Chapter Fourteen
“Did you see how Her Grace handled the situation in the garden? Cool as you please while the rest of us stood about like frightened geese.”
Cecilia paused outside the morning room, her hand stilling on the doorframe. Through the gap, she could see Cook arranging a tea service while the housekeeper folded linens.
“Aunt Flora could not have had better care from a trained nurse,” Mrs Whittaker agreed, her usually stern voice softened with something approaching warmth. “I had my doubts about a Scottish girl managing a household of this standing, especially after that little clandestine stunt she pulled.”
“Well, you weren’t alone in that.” Cook’s laugh was rueful. “But she’s proven herself now, hasn’t she?”
Cecilia’s throat constricted. They were offering her respect, not merely the grudging obedience servants owed to titles. She slipped past the doorway before they could notice her eavesdropping, her chest tight with something dangerously close to hope. Perhaps she truly could belong here.
“Your Grace! What excellent timing.” Henry materialised from the drawing room, all easy charm and perfect tailoring.
“Mr Ravenscar.” She dipped her head in acknowledgement, already calculating her escape route. “I was just—”
“Headed to check on Aunt Flora, no doubt. Your devotion is truly admirable.” He fell into step beside her, close enough that the scent of his cologne made her nose wrinkle. “You know, I’ve always admired people who can… slip into new roles without anyone noticing the seams.”
The words dropped between them like stones into still water.
Cecilia’s feet stopped moving. Her pulse hammered against her throat as she turned to face him fully, searching his expression. His smile hadn’t faltered. If anything, it had widened slightly, revealing teeth that seemed too white, too sharp.
“I’m certain I don’t—”
“Don’t you?” Henry tilted his head, all innocence. “I merely meant that the transition from lady’s companion to duchess must have been... disorienting.”
“If you’ll excuse me…” She moved to step around him.
His hand caught her elbow, not roughly, but just firm enough to halt her momentum. “I do hope we can rely on your… discretion moving forward, Your Grace. About... certain matters. Family loyalty is so important, don’t you think?”
“Unhand me.” The command emerged low and steady, though her heart thrashed like a caged bird.
Henry released her immediately, stepping back with another of those practised smiles. “Of course. Forgive me…I sometimes forget myself in friendly conversation.” He bowed, the gesture mocking in its perfection. “Do give Aunt Flora my regards.”
He sauntered away, whistling something jaunty and utterly inappropriate for the tension crackling in his wake.
Cecilia remained frozen in the corridor.
She pressed shaking fingers to her temples.
Perhaps she was imagining malice where none existed.
Perhaps the stress of recent weeks had made her paranoid, seeing shadows in harmless remarks.
The unease followed her through the remainder of the day like a persistent shadow.
By the time she retired to her chambers, her nerves were scraped raw.
Sleep proved impossible that night. Cecilia tossed beneath silk sheets that felt like sandpaper against her overheated skin, her mind circling Henry’s words like a hawk over prey. The casual cruelty of it. The implicit threat.
At half past midnight, she abandoned the pretence of rest. Her wrapper whispered against her nightgown as she belted it closed, the ivory silk cool against her flushed skin.
The house lay quiet around her, settled into its nocturnal rhythms. Cecilia’s bare feet made no sound as she descended the staircase, one hand trailing along the balustrade.
Golden light leaked from beneath the library door. Perhaps a servant had forgotten to extinguish the lamps. She should simply inform Mrs Whittaker in the morning, return to her chambers, and—
The door swung inward before she could retreat.
Adrian stood framed in the doorway. He held a leather-bound volume in one hand, his finger marking his place. The other hand gripped the door frame, knuckles white with tension.
For a suspended moment, they simply stared at each other.
“I…” Cecilia’s voice emerged embarrassingly breathless. “I didn’t realise anyone would be here. I’ll just—”
“Don’t.” The single word stopped her retreat. “Come in. Unless you’re afraid to be alone with me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” She lifted her chin, even as her pulse hammered against her throat.
“Perhaps you should be.” But he stepped back, allowing her entry.
The library wrapped around her like an embrace—leather and old paper and woodsmoke, punctuated by the snap of burning logs. Adrian moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy.
