“What I said… I…” I cannot help but cringe to recall my words, and shame washes over me anew. “Itwasbeneath me, just as you said, but… more than that, it was not warranted. It… it wasIwho was cruel, Your Grace. I do not suppose you might be willing to forgive me, in time?”
My husband closes the distance between us and shocks me further by kneeling in front of the chair. “Look at me, Freya.”
It is the first time I have heard him say my name. The shock of it jolts through me and I know it is surely all over my features, but I cannot help it. When I meet his gaze, I find no rebuke there, only that of steadfast devotion.
It steals my breath in a way that no glance, no smile, no word ever has. For the first time, I see what Princess Amelia and her friend Belinda spoke of. It is so obvious, so undeniable, that I cannot fathom how he managed to conceal it from me until this very moment. Or have I merely been blind?
His Grace’s face, apart from his eyes that radiate affection, is impossible to read. “Do you mean it? Truly?”
I feel my lip tremble as I nod in haste. “Yes, my lord,” I whisper.
“Then why did you say such a thing, my dear?”
My eyes prickle with sorrow, and I attempt to duck my head lest he see, but he is quicker than I and catches my chin, holding it in gentle, yet unyielding fingers. My escape thwarted, I am forced to maintain eye contact, and when I close my eyes, I feel the first tear escape.
“Freya, I bade you to look at me.” His voice equal measures husky and stern.
With great effort—and clenching the arms of the chair that holds me captive—I pry open my eyes. More tears fall, and I cannot clear them without releasing the anchor of the chair arms. I fear I will not be able to hold myself together if I do.
“There, that is a sweet girl.”
My throat is seized anew by pressure at his undeserved praise. I force myself to speak past it, as I know I must. “I would say something more, if you might be so kind as to hear it, Your Grace?” I am quivering from the top of my head to the smallest of my toes. I am wrapped in such a tangle of emotions, I scarcely know them all. There is shame, sadness, and apprehension.
But the duke, sensing each one, or perhaps none at all, merely nods. “Of course, my dear.”
Relief at his quick agreement is swiftly replaced by the sharp shards of my pride that prick me. They make breathing most difficult indeed, but that too I endure, intent on ending this game. I see now that the longer it goes on, the less chance either of us has of emerging with true victory.
“I… I confess it.” My throat constricts, but I breathe through the pain and swallow over the surge of denial that surges to my lips. It would not serve me to set it free—and it would bedishonest besides. “I… do long for you, my lord. To… to feel you…”
My lips continue to move, but once I realize words have forsaken me entirely, I press them together tightly, hoping my offering, meager as it is, will suffice to end this perilous contest.
The duke removes my right hand from the chair’s arm it clenches, bows his head over it, and presses a kiss there. Then he turns my hand over in his and presses another kiss upon my palm.
The sensation causes a shiver to seize me, and when he meets my gaze, he must see it in my face.
“I… thank you, my lady. I thank you for… I cannot say how much it means to me.”
His voice is as choked with emotion as my own is, and though the confession tastes as bitter as I feared, my relief at having the truth out at last is so profound, I find it well worth it. The duke rises from the kneeling position he has kept all the while. He offers me his hand, and I hesitate only a moment before putting mine in his.
He helps me to my feet, but when he catches my eye once more, his countenance is solemn once more. “I only wish we could now attend to more enjoyable matters.”
My brow furrows as I try to discern his meaning. “My… my lord?”
“Ah, how sweetly you speak now, my dear. I fear it is my job to ensure you always remember to do so, even when the two of us are alone.”
My pulse begins to hasten. “I… I fear I do not understand.”
He holds out a hand, and I realize that this entire time he has held an object clenched in his fist. He turns it over and splays his fingers to display the clothespin resting upon his palm.
I am puzzled, and yet I shrink back, as though my body knows something my mind fails to comprehend. “Forgive me, I still do not know what you wish me to do.”
“Ah, that is quickly remedied, my lady. For all I require is that you open your mouth and show me your tongue.”
My brow furrows as I ponder his words. “I do not?—”
The duke puts a gloved finger to my lips. “Allow me to explain, my lady, for I am certain we both wish this unpleasantness dealt with quickly.”
The way he saysunpleasantnessanddealt withcause my stomach to lurch. I watch him, my eyes apprehensive as I wait to see what he will say.
