Her gaze finally roved its way past his broad shoulders and the strong lines of his neck to his face. His hair hung down to his shoulders, no longer tied back, and his square jawline, paired with his high cheekbones and the slight scar through one brow, gave him a fearsome look. And the way he glowered at her, brows low over his piercing gray eyes, only added to the effect.
Yes, he was a handsome man, but the sight of his glare brought back her sense of propriety and place back to the fore.
She jumped back, colliding with the doorframe. “Y-your Grace,” she stuttered.
“And what, precisely, do you think you are doing inmybedchamber?” he demanded, stepping closer until she could have reached out and touched him—if she were not afraid that her fingertips against his skin might scorch them both.
“I—”
“Did I give you leave to be here?”
Her face burned, and she blinked past the embarrassment and shame. “No.”
“Then get out.” Something shifted in his eyes, like burning coals, and she thought she saw something there that twisted her stomach—something likehunger—but she backed away before she could refine too much upon it. Still mumbling excuses, she escaped through the door into her own rooms. The last thing she saw of the Duke before the door slammed shut behind her was the fierce anger on his face.
The lock clicked, and she released a long breath.
Well, she supposed that answered a number of her questions. Primarily, whether they would be consummating the marriage that day. And, more particularly, what a man looked like without his shirt.
She closed her eyes as she pictured him again. Gilded, draped all in gold and shadow, every crevice and dip accentuated. She had not known men could be so hard, so angled; when she looked at her own body in the mirror, she saw only softness and curves.
She wondered what it would have been like to touch him. To smooth her palm over the hard bulges of muscle. Would his skin feel rough or smooth? It struck her that a man of such a build would be velvet over iron.
The thought brought an unfamiliar hunger to her belly, and she pressed a hand there, trying to understand her reaction and what on earth it could possibly mean.
Sebastian lay in bed, glowering at the darkened, invisible ceiling above. Of all the stupid, nonsensical things for her to do, walking in on him when he was changing had to have been one of the worst. Her, with her hair unbound over her shoulders, the tips of her nipples visible through the thin silk of her nightgown, the material catching on the curve of her hip when she moved.
She had been a gift, deliciously packaged for him—one he had known beyond all doubt that he would enjoy.
And he, angry after dinner and the difficulty he was having in enacting his plans, had been of a mind to take her anyway. To push her against the wall and silence that infuriating mouth with his. To make her submit, to beg for him.
All things she would have granted him, he already knew. She had a passive spirit, if a passionate one. If he commanded, she would yield, and the thought made him near groan in the darkness.
What folly it was to want her when she was the last woman in the world whom he could have!
And how close he had been to touching her.
One day into this marriage, and he was already certain it would be the death of him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sebastian sipped his brandy as he cast a gaze over the correspondence on his desk. Letters from tenants, from debtors, invitations from a large collection of people wanting to get in with the new Duke. And, of course, letters from several members of thetoncongratulating him on a marriage he had never wanted.
He consigned those letters immediately to the fire.
In the past few days, he had gone out of his way to avoid Eleanor. The only time he saw her was for dinner every evening, during which she wore one of her own gowns. He could have demanded that she wear one of the onesheprovided, but he suspected she would do so without demur, and that was not the response he wanted, nor the outcome he desired.
In truth, he had not wholly decided precisely what to do about her. There were options, and he knew he ought to get about making her marriage unpleasant enough to leave. But hisattention had been entirely focused elsewhere. Specifically, on the news he had been anticipating for several days now.
As though on cue, he heard a knock on his study door. He put his brandy down. “Come in.”
“Correspondence,” the messenger said as he entered the room. He held a letter in his hand, and Sebastian took it with unbecoming eagerness. “I’m sorry I came to you directly, Your Grace, but when I knocked, there was no answer, and the butler—”
“Think nothing of it,” Sebastian said curtly. Every other Sunday of the month, he replaced the entirety of his staff. There would be none of the sentimentality around him that he saw in other households, and certainly no chance for someone else to get close to him and ultimately leave.
Of course, that did on occasion put him out, but the sacrifice was more than worth it.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The messenger gave a clumsy bow, sandy hair falling into his eyes, and made his escape. Sebastian sat back down and tore the letter open, scanning its contents. Yes: he was correct. The inheritance had been released on the point of his marriage, and Sebastian might make withdrawals as he pleased. The caveat being, of course, that his marriage did not prove to be a farce. Pratt mentioned that the adjudicators of theWillwould be watching hawkishly to ensure that the marriage was not a premeditated way for him to exploit the conditions of the clause.
