Chapter 8
Philip could think of a great many things he could do on a moonless night.
He had snuck into enemy territory several times under cover of darkness and earned merits for his efforts. He had also snuck into many a willing woman’s bed on similar nights, but those merits were of a different nature.
He had not, however, taken a young lady on a tour of the gardens in such poorly lit circumstances. Chaperoned.
Women have the most absurd notions of romance.
Or was it simply his more-than-slightly addled grandmother? There was hardly anything romantic about aimlessly wandering in the dark. Only a highwayman would be out on such a night. Or a reckless libertine. Not a gentleman who was supposed to be courting a well-bred young lady.
Was his grandmother truly trying to portray a romantic scene or tempting scandal?
He cast a sideways glance at Selina, noting the gentle slope of her nose.
Her thick hair was swept up into an elegant chignon—much simpler than what he had observed was currently in fashion in town, but a far better state than it had been that afternoon when she had been trying to reason with her irate sire.
Just like that afternoon, he wondered what it was like to sink his fingers into that thick, heavy mass of luscious chocolate waves as he held her head steady to receive his kiss—
“Your Grace.”
He had been caught unawares again, damn it. He had to stop making a habit of it.
“My Lady.” His gaze dropped to her lips—a complete error in judgment, if he ever saw one.
The hunger he had momentarily banished to the back of his mind now returned to the fore with a vengeance.
“I am not particularly fond of making small talk. Shallow conversations about the weather and the goings-on of the ton never appealed to me.”
He smirked. “Then perhaps we should count ourselves fortunate, for I am not inclined to engage in inane conversation as well.”
She nodded. “Yes, but an uncomfortable silence is just as horrid, would you not agree?”
On regular days, Philip might have been disinclined to agree, but he rather liked hearing her voice. It was not particularly as high-pitched as a shrieking debutante’s or as low as that of a sultry widow attempting seduction.
“So, what do you want to talk about?” he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
A young lady with a penchant for books and mischief—he had to admit that his interest was mildly piqued as to what she would find intriguing enough to talk about. Perhaps he could humor her with some conversation as they toured the gardens.
She seemed to consider the question, her lips pressed together in adorable concentration.
Adorable? Since when did I start regarding anything as adorable?
It was a term women used for puppies and babies. Whatever recognition he had of the word, he thought it would have long been stamped out of his consciousness.
Until now, apparently.
“You already know I have a great fondness for books,” she began.
He nodded, but mentally added mischief to the list.
“But I have no idea what you like,” she continued. “I know that you joined the army—”
Correction—he was sent to the army. Thrown. Discarded as if he were of no more value than a pair of worn stockings. There was a vast difference between the two.
“—and I memorized your titles from Peerage—”
Of course, Debrett’s famous volumes were required reading for young ladies making an entry into Society. He recalled Lizzy despairing over it for months before she made her bow.
“—but aside from that, I know absolutely nothing about you,” she sighed. “And I dare not base my assumptions on gossip, for I know how inaccurate it can be.”
“And you prefer accuracy over everything else?”
She shot him a pointed look. “I would like my knowledge to be based on things that have been observed and proven correct. If not by me, then by others I consider reliable at least.”
Ah, but the truth is sometimes darker than rumors, he thought to himself bitterly.
What happened behind closed doors might be far more lurid than accounts fabricated to fill in the gaps.
“Then I am afraid I might have to disappoint you on that account, My Lady,” he told her, tamping down the venom that threatened to seep into every word. “My life is about as dull as any other vapid gentleman’s.”
That should have been enough to put a halt to any impressionable young lady’s inquisitiveness.
Unfortunately, Philip belatedly realized that Selina was not just any impressionable young lady, and any attempt on his behalf to dissuade her from her path would only result in her more assiduous pursuit.
They came to a halt outside the orangery. Sometime during their conversation, his grandmother and Lizzy had fallen behind until they were out of sight and earshot.
Ha! Chaperone us, indeed!
No doubt they simply wanted to give them some time to get better acquainted with each other—another romantic but foolish scheme.
“I beg to differ, Your Grace,” he heard Selina say softly. Even in the darkness, her eyes glowed like emeralds with a light of their own, and now they seemed to peer into his very soul. “I noticed you went rather… quiet when the subject of our fathers came up.”
Quiet?
Philip wanted to laugh.
Try cold. Freezing. Arctic.
There was no subject he hated more than that of his sire. No person—living or dead—whom he reviled more.
“There are questions that are best left unanswered, my dear,” he said quietly, his voice rimed with frosty contempt.
He took a step toward her and watched as her eyes widened. Was it from fear?
