Chapter Four #2
“Then believe me, Your Grace.” Cecilia backed against the bookshelf as he approached. She forced every ounce of sincerity she could muster into her words. “I know it was wrong of me to… If you wish to dismiss me—”
He stopped close enough that she could see the tiny gold flecks in his dark eyes. “My aunt adores you. That… matters to me.”
“I wouldn’t betray that trust, Your Grace.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
The space between them felt charged with something Cecilia didn’t quite understand. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his broad frame, see the slight tension in his jaw, watch his chest rise and fall with each controlled breath.
The Duke tilted his head slightly, studying her with unnerving intensity. “You’re not like other servants. The way you speak. How you carry yourself. That stubborn tilt to your chin when you think I’m being unfair.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Just now, when I found you here, you could have grovelled, begged for forgiveness…” His hand rose, and Ceceilia’s breath caught as his fingers brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her bun. “Why?”
The gentle touch paired with the sharpness of his question made Cecilia’s body respond in ways she couldn’t control—pulse racing, skin flushing, something low in her belly tightening with awareness…
“Perhaps,” she managed, “you affect me… strangely, Your Grace.”
His voice turned husky. “Explain.”
“You… make me nervous. Saying and doing things I wouldn’t usually…” She trailed off as his hand moved from her hair to her face, his palm burning against her cheek.
“Things like breaking into my study?”
“Things like forgetting I’m supposed to be invisible.”
His thumb trailed along her jaw in a gesture that felt far too intimate for a duke and a servant. Cecilia’s breath shortened. She should pull away. Should remember her place. Should do anything except lean into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
“You could never be invisible,” he said quietly. “It’s remarkably difficult to ignore you when you insist on being so… thoroughly present.”
“I don’t understand.”
His other hand rose to brace against the bookshelf beside her head, effectively caging her in. Not threatening, but definitely intentional. “You… stir my curiosity. A complication that I do not have time for.”
“Then why haven’t you dismissed me?”
“Because my aunt adores you. Because—” he stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening.
“Because?” Cecilia prompted, emboldened by something reckless sparking in her chest.
The Duke’s intense dark eyes dropped to her mouth. For one breathless moment, Cecila thought he might actually kiss her. His head dipped slightly, his breath ghosting across her lips, close enough that she could almost taste the hint of tea—
“Because you’re trouble,” he said roughly, his fingers suddenly gripping her chin with gentle command. “If you continue playing this game, you’ll soon discover I’m not nearly as patient as you seem to believe, Miss Vale.”
The grip on her chin sent heat spiralling through her body even as his words chilled her blood. How on earth could fear and desire tangle so completely? How could she want him even closer while knowing she should run?
“I’m not playing a game,” she whispered, and it was almost true. Whatever this started as, it had become something else entirely.
“Just cut the act, Miss Vale.” He released her chin and stepped back so abruptly that Cecilia swayed. “You’re dismissed for the day,” he continued, not looking at her as he shuffled papers with precise movements.
Cecilia’s hands trembled as she curtsied. “Yes. Your Grace.”
She fled the study with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn’t much. Her skin burned where he had touched her, and her body still hummed with the memory of his body pressed against her, even as shame crashed through her in waves.
What on earth had she been thinking? Cecilia had nearly reached the servants’ staircase when voices from the corridor made her pause.
“—appreciate your discretion, Mrs Whittaker.” The Duke’s voice, but something was different. It was no longer cold, instead carrying unexpected warmth. “How is your sister faring? The fever broke, I trust?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Thanks to the physician you sent—I can’t thank you enough—”
“Nonsense. You’ve served this household faithfully for years. Naturally, I’d ensure your family received proper care.” A pause, then softer, “And young Thomas? Is he settling into his apprenticeship well?”
“He is, Your Grace. Says the art master speaks highly of your recommendation of him.”
“Good. He’s a bright boy. He’ll do well.”
Cecilia pressed herself flat against the wall, hidden by shadow, her breath caught in her throat. This was most certainly not the same duke who’d dismissed her so coldly. This was something else entirely.
She grabbed her cloak from the servant’s entrance and escaped out into London’s bustling afternoon streets.
The walk home should have cleared her head.
Should have restored perspective. Instead, all she could think about was the heat in his eyes before he’d locked it away…
the way his thumb had felt against her jaw, and how deliciously close this mouth had come to hers.
