation without any physical contact.”
Beatrice felt caught, almost helpless, in the web of his effortless allure. The library faded around her, leaving only the heat between them, the sharp pull of two minds circling, testing one another in a game whose rules she barely understood.
“Your novels speak of romantic heroes whose passions overshadow reason,” Leo continued, lifting a strand of her hair that had escaped its ribbon, examining it with a scholar’s attention.
“But true romance is as much in restraint as it is in surrender. In the way a glance, a touch, a word, can burn all the more when it’s held just out of reach. ”
As if to demonstrate, he allowed the curl to slide through his fingers slowly, the gesture somehow more intimate than any embrace.
Heat surged as her body responded with embarrassing readiness.
“You speak as though romance were merely a physical phenomenon,” she managed, her voice steadier than she had anticipated. “Mere sensations rather than an emotional connection.”
“The separation exists only in those who fear it.” His eyes drifted to her lips with deliberate intent. “The body and heart need not quarrel, Duchess. They can conspire… to savor every pleasure together.”
The words themselves, delivered in that gravelly voice, seemed to caress her senses. Beatrice found herself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by a magnetism that defied her rational side.
This man—this stranger to whom she was now bound by law—possessed a power to shatter her composure that no other had ever wielded.
“You promised our union would be one of practicality, not passion,” she reminded him, the words emerging as little more than a whisper. “Not… this.”
“I promised a performance convincing enough to transform scandal into romance,” he corrected, his hand rising to cup her cheek gently. “Still, shouldn’t we take a moment for ourselves, to savor one another?”
Of course, only a rake would come up with such a defense.
“I don’t see how that adheres to the rules you set, Your Grace,” she retorted.
“Ever so proper, dear wife.” His grin was slow, knowing, and far too teasing as he stepped closer. “But I see it, the part of you that wonders what it might be like to step just a little beyond decorum.”
He inched even closer, such that her back met the cool wall.
“It’s not—”
“Not what, Duchess?” His voice dropped to a whisper, each word tantalizing. “Not true that a single touch, a single glance, can make you forget all propriety?”
Her pulse spiked, hammering in her ears. Instinctively, she pressed her hands against his chest, intending to push him back. But the warmth and solid strength beneath her fingers stole her resolve.
Goodness, he is impossibly strong.
Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, as his thumbs slid over her wrists, tracing down to her sides with a teasing lightness that made her shiver.
“Your Grace—” she started.
“Shh,” he murmured, his lips curving with mischief. “A proper wife must learn restraint, no?”
She swallowed hard, caught between indignation and an irresistible curiosity that made her chest tighten. His eyes roamed over her face, and she felt like he saw every flicker of hesitation, heard every treacherous breath.
“There is no shame in being curious,” he murmured, tilting his head, “I see it in your eyes. A part of you longs to see what happens when rules are ignored.”
Her pulse thrummed in her ears while her body leaned imperceptibly closer despite every protest in her mind.
She did not speak. She could not.
“Mm, that’s what I thought,” he mumbled.
And then he claimed her lips.
Unlike the chaste kiss that had sealed their vows in the chapel, this was a kiss designed to initiate, awaken, and demand a response. And respond she did, with an immediacy that shocked her even as it seemed to delight him.
Her lips parted beneath his, and he released her hands, which rose instinctively to steady her against the solid planes of his chest. She felt rather than heard his low sound of approval, a vibration that seemed to travel from his body to hers, leaving heat in its wake.
His fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her as though she might slip away, while his mouth pressed against hers with a demanding, unyielding heat that stole her breath.
Then, with equal suddenness, clarity reasserted itself.
What was she doing, succumbing to the practiced seduction of a man who viewed their marriage as a business deal? Who had made it abundantly clear that once Philip was found, they would revert to being perfect strangers?
She pulled back abruptly, sidestepping until she was free of his towering presence, no longer pressed against the wall. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her lips still tingling from his kiss, her entire body alive with a heat and awareness she had never known.
“This is…” She faltered, searching for the right words. “This is unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary,” he echoed, the word carrying a weight of irony. “An interesting choice of descriptor.”
“Our arrangement requires public performance only,” Beatrice insisted, gathering the scattered remnants of her composure. “What purpose does this serve beyond momentary gratification?”
A shadow passed across his features, so quickly she might have imagined it. “It vexes me to see my Duchess chasing passion in pages rather than in my arms.”