Chapter 6
Thalia gasped as though she had run a race, though in actuality she had just escaped the Duke’s presence.
What presence he had… it was near choking in its intensity. Those gray eyes pierced her soul. It was as though he embodied the wolf he dressed as, stalking her, about to strike at any second.
And the way he had touched her. Heavens above. All of it is appropriate, yet indecent at the same time.
How had he achieved such a thing?
Elliot found her and held out a glass of lemonade. She took it and tossed it back immediately, moistening her dry throat. The sourness made her wince.
“Well?” he asked. “Care to enlighten me?”
“About what?”
“Come now; don’t play the idiot with me, it doesn’t suit you. The Duke. You. The way he looked at you.”
“You agree he looked at me oddly?”
“My dear, he looked at you as though he wanted to eat you. Take it from me, that is the way a man looks when he is interested in the person he is looking at.”
“I have never seen you look at anyone in that way,” she said, suddenly interested.
“That’s because you haven’t been watching closely,” he said, and patted her arm. “Not to worry. I’m sure it means nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Thalia agreed, toying with her empty glance.
But when she glanced up, the Duke was standing close to Lady Rivenhall, his head lowered, his attention fixed with an ease that unsettled her.
A bolt of annoyance swept through her at his obvious intimacy with her. Obviously, they knew each other well. Still, she guessed that Lady Rivenhall was too old for the Duke, particularly if he wanted an heir. She already had a full-grown child; there would be little chance of her having another.
She chastised herself again for caring one way or the other. What did it matter to her who he chose to spend his time with?
Not at all, that was what.
“Ah, excuse me,” Elliot said, peering over her shoulder. “I must go and speak to Mr. Greenway.”
He gave her a brief bow and disappeared back into the crowd.
Thalia huffed a long breath, but before she could think any more about it, her father appeared by her side with a sneer on his face.
Naturally.
Her father never looked at her except to lord his superiority over her.
“Of all the eligible gentlemen in the room,” he hissed, grabbing her arm, “you chose to dance with a commoner and your former fiancé?”
Defiance flooded her. “I hardly elected to dance with the Duke,” she snapped back.
“Don’t you take that tone with me. You understand the situation we’re in.”
She understood, and she hated the reminder.
“You are here to find a husband,” he said. “Nothing else. You can afford no time for any gentleman who might not marry you. And Calloway is not a man who will have my permission to marry you.”
It was on the tip of Thalia’s tongue to snap that she had no interest in marrying anyone—and Mr. Calloway had still less interest in her—and that, as she was of age, her father’s consent no longer mattered. But she held her breath and forced the words back inside.
Her father’s expression changed immediately, turning from furious to genial so quickly that her stomach flipped, unsettled.
“Ah, Lord Vauron,” he said, turning Thalia so she could see the gentleman approach.
Dread turned her defiance to ash. Lord Vauron had to be in his fifties at least, with heavy bags under his eyes and gray hair. She recognized him as one of her father’s cronies.
Oh no.
Lord Vauron looked her over, a smarmy smile touching his mouth. “Lady Thalia,” he said. “I haven’t seen you since you were a girl. You look lovely tonight.”
If you slap him, Father will not let you leave the house for a month straight.
Her father nudged her side.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, her teeth locked together in a rictus of a smile.
“Would you do me the honor of this next dance?”
There was no point looking at her father for help; he would only encourage the partnership. All she could do was grin and bear it.
Well, bear it at least. She doubted grinning was on the menu for tonight.
“I thank you, yes,” she said, unable to find an excuse.
Drat Anna and Simon for being so in love and wrapped up with one another. Drat, Elliot for leaving her when he did. Drat the Duke for not asking her to dance directly. Even he would be preferable.
Lord Vauron held out his hand, dragging her to the middle of the room far faster than she was comfortable with. He held her too tightly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could sense the Duke’s attention. Did he pity her? She hoped not, but if she saw another young lady being manhandled by a man more than twice her age, she would pity her, too.
