“If you require some assistance?—”
“Are you coming?” It is a bald question, asked with the explicit purpose to elicit a reaction, but again, His Grace does not change in expression. It is enough to make a lady worry she cannot inspire anything in a man.
“Is that your wish, my lady?”
My stomach tightens and the sensation soars until it reaches my throat. “Yes,” I manage to say at last, the word a whisper I barely hear.
But His Grace seems to. Or he can sense it on my face. Either way, he approaches my end of the table and offers me his arm. I take it, in part to hide my fingers’ quivering.
“You may retire,” I hear the Duke say, but I do not turn my head to see to whom he speaks.
I find myself consumed with his nearness—the heat from his body seems to reach toward me, like tantalizing tendrils that beckon me closer. It is all I can do to ignore the siren call of his broad shoulders, his strong chest.
Lord Ashbury was my only lover. Though I am not coming to my marital bed a virgin, I am far from experienced, and the apprehension of this moment is enough to have my stomach in knots.
What if I mess up somehow? What if he finds me lacking? What if he discovers my secret?
With each step, my fear swells, but I walk on. I have little choice. I must see to this—for the sake of my child, and my family’s continued good name, no matter how urgent the disquiet in my breast grows.
“My lady.” He gallantly ushers me into my new apartments.
I cross the threshold and have hardly entered the space—indeed, though I do allow my gaze to sweep over the room, all the details go unnoticed by me. I have far more important matters on my mind when I spin around to face him.
He arches an eyebrow, his expression surprised. “Yes, my lady?”
“I… how do we… I do not…”
“Do you wish to ask me something, my dear?” His lips quirk at the corners, and his eyes shine at me with a knowing humor that makes my stomach flutter.
He wishes me to say it?That is most perplexing. Unsettling, even. Though such matters are not oft mentioned among us highborn, proper ladies, I have always been under theimpression that the gentleman wants the consummation of the marriage more than the lady. Why then does the duke wait? Why does he wish me to give voice to feelings he surely feels more than I?
Unless… perhaps his pulse does not race when I am near. Perhaps his heart does not pound twice as hard? Perhaps he does not find me pleasing to gaze upon?
I swallow past the doubt that has crept up my throat. “We must…” I draw my breath sharply and refuse to be put off by his cool nonchalance. I lift my chin, determined to say what I must. “We must consummate our union, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” His voice is a silken murmur that threatens to buckle my knees. “I am willing. All I require is for you to tell me why you wish to.”
Before I can remember a highborn lady never loses her composure, I am blinking at him, mystified. “We… we must, my lord. To… to solidify our marriage.”
“Oh.” His countenance displays confusion. “Is that why?”
“O-of course.” I cringe inwardly, hating how my voice has betrayed my confusion.
“Truly?” He steps toward me, his face the picture of delight—delight, I can tell plainly, at causing me distress.
I back away hastily. “Yes. Of course. This is how it is done.”
He lifts his brow higher and offers a haughty, amused chuckle, and I hate him for it.
I hate my body even more, for the sound caresses my ear, and the ball of nerves in the pit of my stomach tightens to the point of anguish. With sudden clarity I see that only the duke can provide the cure.
“Are… Do you wish to delay?”
“No, my lady.”
His words are soft, as sweet as honeycomb, yet they do nothing to comfort, to soothe.
“I only wish you to tell me what you want, and precisely why you want it.”
