This is nothing more than a game to him! I am furious with my body for betraying me but mere minutes ago, and for judging so wrongly! “You, Your Grace, surely you guessed it. I merely want to be free of your presence.” I move toward the doorway, but he swiftly blocks my path. My surge of frustration is so strong, I have to clamp my lips together to stop my scream.
Either he does not notice my distress or does not care. Knowing him even as briefly as I have, I suspect the latter. “Do you?” His words are a soft murmur that seems to reach for and gently caress my ear. “Do you truly?”
The heat from his body radiates toward mine—it, too, reaching. It has been an unseasonably warm night, and the exertion from dancing has left me flushed and tired. But that is not the warmth I feel, and unconsciously, I lean toward it. It is not gentle, nor comforting, but the kind of heat that can sear. That canburn.
My breath quickens along with my galloping heart. I want to demand he stand aside—indeed, the words rise to my lips, but they seem to catch in my quickly tightening throat.I do not understand. What is happening to me?
He is not touching me, but his nearness consumes my entire awareness. My eyes are drawn to the chiseled lines of his now unsmiling face. His golden-brown hair is thick and curls at his nape. That I notice this when I have never noticed such a thing about a man before, rankles me in a way I fail to fully comprehend.
I barely manage to hold onto my composure, but inside, I am shaking. My knuckles prickle where he touched them, tinging with heat that threatens to singe through the silk of my gloves. If his touch could ignite such feeling through the clothing I wear…
The trembling has swept through me and come to rest between my thighs that quiver until I can hear the rustle of my petticoats. I grit my teeth to keep from acknowledging it aloud—if I must see that self-satisfied smile on his lips once more, I may slap him. Mere seconds later, I become aware of something new. My stomach flutters oddly, then seems to grow still, moments before it tightens into a ball of agony.
I let out a groan before I realize it is coming.
“My lady? Are you quite well?”
There is no time for words. The dread and disdain builds, and the pain in my stomach intensifies. I whirl, launch myself toward the balcony, and lean over it, just in time. I close my eyes and am horribly, violently sick.
I barely register his hand on my elbow—this touch meant to steady, and nothing more. Nor do I hear him calling for assistance. The world feels as though it spins beneath my feet, and I sway, again unaware as I am pulled away from the balcony.
“Oh!” I gasp as I stare into his eyes. They are dark brown, and I see flecks of gold in them as he looks at me with a furrowed brow.
That is the last thing I register before I crumple in his arms.
Chapter Three
Duke Gregor
“I do not know what transpired. She seemed quite well…”
I have given the same explanation repeatedly, dozens of times until the words cease to hold meaning. My explanation is waved away as footmen help Lady Freya from the ball while her mother and father stand by watching as she is loaded into the carriage.
Lord Pembroke is beside them, looking mildly concerned. “I shall send for the physician if you believe?—”
“She mentioned eating something that disagreed with her,” Lady Denham recalls. “Perhaps she should have stayed home, but we thought…”
Lord Pembroke nods somberly.
I gaze at the carriage as the Denham’s get inside, and there is nothing for me to do but watch as it pull away in a clatter of wheels and harness. There is nothing left for me to do but to inform the host’s steward that I too will take my leave. I return to Gilthorne Court, deep in thought.
It has been three days since the ball, and I have waited tensely for news of the engagement between Lady Freya and Lord Pembroke. I have been pacing through the rooms in mynew home, unable to turn my mind to anything else. When I first came to dwell at Gilthorne Court, the grandeur quite took my breath away. But the weight of my thoughts is such that I scarcely notice gleaming halls or sweeping staircases as I travel through the dozens of rooms now at my disposal.
“Can I be of some assistance, Your Grace?”
I shake my head at my valet, John. I have finally gotten used to his sudden, silent entrances. “There is nothing to be done for this sickness that plagues me, John.”
For all I can think of is what room would suit Freya best, or how she will look descending the staircase. Or dancing in the ballroom. Whether my eyes fall upon a rug or a rosebush, my mind cannot help but wonder whatshewill think of it.
“Perhaps a drink, Your Grace?”
I hardly hear him.News of an engagement will come—if not a betrothal to Pembroke, some other lord. I must act quickly.“Summon the carriage, John. I think it is time to see about securing a lady for Gilthorne Court.”
If my valet is shocked by my announcement, he does an admirable job of concealing it. “Very good, Your Grace. I shall see to your finest garments being prepared.”
“There is no time.” For now that I have made up my mind to act, I must do so at once, lest I lose my chance.
“I will see to it at once.”
