Chapter Six #2
The Duke’s eyes darkened. “You enjoy playing with fire, don’t you, Miss Vale? Testing boundaries. Pushing limits.”
“Maybe.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Or maybe I’m simply tired of watching you freeze to death from the inside out.”
“Is that what you think is happening to me?”
“I think,” Cecilia said recklessly, “that somewhere beneath all that ice is a man capable of extraordinary warmth. You’ve just forgotten how to let anyone close enough to feel it.”
“How would you know what I’m capable of?” His voice had dropped lower, intimate. “You barely know me, Miss Vale.”
“Don’t I?” She lifted her chin. “I’ve watched you, Your Grace. I’ve seen the way you gentle your voice for your aunt. I’ve noticed how you memorise servants’ names and ask after their families. You’re not nearly as cold as you pretend to be. The ice is just armour, Your Grace.”
“Adrian,” he corrected, his hand moving to cup her face properly. “When we’re alone like this, when you’re dissecting me with uncomfortable accuracy—you’ll call me Adrian.”
“Adrian,” she breathed, and something flashed in his eyes—heat, hunger, something raw before he could lock it away.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “You’re the most dangerous thing that’s ever walked through my door.”
“Because I see you?” Cecilia’s hands came up to rest against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her palms.
“Because,” the Duke--Adrian--said roughly, his control visibly fraying, “you make me want things I swore never to want again. Make me feel things I buried so deep I’d forgotten they existed. Make me wonder if maybe there’s something worth thawing for.”
“Then thaw.” Cecilia pushed up on her toes, closing the distance between their mouths. “I dare you.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned again, voice hoarse.
“Then,” she whispered against his lips, “burn me.” The Duke’s control shattered like ice struck with steel.
His mouth claimed hers with fierce hunger, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pulled her flush against him. Cecilia gasped at the sudden intensity, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping past her lips in a kiss that felt less like exploration and more like claiming.
She’d never been kissed like this. Lord Wexford’s tepid attempts had been forgettable. This was fire and possession and barely leashed need.
Cecilia’s hands fisted in his coat, pulling him closer despite every rational voice screaming that this was madness.
His body was solid warmth against hers, all lean muscle and controlled strength rapidly losing its famous control.
When his hand slid down to grip her hip through her dress, she made a sound that should have embarrassed her but instead seemed to inflame him further.
“God,” he groaned against her mouth before trailing kisses along her jaw, down her throat. “You taste like everything I’ve been denying myself.”
Cecilia’s head fell back against the bookshelf, granting him better access.
His teeth grazed her pulse point with enough pressure to make her gasp, and she felt him smile against her skin.
His mouth returned to hers, this kiss slower but no less consuming—as though he was memorising the taste of her, storing sensory details.
Cecilia felt herself melting against him, her body responding with instinctive rightness that both terrified and thrilled her.
When the Duke’s hand slid upward, brushing the side of her breast through layers of fabric, liquid heat flooded through her body with shocking intensity. She arched into the touch without conscious thought, seeking more.
“Adrian,” she gasped, though whether in protest or encouragement she couldn’t say.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes black with desire, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop. Right now, before this goes further.
“Why would I do that?”
His thumb brushed across her kiss-swollen lips. “Because in approximately two minutes, I’m going to claim you against this bookshelf, regardless of my aunt sleeping ten feet away, and tomorrow I won’t be able to look at you without remembering exactly how you taste.”
The crude honesty sent another wave of heat through her core. “And if I don’t want you to stop?”
The Duke’s jaw clenched. “Then you’re even more dangerous than I thought.”
He kissed her again, and this time Cecilia felt his control slipping entirely—his hand sliding up her ribcage with possessive intent, his hips pressed against hers pressing his bulging arousal against her, and Cecilia heard herself make a sound of pure, desperate need.
“Your Grace!” Mrs Whittaker’s voice from the doorway cut through the haze like ice water. “Lady Flora’s physician has arrived and requires a word with you immediately.”
They sprang apart at once. Adrian’s hair was thoroughly dishevelled from Cecilia’s fingers, his lips visibly swollen, chest heaving. Cecilia knew she looked equally debauched—could feel her hair escaping its pins in copper tendrils, her dress askew, her entire body flushed.
Mrs Whittaker’s expression suggested she’d witnessed far more than was proper and found the entire situation thoroughly unsuitable.
“I’ll speak with him downstairs,” the Duke said, his voice rough as gravel. He straightened his coat with jerky movements, still not looking directly at Cecilia. “Miss Vale, you’re dismissed for the day. I trust you can find your own way out.”
Cecilia’s eyes stung with sudden moisture, but she forced herself to curtsy with as much dignity as she could muster. “Yes, Your Grace.”
She fled past Mrs Whittaker’s rigid disapproval and practically ran toward the exit. Her entire body still thrummed with unsatisfied desire, her lips tender from the Duke’s kisses, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and shame and desperate longing.
He’d kissed her like she mattered. Like she was precious rather than interchangeable.
And then he’d dismissed her like a servant who’d overstepped her bounds.
Because that’s what she was to him—Clara Vale, the too-educated companion with mysterious secrets.