“Glad to see ye still live here, then.”
Cecilia froze in the entrance hall of her father’s townhouse. The Earl stood at the base of the stairs, still wearing his outdoor coat, clearly having just arrived himself.
“Father! I… I managed my errands sooner than I expected.
His gaze swept over her with uncomfortable thoroughness—flushed cheeks, dishevelled hair, the slight tremor in her hands she couldn’t quite control. “Ye look upset. Has somethin’ happened?”
“Nothing. I’m simply tired.”
“Cecilia,” her father moved closer, his weathered face stern. “Where exactly have ye been spendin’ yer mornin’s? And dinnae tell me ye’re visitin’ friends. I’ve made enquiries. No one has seen ye in over a week.”
Her heart fell to her feet. “I… I’ve been… taking walks. In the park. Reading.”
“Fer six hours every day?” Disbelief coloured his tone. “Ye take me fer a fool! Tell me the truth. Now.”
“I’ve been attending to charities, Father.” The lie came easier than it should have. “Reading for an elderly woman who suffers from dementia. Just temporarily—to occupy my time while… while we prepare for the weddin’ arrangements you’ve made.”
The Earl’s eyes narrowed dangerously before shifting to surprise. “Charity? Well, why would ye not simply tell me that from the start?”
“Because…” Ceceilia scrambled for plausible reasoning.
“Because I knew you’d insist on inspecting the household, investigating the family, making a grand production of it all…
the poor woman’s simply lonely, Father. Her nephew rarely visits, and she’s in need of companionship.
It seemed a small kindness—not something that required your formal approval. ”
“Her nephew?” Her father’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who is this family ye speak of?”
“No one of consequence. A modest household in Mayfair. The lady is perfectly respectable, I assure you. She simply has no female relatives nearby to keep her company.”
Her father studied her for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to pursue the matter further. “And ye’re not bein’ paid fer this… service?”
“Of course not!” Cecilia allowed genuine offence to colour her tone. “It’s charity, Father! I’m helping someone in need—isn’t that exactly the sort of Christian duty Mother would have encouraged? Surely you can’t object to that?”
The mention of her mother was calculated, and it worked. The Earl’s expression softened fractionally.
“Aye… I suppose charitable work is appropriate fer a young lady of your standin’.” He admitted grudgingly. “It speaks well of yer character. Shows compassion and proper values.” He paused, then added more sternly. “But ye see to it that this ends the moment ye meet the Duke formally. Understood?”
“Perfectly, Father.”
“And Cecilia? Dinnae think I’m unaware yere hidin’ somethin’. I simply haven’t decided yet whether it’s worth the effort of discoverin’ precisely what.”
Cecilia nodded once, then made her way upstairs to her room.
“What happened?” Velma asked as Cecilia stepped inside her bedchamber.
“He caught me.” She sank onto her bed, pressing her shaking hands to her burning face. “He confronted me in his study and… he was… oh, Velma, I thought he might kiss me, but then he just… let me go.”
“Och, miss.” Velma sat beside her, gripping her hands. “Maybe he’s not worth thawin’, aye? A man who runs cold as that—”
“That’s just it.” Cecilia’s voice emerged frustrated and confused. “I don’t know if he’s worth it… one moment he’s almost tender—touching my face, looking at me like… like I don’t know what, and the very next he’s cold as ice, ordering me about like I’m nothing.”
“So why keep goin’ back, milady?”
“Because I don’t have a choice!” The words burst from her. “I’m meant to marry him, Velma and I still don’t know if he’s a decent man trapped behind all that coldness, or if the ice is just… all there is to him.”
Velma squeezed her hands. “And if it’s just ice, milady? What then?”
Cecilia thought of his fingers brushing her jaw, his breath ghosting across her skin, and the heat in his eyes before he’d locked it all away.
She recalled the way her body responded—still responded, even now, just remembering.
“Then… I’m in terrible trouble,” she whispered. “Because despite everything, some mad part of me still wants to know what it would feel like if…”
“If what, milady?”
“If… he kissed me.”
“Och! But that’s not love, milady, that’s—”
“Desire?” Cecilia laughed bitterly. “Yes, I’m well aware.
” But awareness didn't stop her pulse from racing at his touch.
Didn't stop her from wanting things she had no business wanting from a man she didn't even like.
The Duke of Devonshire was going to ruin her.
The only question was whether he'd do it before or after the wedding.