The girl took a step back to make room for Madeline, gesturing her forward with a solemn little nod.
Madeline shook her head and moved forward. “Very reassuring.”
She stepped past the corner and collided with a solid, unyielding warmth, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.
Large, strong and unmistakably male hands closed around her arms in an instant, steadying her before the momentum could carry her backward.
The Duke.
Her fingers curled reflexively into the fabric of his coat. Heat radiated through it, startling in the cold air. Madeline looked up instinctively and found herself staring into the Duke’s ice-blue eyes.
They were far closer than propriety allowed. Close enough that she saw faint flecks of silver near the pupils. Also, she could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest against hers and her heart forgot its rhythm entirely. The cold around them vanished beneath the sudden rush of heat in her veins.
His grip tightened slightly, not in force but in instinct, as though his body recognized the need to save her from toppling before his mind had fully registered it. His fingers were warm against her sleeves, his thumbs brushing lightly over the fabric where her pulse beat wild and frantic.
Her breath hitched and his eyes flickered downward to her lips before lifting again, sharper now, colder, as if he had caught himself in a trespass. The air between them thinned to a single, trembling thread. Her breath vanished as though the cold had swept it from her lungs.
His expression broke open with shock. Then fury. Then something far darker, far more piercing, as he took in her grass-stained skirts, her tangled hair, the smear of dirt on her cheek, and the flush of laughter still warming her skin.
He looked as though he could not quite decide whether to scold her or insist she provide answers immediately.
Behind her, Tessa let out a tiny, panicked squeak.
“Papa—” Her voice dwindled as she lifted her chin and saw the unmistakable fury gathering in her father’s expression.
Without another word, without even a backward glance, Tessa spun on her heel and bolted down the corridor. Her footsteps pattered loudly across the stone floor until they vanished into silence.
The hall fell still around them, heavy and breathless.
The Duke’s grip remained firm on Madeline’s arms, his fingers warm even through the thick fabric. The scent of winter clung to him, cold and brisk, but beneath it was something warmer,something faintly spiced and undeniably masculine. Madeline’s pulse skittered violently.
His voice, when it came, was dangerously low. “What,” he said, leaning closer, “happened to you?”
Madeline swallowed. “I was taking a walk.”
“A walk,” he repeated, eyes sweeping her voluptuous figure in a slow, controlled descent that made heat coil low in her belly. “From the looks of you, it seems as though you might have done more than merely stroll through the gardens.” He arched an eyebrow at her, silently prompting Madeline to explain.
She stiffened. “I fell.”
“Yes,” he said. “I gathered.”
“Your daughter helped me up, Your Grace.”
His jaw tensed with an emotion she could not name. Anger? Fear? Something else entirely?
“You are filthy,” he murmured.
“I shall clean up, Your Grace.”
He stepped closer, so close she felt his breath warm the shell of her ear. His fingers slid from her arms but hovered inches from her curvaceous waist, as though tempted.
He lowered his voice and whispered each word crisply. “You should.”
Her heart trembled violently. For a moment, neither of them moved. Snow melted in the folds of her cloak, trickling cold down her back, but his nearness burned through every rational thought she had.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, unsure if she meant to warn him or herself.
His eyes dropped to her mouth and for one electric, treacherous heartbeat, she felt the air shift and the tension snap taut between them.
