The Duke let out a dry, soft huff. “Hypocrite.”
Imogen paused, a stray paper in her hand. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You spent the better part of an hour telling me that the twins’ past must be heard and acknowledged,” he reminded her, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yet you guard your own history like a dragon over its hoard. I want to know more about you.”
“You… you press too much, Your Grace,” Imogen said as she cursed inwardly. He was far too observant. She looked at him closely, feeling a faint mixture of irritation and fear. “I would rather not talk about it, Your Grace. Please.”
He stepped closer, close enough that retreat would force her past him, yet he did not speak again. His gaze held hers, unwavering. Every instinct in her told her to look away, yet she could not.
“I will not force your words,” he finally said quietly. “But do not think you may hide all your thoughts from me.”
Imogen swallowed hard. She could feel the weight of his gaze, that silent insistence that she could not look away from or fully ignore.
“You do not need to hide from me, Imogen,” he added, and her pulse fluttered.
It was simply the shock of having someone watch her so intently. As if… as if he cared.
“Your Grace…” she whispered, licking her lips as she dared not look away from the most handsome man her mind could conjure.
“Ambrose,” he corrected.
Her mouth parted, and his name tumbled right out of her lips, “Ambrose.”
Heavens, it rolled off her tongue so easily.
The silence stretched, taut and vibrating. Imogen looked down at the table again, her breath hitching as she held her hands together.
“Let’s clean this up,” Ambrose moved closer, reaching out to help her gather the scattered pages on which she was working.
As his hand met hers, his fingers brushed against her skin.
Neither of them pulled away.
He did not move his hand. She noticed the roughness of his palms, despite his life of luxury. Imogen found herself wondering how he passed his free time. She looked at her own. They were dotted with callouses and the marks of a woman who had spent years scrubbing floors and tending gardens. She noticed his heat, a radiating warmth that pulled her forward as she chanced to rub her pinky along his hand. She memorized the sensation.
“Your kindness saved me from… a very dark situation,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on their joined hands. “I cannot think of how I will ever be able to repay this compassion.”
“You are the only person who has made my nephews feel safe,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “That is a gift I cannot repay. We seem to be in each other’s debt.”
A long pause followed. The world outside the room ceased to exist, replaced only by the beating of their hearts.
“We should not be standing so close,” Imogen breathed, the words more a plea than a command. She was so inexperienced in the ways of men and knew he was more than practiced in the art of seducing women.
He did not move away. Instead, his gaze held hers attentively, as if he were waiting for her to meet him halfway.
“I know,” he said simply. “And yet… I cannot step back.”
The air between them thickened. His hand, steady and reassuring, brushed hers, just enough to make her pulse race faster. Imogen’s chest tightened; every instinct urged retreat, yet her eyes did not leave him.
“Can you?” he asked, his voice breathless.
Her fingers twitched under his touch. She had to pull away, but a part of her—the part that had longed for safety, for understanding—wanted to stay, to let him see her without pretense.
“I… No,” she admitted, barely a whisper.
He gave a faint, approving smile, close enough for her to see the simmering intensity in his eyes.
“Let me taste this moment, then. Taste you,” he murmured.
