And painfully endearing.
By dinner, Hera’d had enough. Citing the need to write the duchess, she retreated, first to her room, and then, once the letter had been written, through the secret panel.
After last night, the armory shouldn’t have felt strange. Yet, it did. Without the distraction of windows—never mind the duke—the walls became the only focus. Besides being adorned with various gruesome implements of death, a pattern repeated every fifth stone.
His family seal, she realized.
Lions, of course.
Between the weapons, shields and chainmail, and the proof of patriarchal power etched into stone, any woman would have felt out of place in this room, herself especially.
Though her father had been a country squire, she’d no notion of her mother’s family, and she doubted either had a recorded history as long as the duke’s. She was a woman out of place. And, in this room, out of time as well.
Then again, wasn’t that what midnight was for?
A time of transformation? A time to become someone else. A time of magic.
She would pretend she belonged, that she was the kind of woman who took the attentions of a duke as her due. She held her chin at just a certain angle and put a lofty look in her eye.
“Mrs. Montrose.”
How long had he been standing there? She eyed him rather sheepishly. “Your Grace.”
“You’re early.” He strode inside the room. “I will assume you are as eager as I am.”
She gazed up into his twinkling eyes and hadn’t the heart to scold him. For the first time since they’d met, he seemed genuinely happy. Could she really be the cause of this transformation?
He held out his arms.
She did not hesitate, but rather melted into his embrace. Linking her arms around his waist, she rested against his chest. His brocaded dressing gown was soft against her cheek.
“Were I to miss the witching hour,” she replied, “the transformation would be incomplete.”
Together, they listened to the final reverberation of the clock striking twelve.
He whispered against her hair, “Are you transformed?”
A shiver ran down her body. “Yes.” Boldly, she lifted her face and then reached up to cup his neck. “Within these walls, I am a woman who takes what she wants.”
His impossibly big hands rested heavy on her hips. Rather than let the feeling overwhelm her, she snaked her other hand around his neck and brought his head down toward her own.
The touch of his lips was like a wizard’s wand, sending a glittering warmth and an expanding sense of belonging and ease rushing downward through her body. Being held by him just so felt right. How effortless confidence was when so securely sheltered.
“I have been thinking about this all day,” he said.
“I gathered as much.”
“Am I to receive another scold?”
“Mmmm.” She pressed his cheek to hers. “One was enough. Right now, I’d rather you describe what has been on your mind.”
His mouth quirked—a funny feeling against her skin.
“You. In that bed.”
“What? So pithy? Surely you can do better.”
“Why waste time on words, when I have the real thing?” He took hold of her hand, and then turned in the direction of the canopied monstrosity.
