Chapter 7 #3
The gilded lettering on the spine gleamed in the low firelight: The Chronicles of the Ten Realms. It was a thick book bound in faded navy leather, its spine cracked from relentless reading, its pages dog-eared at intervals that suggested a long friendship with its owner.
Alice jumped, reaching for it with both hands, the soft cotton of her nightgown swaying with the motion. She missed by several inches.
A slow smile tugged at Kenneth’s mouth.
“The Ten Realms,” he murmured, turning the volume in his hand with mock solemnity.
He knew the cover before he even read the title; he had spent dozens of lonely childhood evenings tracing those very gold-leaf letters in the quiet corner of the library.
“A bit fanciful for a duchess. Enchanted kingdoms, lost princes, impossible quests. All those grand tales about magic and adventure.”
“It is not fanciful.” Alice jumped again, her cheeks flushed, her fingers grazing the bottom edge of the binding without securing a grip. “It is wonderful literature. It is—”
“Escapism,” Kenneth supplied smoothly.
He was enjoying this far more than he ought to—the warmth of the ale in his veins, the crackle of the fire, and the sight of his wife in her nightgown, determined, breathless, and entirely unaware of the effect she was having on him.
“The fantasies of a lady who would rather dream of mythical realms than review the household ledgers. I am utterly scandalized.” He paused, his gaze softening as he looked down at the frayed leather. “Though I confess I used to read it as a boy. It kept me company on more than a few cold nights.”
“Then you know how precious it is. Give it back!”
She jumped a third time, higher, her luscious body stretching upward. But as her feet came down, her embroidered slipper caught the crumpled edge of the hearth rug.
She gasped, losing her balance.
Kenneth moved without thought. His free arm wrapped around her waist, catching her as she stumbled forward, and he pulled her against him with a firmness that left no space between them.
“Oh,” she breathed out as their bodies met, hers warm and soft through the thin cotton.
For a moment, they stood chest to chest, her breath coming quick against his throat, his hand splayed across the small of her back.
Her face was inches from his. He could count her eyelashes. He could see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes that the firelight turned to gold. He could feel the rapid pulse at the base of her throat where his thumb rested without his conscious decision to place it there.
“Your skin is so warm against my hands, Alice. I can feel every single breath you take right in my bones,” he whispered, leaning in. “I’ve spent nights lying awake in the dark, imagining the feel of your hips in my hands, and you are so much softer than I ever dreamed.”
“Kenneth…” His name in her mouth was barely audible, a breath more than a word.
He bent his head and kissed her.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hunger distilled to its purest form, the accumulated tension of weeks collapsing into the press of his mouth against hers.
She made a sound against his lips, a small, desperate noise that went through him like a current, and her hands came up to grip his shoulders with a strength that surprised him.
He kissed her harder, his tongue begging for entrance against the softness of her lips. He could feel the press of her breasts against his chest as she allowed him access.
He dropped the book. It hit the floor with a thud that he barely registered.
His hand moved to her hair, tangling in the copper waves, holding her to him as though she might vanish if he loosened his grip.
He drowned in the taste of her—warm, sweet, faintly of the mint tisane she favored before bed.
It unraveled something in his chest that had been wound tight for longer than he could remember.
Suddenly, the door opened, and they broke apart.
The footman stood in the doorway, his face scarlet. “Your Graces, I heard a… That is to say, I wished to ensure… Forgive the intrusion.” He backed toward the corridor with the haste of a man retreating from artillery fire. “Goodnight.”
The door closed. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of their breathing, quick and uneven in the warm room.
Kenneth stepped back, his hand falling from her hair. The space between them yawned suddenly, cold where her body had been warm. He cleared his throat. The sound was rough, unfamiliar to his own ears.
“Goodnight, Duchess.”
He did not look at her as he turned.
He could not look at her. If he did look at her, at her swollen lips, at the flush that spread from her throat to the neckline of her nightgown, he would not leave.
And leaving was necessary. Leaving was the only option that preserved whatever remained of the distance he had kept between them.
He walked out of the parlor and made his way to the study, where ledgers waited and order could be restored through the simple mechanics of work.
The taste of her lingered on his lips. Lavender. Mint. Hunger.
He closed the study door behind him and stood very still in the dark, listening to the sound of his own heart beating wildly in his chest.