“Very good. Now then—” He leans near, and the scent of his sandalwood musk beckons cloyingly. “Do you wish to confess your feelings for me?”
It takes me a few moments to win the battle against his scent, his eyes that make promises only body seems to hear. My sex clenches so strongly, I nearly swoon; only the determination of my upbringing keeps me on my feet.
“Certainly, my lord,” I purr, delighting at the way his eyes widen, ever so slightly. “I shall have my turn after you.”
His lips quirk, but only a moment later he presses them in a firm line. “I fear you have misunderstood how this will go, my lady.” He takes a step toward me, closing the scant distance between us.
This time, I hold my ground and meet his gaze without flinching.
My body yearns for his; I can no longer deny this to myself. This attraction, the invisible pull between us, is hard to resist. My body aches for nothing more than to fall into his strong, masculine arms. But Imustresist, for to say what he wants means that he will have the upper hand, for now and evermore.
I want you to kiss me.The words rise to my lips, unbidden, burbling up my throat before the thought is even complete. I press my lips together tightly, sealing them inside where they shall only harm me. I swallow them with great difficulty, for my heart is thudding painfully, and my declaration of desire does not wish to be forced back down.
“My lady.” His words are a growl of desire that calls to my own, stoking the fire between my legs, though it scarcely needs encouragement. He brings his hand up and caresses the side of my face with a gloved finger.
I lean toward him before I can stop myself, entranced by how his eyes burn into me, and the way my skin thrills at his touch.
“Is there anything you might wish to say to me, my lady?”
He seems to divine even the thoughts I dare not utter.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Pray, do speak your mind.”
His eyes are dancing merrily, and the cloying scent of his skin is nearly my undoing. My core is quivering with need. “You have my gratitude for your gift, Your Grace. Now, please do excuse me. I fear I am in need of a reprieve after all the excitement.”
Not trusting myself to say more, nor continue to stand in his presence, I take my leave.
Chapter Eight
Duke Gregor
“Ah, there you are, Your Grace!”
A hand claps upon my shoulder, and I emerge from the spell the thrum of the violins has cast on me. I turn to see the prince in his typical glittering black mask, though he should hardly have cause to need it. It is his aunt’s ball, after all, and expected that he attends.
“How are you finding married life, my friend?”
I shrug a shoulder, my gaze down on the dancers of whom I have a perfect view from my place on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. The dancers twirl in time to the music, and my wife hovers at the periphery, doing her best to appear uninterested in the performance, though from where I stand, her eyes seem to follow every step.
The Crown Prince chuckles. “Surely it cannot be as bad as all that! Not so soon, in any event!”
I tear my attention from Freya and turn to him. “It is… not as I expected.”
His Highness quirks a brow, and I have no need to see his entire face to know he is amused. “Indeed? Pray, do go on.”
My irritation flares, but I pay it no heed. He does not mean to irritate; it is merely who he is and has always been—poking and prodding me for a reaction that might bring him greater amusement. “The feelings I expressed to you regarding Her Grace…”
“They have not resolved, as you hoped?”
Facing the dance floor once again, I simply shake my head.
“Whyever not?”
“Her Grace and I cannot seem to come to an understanding.”
“Oh, ho!”