Good. Fear would keep her from the very things that should never see the light.
He moved closer. Intimidation should win over foolhardy curiosity.
But Selina stood still, holding her ground, her chin raised in defiance like a soldier making his last stand.
He had seen such men on the battlefield before. It never ended well for them either.
“I do not owe you any explanations,” he told her harshly. “About myself or my father or the devil himself. Whatever idealistic notions you have conceived, I suggest you banish them right now. It is your same recklessness that I am now attempting to resolve in a way that benefits everyone involved.”
“Then you have my gratitude for trying to rescue me from my own folly,” she retorted, her spine as unyielding as tempered steel. “But if you think that you can stop me from searching for answers or silence me when I wish to speak up, then you have chosen the wrong person to marry, Your Grace.”
She hurled the title at him as if it were an insult. Perhaps to her, it was.
But instead of chagrin or fury, it was desire that raced through his veins. This proud woman standing before him toe to toe, matching his defiance with her own…
She was like a flower born of flame. Unrivaled by anything in existence.
And right now, she was so close that all he had to do was reach out and he would taste all that exquisite, unyielding glory.
All he had to do was claim her mouth, satisfy them both, let this blaze burn so hot that it had no choice but to raze itself to nothing.
Then, he might be able to think clearly again.
“Your Grace…”
Her warm breath tickled the back of his hand as he reached for her face, setting his nerves on fire. His fingertips—calloused and hardened from years on the battlefield—met smooth skin. His very being seemed to focus on one thing alone.
Her.
He curved his shoulders as if to shield her from all distraction, his other hand finding the curve of her waist. Such a narrow waist. He could probably fit both hands around it with a little room to spare.
“Your Grace,” she repeated, breathless. Just how he wanted her.
Her back bumped lightly against the glass of the orangery. Her surprised gasp was fuel to his fire. Intoxicating.
Biting his lip, already savoring the delicious pleasure of what was to come, he dipped his head. Her lips were so close that he could feel the pressure of her voice as she whispered his title a third time, like an invitation.
And then, the magic, that warm haze of desire that had ensnared him, was shattered in the most brutal way possible.
“Selina! Selina, look at this!”
Selina was stunned, and rightly so.
One moment, she had been caught in his—Ashbrook’s—arms, the world a distant memory in the back of her head as he drew closer. His very warmth searing her through the layers of her shift and dress, his scent wrapping around her like a warm cocoon.
And she had responded to that warmth in kind, her entire being teetering on the precipice of such wondrous possibilities. Only to be shattered by Lizzy calling out to her.
She had never been so dismayed to hear her friend’s voice as when the Duke shrank back from her. Visibly recoiled as if she had become a pillar of snakes.
Then, she saw it—the emotions dancing in his eyes before they shuttered into two slivers of frozen flint.
Guilt. Regret.
“I… I…”
What could she possibly say? What could she do?
She wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up under her feet and swallow her whole. Yet she was still reeling from the whiplash of emotions he stirred within her. So, she did the next most logical thing at that moment.
She ran.
Fled from the Duke and the madness that he evoked in her. Past the neatly trimmed bushes and rows of flowers. Past Lizzy herself, who looked rightly confused by her sudden flight.
“Selina? Selina, wait! I thought I could show you something that Mel might want—”
No, no, no!
Selina wanted to scream. She did not wish to stay and stand there and be shown pleasant things and exchange pleasantries while she played at being Duchess. And not just any Duchess, mind you, but the Duchess of Ashbrook.
Lizzy had looked at her with excitement at the thought of becoming sisters at last. The Dowager Duchess had regarded her with unabashed delight, as if Selina herself hung the moon and the stars in her night sky. And then, there was the Duke…
He most certainly did not look at her as if she hung celestial bodies in their respective orbits. He had referred to her one mistake as “recklessness”—one which he had not so gently pointed out that he was trying to resolve with minimal damage for all parties involved.
He did not look like a man who wanted to marry her. No, he did not seem like he wanted to marry at all. And yet he had proposed marriage as the solution to all their problems!
“He truly must be one of the most shortsighted men I have ever met,” she muttered to herself.
She did not want a husband either, at least not one that she wanted to marry yet, but she did not go about making marriage proposals to solve her problems. One might even say that the ill-tempered man had created more problems by proposing their union, the unimaginative beast. Now, she would have to marry him.
A prickling sensation skittered across her skin at the thought, which she resolutely pushed out of her mind.
“Since I must marry, then it will have to be on my terms,” she told herself.
If Ashbrook thought he was going to marry a biddable girl incapable of holding her own thoughts in her head, then she was going to prove him sorely mistaken.
She would not be ordered about.