It was humiliating. It was shameful. And the memory of my mortification always manifests in my cheeks, and the heat spreads to fill every inch of me until it is a real, pulsing thing in the pit of my stomach.
“Do you think he shall be a good father?” I whisper, the words so soft I am not sure my lady’s maid heard them. My worst fear spoken aloud for the first time.
Kate sets down the powder and the puff and meets my gaze. “I do not know much of the new duke, my lady,” she admits in a tone that makes it plain she has been making inquiries. “But I know he is quite besotted with you. I think he will be most inclined to be a good father.”
I wish with all my heart to believe her, to have a measure of her steady assurance, but my own faith falters. Whenever my thoughts turn to the duke, my mind’s eye recalls looking at the rug in the sitting room, and the sound of his hand smacking my bare seat. I wince to recall it.
“Now, let us have a look.” Kate grasps my hand and tugs me to the looking glass. “Hmm. I did not use that much rouge.”
Her frown is reflected in the glass—and my own cheeks, reddened by thoughts of myself held prisoner over the duke’s lap. I turn away and busy myself with pulling on my gloves before she can realize I am flushed with something more than the rouge she applied to my cheeks.
Before either of us can say one word more, a sharp rap sounds on the door. “Lady Freya! It is nearly time. Do make haste.”
My eyes leap to Kate’s face, and her gaze shines with emotion that is both eager and wistful. I feel only the latter. I pivot to take in my bedchamber, the room that I will surely never see in the same way again: my bed—a four-poster draped with lightblue muslin fabric that I have slept in every night since I was a child. The muted cream-and-gold gilded wallpaper. The simple wooden nightstand with the frosted glass oil lamp. The ornate rug with its flowered pattern. I lay upon the latter more times than I can recall, a book in my hand, trying to hide and avoid some societal duty my parents would thrust upon me while I allowed its safe, plush comfort to transport me to another time and place.
“My lady!”
I am jarred from my memories and sweep my gaze across the room one last time, trying to burn the image into my mind, before turning to face the door. I draw a deep breath, and release it slowly then I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and walk through the doorway—into a future unknown.
Duke Gregor
The moment the Lady Freya enters, it seems the room collectively holds its breath. Only her parents and the Crown Prince are present. A rumor has done the rounds that he has another wager going concerning whether the lady will indeed wed me, and as I have not expected his presence today, I am compelled to believe it true.
Even the Prince seems struck by her beauty.
But no man is more so than I. She is the embodiment of temptation in a blue gown and moves toward me, her gaze flitting around the room, without finding anywhere to settle.
I am not troubled by her lack of eye contact. It gives me as much time as I would like to drink in the stunning sight of her. Her dark hair is pulled atop her head, a loose tendril on each sideto frame her lovely face, and her waist is tiny, while the swell of her breasts is most attractive.
I am so close to having the object of my desire—my chest tightens as she draws closer still, mere inches away.
The minister begins, but I can scarcely hear him. I study her face, indulging in the perfect lines of her flawless complexion. Her lips are full and invite the mind to consider what a kiss will taste like.
As though she feels the heat of my scrutiny, she turns ever so slightly toward me.
Her green eyes find mine, and she immediately turns away, resolutely facing the minister. She can hide her gaze from me, but not the pink hue that suffuses her lovely cheeks.
My shaft stirs, imprisoned by my trousers. The air changes, and I can feel it—her body imperceptibly pulling away from me, fighting her urge to lean closer. It would be an impossible task not to be pleased.
“Your Grace?”
I startle at the sound of my title—evidently, I am still growing accustomed to it.
“Your Grace, wilt thou have this woman as thy wedded wife to live together in the holy estate of matrimony?”
My attention drifts back to the lady in question. She still does not look at me, even while the minister rattles off all the expectations I shall have as her husband. But she is slowly losing the battle. Her hands hang by her sides, but one has been inching ever nearer and her pinkie nearly brushes my trousers.
“And, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
There is a beat of silence, and the air, thick with tension, swells around us. I answer without hesitation, “I will.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” He turns to address the Lady Freya. “Wilt thou have this man…”
My heart is hammering, my pulse picking up speed, and my palms are moist. I cannot understand it. I know I have nothing to fear. The lady has been brought up properly; she will not refuse me. I know by the faint stain of her flushed cheeks, by the subtle way she leans into me despite battling her own desire, that she does notwishto refuse me. Why then do I feel such apprehension?
My eyes caress her face and I can feel the shift of her movements, though they are imperceptible to all but myself. I will her to look at me, but this, too, she fights. Her breathing is rapid, and the swell of her breasts rises and falls in quick succession while a faint pulse beats at the hollow of her neck.
I will do my best to be a decent husband. I shall make sure she knows she will be well taken care of, even once my passion for her has subsided.