He tugged her closer. “You look positively delicious tonight,” he said, his hot breath washing over her. He stank of wine. Her stomach turned, again. “I confess, when I heard you were on the market for a husband again, I thought myself very lucky.”
I will never marry you in a thousand years.
She kept her mouth shut and her gaze locked above his shoulder. No matter what he said, she vowed to keep a straight face.
He tried her resolution for the entire dance, telling her that she had a plump, luscious body, that he looked forward to spending more time with her, and other unpleasantries.
Finally, as the dance ended, he slid a hand down her waist to her backside and in full view of the crowd—though she doubted anyone could see or was paying attention—he pinched her.
She leapt back. Her vow to keep a straight face disintegrated in the face of his blatant disrespect. Her skin crawled.
But there was her father, pushing his way toward them. If she had to endure another moment of Lord Vauron’s attentions, she could not be held accountable for her actions.
Giving a shallow curtsy and muttering something about needing to freshen up, she fled through the throng, searching for an exit.
There, a door.
And beyond, several larger rooms were all inhabited by guests. She pushed through, searching for somewhere quiet she could sit and think and wash away the disgust from the past few minutes.
It took her some time, but eventually she found the library.
To her relief, it was entirely empty. Seeking to distract her mind, she reached for the nearest book and crawled onto the window seat.
The candlelight was barely strong enough for her to read, but the additional strain was another source of distraction.
She barely noticed the door open.
She did, however, notice when a figure loomed over her. In fright, she jumped. The book fell to the ground, and Thalia threw up her hands to defend herself.
“Lady Thalia?” The Duke—of course it was the Duke, he always had to find her at her worst—stepped back, as though to reassure her he would not harm her. “What’s wrong?”
“Why must you assume something is always wrong?”
He bent and picked up the book, handing it back to her. “Forgive my presumption, but you do not strike me as the sort of lady who would prefer to sit in a library rather than take pride of place in a ballroom.”
“Then you are mistaken,” she said as primly as she could. “Now, please leave me be. I don’t think either of us could survive another scandal with each other.”
His brows descended low over his eyes. “No one knows I’m here. There is no scandal.”
Her skin prickled. She wanted him gone, and more importantly, she wanted to be alone, so she didn’t have to feel so disgusted.
“Fine,” she said, hopping to her feet. “Then I will leave.”
As she passed, his hand closed around her wrist. “Wait a moment.”
Fear flashed through her, and she wrenched her wrist free. “Don’t touch me! I won’t allow another man to lay a hand on me tonight.”
Although she knew it was impossible, she fancied the entire room darkened as he stared at her. A dangerous light flickered in his eyes.
“Who touched you inappropriately?” He let out in a low, deep growl.
She gulped. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You said someone laid a hand on you.” His nostrils flared. “Give me his name.”
“It’s nothing.”
“The name, Lady Thalia,” he murmured. When she didn’t immediately answer, a muscle in his jaw worked. “Was it Calloway?”
“No!” she said, without thinking.
Of course, it wasn’t Elliot—he would never do such a thing.
“Then Lord Vauron?”
She hesitated only a second, but that was all the confirmation he needed. He rocked back on his heels, looking positively murderous, and marched out of the library.
“Your Grace!” Thalia ran after him, not sure what she would do but certain she should stop him from ending Vauron’s life in the middle of a ballroom; she’d already seen him fight, and she knew he would win.
There wouldn’t even be a competition.
Will he fight Lord Vauron here? Now?
Her head spun; she didn’t know.
The Duke flung open the doors of the ballroom and strode inside. Thalia followed on his heels, panicked and unsure. He found Lord Vauron right away and took the man’s arm.
“A word, Vauron,” he said, the words soft and threatening.
Vauron’s gaze slid from his face to Thalia’s, and he stumbled over his words. “I-I can’t think what this could be about, Your Gra—”
“I can,” was all the Duke said while dragging him from the room.
Lord Vauron had to trot to keep up, and the moment the Duke identified a quiet corner of a corridor, he turned and released Lord Vauron.
“I say,” Lord Vauron said, petulantly. “I can’t imagine what—”
The Duke punched him in the jaw. Thalia gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth as Lord Vauron stumbled, his eyes turning dazed.