“Coleridge,” she observed, noting the volume he’d abandoned on the chair arm. “Rather romantic reading for the Ice Duke.”
“My aunt’s prescription for what ails me. Apparently, poetry is meant to thaw frozen hearts.” He took a long swallow of brandy, then set his glass down carefully. His jaw clenched as though he was fighting some internal battle. “I’ve been unfair to you.”
The admission hung in the air between them.
Cecilia blinked at him. Adrian—”
“I need to say this.” His voice had gone rough.
“I’ve been,” he exhaled sharply. “Cruel. Deliberately cold when you deserved civility. I wielded my wounded pride as an excuse to make you suffer.” His dark eyes found hers, and the raw honesty there made her breath catch.
“You were brave enough to risk everything for truth. And I? I’ve been a coward, hiding behind my walls of ice because letting you close terrifies me. ”
Cecilia’s throat tightened. “Why are you telling me all of this now?”
“Because I’m tired of punishing you for honesty.” His hand tightened on the back of the chair, his voice dropping lower. “And because I’ve been too afraid to admit that I want this. Want you.”
Something hot and fierce unfurled itself in Cecilia’s chest.
“Tell me, wife…” Adrian’s eyes held hers, vulnerable and raw in a way she’d never seen. “Do you think my heart needs thawing?”
Cecilia moved closer to the fire, needing the warmth, needing something to do with her hands. “I think you’ve built walls so high that even you’ve forgotten what lies behind them.”
“Clever.” Adrian set down his glass with deliberate precision. “But you didn’t answer the question.”
“I think,” Cecilia said carefully, watching him in the firelight, “that somewhere beneath all that ice is a man capable of extraordinary warmth.”
“And you’ve appointed yourself to what… melt me?” His voice had gone soft, dangerous. He moved closer, each step measured.
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m simply tired of watching you torture yourself with loneliness while pretending you prefer it that way.”
“You think you know me so well.” He stopped mere inches away, close enough that she could smell the brandy on his breath, see the pulse hammering in his throat.
His hand came up to grip her chin, tilting her face toward his.
The touch was gentle, but his eyes had gone black with something that made her breath catch.
“You have no idea what you are awakening, wife.”
She held his gaze, refusing to retreat even as her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. “You say that as a warning, but it sounds like a promise.”
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, sending liquid heat straight to her core. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Teasing me. Daring me to—”
“To what?” Cecilia heard herself whisper.
“To lose control.” His voice had dropped to something barely human, raw and aching. “To stop being careful. To take what I want instead of denying myself.”
The words came out braver than she felt. “I’m your wife, Your Grace. You’re allowed to want me.”
Something cracked in his expression—a fissure in that legendary control.
Cecilia pushed up on her toes, closing the distance until their lips were a breath apart. “Whatever it is you’re going to do… stop talking about it and do it.”
His mouth claimed hers with fierce hunger—not the gentle exploration from before, but pure possession.
One hand tangled in her hair while the other pulled her flush against him, and Cecilia gasped at the sudden intensity.
Adrian took advantage, his tongue sweeping past her lips in a kiss that felt like conquest. Adrian consumed her, claimed her, branded her with every stroke of his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
“This is your last chance.” His voice had gone rough, almost desperate. “Tell me to stop. Walk away. Because I swear to God, Cecilia, if you stay…if you let me—”
She fisted her hands in his shirt, pulling him back down. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of how much I want this. Want you.”
Adrian cursed softly before kissing her again, this time with bruising intensity. His hands roamed her back, learning the dip of her spine through silk that suddenly felt like far too much barrier.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her mouth.
“So are you.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and wild. “Because you have no idea what you do to me. Standing there in nothing but this scrap of silk…” His hand cupped her face with devastating gentleness. “From now on, when we’re alone like this… you’ll call me Adrian.”
“Adrian,” she breathed, and watched something fierce and possessive flash across his features.
“Say it again.” His thumb traced her kiss-swollen lips. “I want to hear my name on your tongue when I—”
He stopped himself, jaw clenching.
“When you what?” Cecilia heard herself ask, bold and reckless with want.
“When I make you mine.” The words emerged barely controlled. “When I strip this nightgown off and taste every inch of your skin. When I make you scream my name loud enough to wake the entire household.”