The duke came back? What could she have possibly meant by that?
Alicia wrapped her arms about her waist. The room was as ancient as the entry hall, decorated by intricately carved, dark wood panels. Thick velvet curtains blocked out the storm beyond. The room’s single inviting feature was the bed.
She touched the dressing gown lying across the mattress. The fabric was pale pink and somehow familiar. She ran her hand over the fabric. Silk. Not just silk but silk so finely woven, it spilled through her fingers like water.
Then she remembered. This was the dressing gown she’d been admiring at Marie’s.
Ah. The duke wasn’t a devil, he was the most dangerous kind of man—the kind who noticed, the kind who remembered.
The kind who made a lady’s wishes come true.
She slipped into the dressing gown. The fire in her belly was anticipation come to tingling life. This was wrong. All of this, wrong. But it felt like the moment she’d been waiting for all her days.
Cloaked in a fine linen shift and then wrapped in a luxurious silken robe, she was at once uncertain and at home. Though, if the duke did not appear soon, the uncertainty would win. She would run from the room screaming like a madwoman.
Or she could behave like the composed woman she was and calmly take a seat.
She sat on the mattress, though it did little to bring her calm.
Mrs. Kent had left a few slices of cheese, bread, and a steaming cup of—she leaned forward and sniffed—chocolate. Tempting as the chocolate was, how was she to eat or drink when she could barely swallow?
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Come in.” Was that her voice, all satin and invitation? Good heavens, if a mere hour in this place had brought on that change, what would she sound like at the end of three days?
Nights, my lady.She shuddered.
The duke entered. He rested his gaze on her lips. She curved them into a shape she hoped resembled a smile. He sauntered forward and placed a finger under her chin.
“You can do better than that.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
His gaze slid to the sideboard. “You haven’t so much as nibbled.”
“I am too unsettled to eat.”
“A drink will help.”
“The chocolate is too hot.”
“How about brandy?” He lifted a glass she had not noticed was in his hand.
Octavius had disapproved of ladies who drank spirits. She accepted the glass and sipped. A taste like summer’s heat burned her throat. Berries—cherry, currant, raspberry, and a hint of spice—all things opposite the dark, wild wind beyond the window. She warmed from the inside out.
“Delicious,” she said.
He joined her on the bed. She swallowed another sip and what was left of her pride.
“What next?” If her breath came any faster, tears might follow.
He tilted his head. “We haven’t discussed protections.”
“Protections?”
“I have a wrapper. I left it in the adjoining room.”
She frowned.
