For a stretch of time, I find my gaze locked on that tiny, fluttering show of nerves. I yearn to place my lips to it—to kiss,to suckle, perhaps to even capture it with my teeth. But all of this must wait.
“Father—no!” Lady Freya finds her voice, her expression twisting most disagreeably.
“You have earned that and more, I shall wager.” He bows, turns for the doorway, and stops before reaching it. Over his shoulder he tosses back, “You will, of course, protect…”
I suspect he was about to sayher virtueand finds himself unsure of how to proceed, in light of the recent revelation. “I intend to be a good husband to your daughter, my lord. No harm shall befall her under my care, I assure you—save that of a sore backside when she is deserving.”
His lordship nods his assent just before he departs. I find myself pleasantly surprised to realize I like the man.
But it is his daughter I must attend to now, and my gaze sharpens on her—my attention reserved for her alone.
Her wide-eyed stare betrays her fear, but her flaring nostrils and scowl speak of defiance, too.
Heaven help me, but I find her more desirable than ever before.
Lady Freya
Never in all my life has such a tumult of emotion washed over me while I stand cornered by the duke. I stab at him angrily with my gaze while I fight the desire to run—or to stamp his foot. I have never been given to such horrid displays of temper, and I have no idea why I feel compelled to throw things at him.
Though it is a pity none managed to strike the target.
He thinks more highly of himself than he ought. The notion that he has proposed to… tosmackme as some form ofchastisement merely proves he is not genteel, and far from gentlemanly. The shock of his suggestion has worn off quickly, for in all honestly, what can one expect from a bastard of low birth?
When my father agreed to his uncouth proposal, I was struck to my very core. The shock is still coming, with the twist of his full, arrogant lips. With the way his eyes dance at me—haughty, self-assured. It reminds me all too much of his demeanor at the ball, and I want to claw at his eyes until he can never look at me like that again.
“Let me pass, sir,” I say in my coolest, most regal voice.
“Hmm, I had thought the table quite good for a smacking, actually. You could bend over it and?—”
I stamp on his foot after all, with all my strength and with great pleasure that is only marred by the fact that he does not make a single noise. His jovial, amused expression does vanish, however.
“You are playing a game you cannot hope to win, my lady.” His voice is no longer amused, either, though it has taken on a low, husky tone that makes me shiver despite myself.
I cannot fathom it. I do not have a chill—indeed, I’ve never felt more overcome with heat. Which is particularly peculiar as I do not recall noticing it when I first entered the room.
“Ladies do not play games,Your Grace,” I retort with impudence, lifting my chin and stomping his foot again for good measure.
He smiles—baring his teeth at me in a way that quite reminds me of a wolf. His eyes may no longer dance with merriment, but they are not sober, either. They seem lit from within, making him look even more the part of a dangerous predator.
“Stand aside,” I demand through gritted teeth. Somehow, me baringmyteeth does not seem to have the same unsettling effect on him.
“I shall, when I have dispensed my duty.” He reaches for my arms, and there is no hesitation or shyness on his part. Indeed, he seems to know exactly what he is doing as he spins me around.
He moves my hands to the tabletop, and stares at my fingers splayed wide against the cool marble surface. What is happening now feels akin to the kind of terror that only comes in nightmares when one is fast asleep in bed. I nearly wish it so, though the feeling of his large, broad hand on the small of my back makes me feel certain this is no dream.
His fingers press into me—not harsh, nor unseemly—but their presence cause my skin to tingle and hum despite the many layers of thick fabric barricading against his touch.
My breath catches and I feel much as I did the night at the ball, as though I may swoon. Then his hand shifts, and my skirts rustle as the layers of fabric are lifted. The marble begins to swim before my eyes.
I cannot bear it. With all my strength, I shove back against his hold and spin around.
He lifts an eyebrow—surprised, but nothing beyond that. “Yes, my lady?”
“I cannot do it,” I confess. “Please… I know I was horrid, I know I should not have… thrown things at you. Nothing actuallyhityou,” I remind him. “Even so, I am sorry.”
“Are you?” There is not a trace of laughter in his expression, only mere curiosity that forces me to examine the question.
Am I? Not particularly. Yet, I feel certain expressing that honesty will not end well. “Yes, Your Grace.”
