He smoothly spun her in his arms again, then pushed her away until their arms extended straight, and they paused, the melody of the music softening, slowing as if it, too, was just as in his command as she was. He slowly pulled her back into him; whether it was his hand or his gaze, she didn’t know. But instead of keeping their hands clasped together, he brought hers to curl over his shoulder, wrapped his arm securely around her waist, and spun them in soft, seemingly endless circles.
And she fell endlessly into those eyes, into him. She let go, let go of all control and put her trust in his arms, so when her feet left the floor as they spun, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t once feel as though she wouldn’t be safe.
It was a dream. It was her dream. For her life. Told in a dance.
Her feet touched back down, and he slowed them until they came to a stop as the last notes of the piece echoed around them in the hall. They stared at each other, their rough exhalations the only sound remaining.
“I understand now what my daughter meant.” His words were low, hoarse, barely above a breath. “I don’t think anyone else will ever compare to dancing with you.”
And then he left her there. In the middle of the great hall.
And took her heart with him.
18
Felicity
Felicityrodedownthedirt path that hugged the River Arun, her destination in sight: a grouping of large willow trees. She needed some time alone today, some time with her thoughts, to reorient herself with her goal. She had stopped Mr. Thorne and asked for a scenic spot for picnicking, somewhere serene. And he had told her of a place by the river with mammoth willow trees which had sounded like utter perfection.
She approached a willow, fern-green branches falling in layers, half over the ground and half over the bank of the river. She dismounted and lifted her head to the sun, letting its warmth rejuvenate her just as it did to the plants surrounding her.
This spot was surreal, as if she was walking toward a painting. She stepped inside the curtain of willow leaves, the soft branches grazing her bare arms where she’d rolled up the sleeves of her lawn shirt. The leaves whispered as they slid around her, like a magical world murmuring to her, mingling with the muffled bubbling sounds of the river. And there in the distance, peeking between a small gap in the branches: a pristine view of Devonford Castle.
She lay down on her checkered green-and-white picnic blanket, eyes drifting close as she immersed herself in the sound and feel of nature—birds calling, grass rustling, the breeze sneaking through gaps in the willow branches. And she let her thoughts flow just as freely as the river.
The Planwas supposed to be simple. Bed the Duke, a man who should be just as lust-crazed as his son, just as undiscerning in his choice of bed partners. Then walk away, revenge in her right hand and a nullified betrothal in her left.
She took a deep breath of fresh earth and spring florals and let the comforting scents ease her mind, settle the chaos roiling in her chest.
Now, more than ever, she understood the Duke differed from his son in nearly every conceivable way.
A man who rehabilitated horses becausehe liked doing so—infinitely patient, gentle, caring.
A man who not only refused a beautiful woman for his son’s sake but went out of his way to attempt to make himself unappealing—honorable, loyal, adorable.
A man who loved his daughter unconditionally despite the fact she didn’t fit the traditional mold of a duke’s daughter—accepting, supportive, protective.
He was bloody tempting, so very bloody tempting.
How could she bed him now? When it went against every one of the principles in which he lived his life. When it would completely ruin his chance to make reparations with his son. When her blasted heart was getting involved.
But that meant sacrificing her future, resigning herself to a life as Colborn’s ornament, only allowed out of her cage when he wanted to parade her around. Giving up any semblance of control and handing it over to someone who didn’t deserve—couldn’t be trusted with—that privilege.
She took another breath, the chaos building instead of calming, so volatile now that she feared she might break, snap, explode into a score of minuscule fragments, reduced to mere dust carried away by the soft breeze.
The question remained, the question she came out here to ponder, the one she wasn’t any closer to answering:
Who did she hurt?
Herself…or the Duke?
19
Ash
Ashwasgoingtokill Sam. As soon as he found the man. Which was why he found himself heading for the stables, since he had already scoured the entirety of the castle. Where there had been a very conveniently absent Sam.
His best friend had been damn near impossible to find since the littleI can playmove in the great hall yesterday. It shouldn’t be this hard to find one’s valet. Since they were supposed to…dress their employers and such. But funnily enough, Ash had found he had to dress and undress himself last night and this morning.
