Step back. You should step back.
But her feet seemed rooted to the floor as he reached for her hand.
“Your Grace, what are you?—”
Even through her gloves, she could feel the warmth of his fingers as he lifted her hand between them. His touch was gentle but firm, and when his thumb traced across her knuckles, she had to bite back a gasp at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.
This is entirely improper. He shouldn’t be touching me like this. I shouldn’t want him to.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.
Was she? She looked down at their joined hands and realized he was right. Her fingers were trembling against his though whether from exhaustion, delayed shock from the fire, or his proximity, she couldn’t say.
All three, most likely.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said though her voice came out breathier than she’d intended.
“How do you expect to take care of others when you’re about to drop?” His amber eyes held hers captive. “You will join me for dinner. This is not a request.”
The authoritative way he said it—as though her compliance was simply assumed—should have annoyed her. She was not some simpering miss who jumped at a man’s command, no matter how imposing he might be.
Instead, she nodded.
What is wrong with me?
“I… very well. But only for a few minutes. The children?—”
“Will be perfectly safe in my household’s care.” He released her hand though she could still feel the phantom warmth of his touch. “Beverly, is it? You’ll see to their needs while Lady Sybil takes proper nourishment?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Beverly said quickly. “Take all the time you need, Sybil. We’ll manage beautifully.”
Conspirators, the lot of them.
Following the Duke through the corridors of Vestiaire Castle, Sybil tried not to gawk at the opulence surrounding her. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow her progress. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows on silk wallpaper that probably cost more than she spent on food for the orphanage in a year.
Don’t think about money. Not now.
“Your home is very grand,” she said, immediately regretting the inanity of the comment.
“It serves its purpose.” His tone was dismissive, as though the luxury meant nothing to him.
Easy to dismiss what you’ve never lacked.
But that was unfair, she realized. He’d spent hours fighting the fire alongside common villagers, his expensive clothing ruined, his hands blistered from bucket handles. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t afraid of honest work.
The dining room he led her to was smaller than she’d expected—intimate, even—with a table that seated perhaps eight rather than the enormous banquet hall she’d imagined. Candles flickered in silver candelabras, casting warm light over polished mahogany and gleaming china.
“Please, sit.” He pulled out a chair for her, his fingers brushing her shoulders as she settled into it.
The contact sent another jolt of awareness through her, and she was grateful when he moved to the opposite side of the table. Distance. She needed distance from this man and whatever strange effect he had on her equilibrium.
You’re being ridiculous. He’s simply being polite.
But when he looked at her across the candlelit table, there was nothing polite about the intensity in his amber eyes.
A parade of servants appeared with dishes—roasted chicken, fresh bread, and vegetables prepared with herbs she recognized from her own garden. The aromas made her stomach clench with sudden, ravenous hunger.
When did I last eat? This morning? Yesterday?