“Keep your hands to yourself in the future, or I will break them,” the Duke snarled.
“I did nothing—”
Thalia gasped at the indignity. “How dare you deny it.”
The Duke grabbed Lord Vauron by the collar and hauled him up. “Do not lie to me.”
If possible, Lord Vauron’s face turned an even paler color. “N-no, Your Grace,” he stammered. “I would never—”
Thalia watched as fury crossed the Duke’s face; she could practically pinpoint the moment that he lost control, drawing back his fist and punching the other man so hard that his head rocked back. He tossed Lord Vauron to the floor.
“My patience is running low. Apologize to the lady.”
Thalia kept silent and waited. Shaking, the old lord turned to her. “I apologize, my lady.”
“For?” Maxwell prompted dangerously.
“For laying my hands on you in an inappropriate way.”
Thalia noted he didn’t specify what he had done, but she didn’t feel the need to press the issue, and neither did the Duke, judging by the way he nudged Lord Vauron with his foot. “Get out of my sight,” he spat.
Lord Vauron scrambled to his feet and fled down the hall.
“You can’t just hit people who offend you,” Thalia said, biting back the silent satisfaction seeing that assault had brought her. “Now he’ll tell everyone what happened, and there will most certainly be a scandal!”
Footsteps sounded behind them.
The Duke’s face was tight with concentration as he listened.
Her eyes widened.
“Come,” he whispered, then reached for her, fingers sliding around her waist.
Next, he took hold of her and spun her aside into a small alcove, partially concealed by a curtain. His other hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her confused exclamations.
In the dim light, she stared up at him, her heart pounding, her senses on high alert.
She suddenly felt like a rabbit standing before a wolf—only she was less sure she would mind being devoured.
The voices grew closer. Two ladies returned from the powder room, talking idly.
Thalia held her breath. His palm was warm against her lips, and his thigh pressed between hers. His proximity made her entire body prickle with awareness. Heat filled her as his eyes, black in the dim light, met hers.
Slowly, the footsteps passed, reaching the end of the corridor and fading.
The Duke’s eyes didn’t leave hers as he drew his hand away from her mouth. They were so, so close. Thalia could barely breathe. All she could feel was the hard press of his leg against hers, his stomach against hers, and the rigidity of his chest.
His thumb pressed against the pulse point at the base of her neck. “You don’t have to worry,” he murmured, eyes still intent on hers. “I will keep you safe.”
She wished she could tame the rapid thrumming of her heart, but that was as much out of her control as the liquid heat in the base of her stomach.
She wanted—
Oh, she did not know what she wanted, but he was right here, and there was a rising need in her.
His gaze dropped to her lips. The hand around her waist tightened, bringing her closer still.
Then his mouth descended on hers.
She had never been kissed before, but she had read about kisses—her impression of them from novels was that they were largely chaste. Two mouths pressing against one another.
This was anything but chaste. As soon as his lips brushed hers, he moved them, opening her mouth.
Then there was his tongue, and if she had thought about it objectively, she would have assumed she would dislike such an act, but here and now, it felt like it sent lightning through her body.
She gasped, and he tugged her still closer.
One hand slid around the back of her neck to hold her in place.
The idea of breaking free seized her, and she considered it. She could push him away. She knew that was what she ought to do, but her mind was scattered. All she understood was the feel of him, dark and certain and so utterly masculine, and the terrible, wicked things she wanted.
No. No.
She shoved him back, and he went without a fight, breathing heavily with a scant few inches of space between them.
What was she thinking? This was not some casual flirtation; this was the Duke of Marrowhurst, and she had just kissed him.
Clearly, she was out of her right mind. Suffering from a temporary burst of insanity.
Her lips tingled. She had to fight the urge to reach up and press her fingers to them as though to seal his kiss in place.
The Duke’s voice was cold as he said, “Forgive me, my lady.”
“Excuse me,” Thalia said, her voice trembling as she pushed away from him, out of the alcove—
And away, away, away, back to the masquerade.
Anywhere but there.