God. What was he doing?
Wasthatwhat she was asking? Or had he imagined it?
“Themarriage… could be as real or as artificial as you desire it, while it lasts,” he rasped against his better judgment.
A light flush bloomed over her cheeks. She was not as naïve as she pretended to be—knew at least what areal marriageentailed. Pressure built low in his body as he watched her curious discomfort spread, the skin above the neckline of her dress growing pink.
Her fingers dug deeper into his arm as she pulled him closer. Or perhaps it washewho had moved against her.
They stood so close, he could see the desperate rise and fall of her chest.
He had never seen anything as strong as it was fragile until he met her, and his own strength, the tattered remains of his honor, threatened to crumble into dust.
“While it lasts…” she repeated back to him, adding nothing that would bring him relief.
Nicholas, foolishly, driven by compulsions he had tried hard to bury, leaned down slightly, eyes trained on her expectant mouth…
Just as a knock rapped on the door, and he quickly stepped away.
Her uncle—whom he did not know whether to curse or bless—entered without asking permission. Nicholas heard Miss Tate hurry to the hearth, putting an unsuspicious amount of distance between them.
“Your Grace,” Baron Spencer began. “Have you received an answer?”
Nicholas nodded, not daring to look back at Miss Tate…
Fearing what he might do if he did.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TWO WEEKS LATER
“Your Grace, I understand that the day is drawing to a close, and most assuredly you will desire a hasty return home… But could we not tempt you to dine with us tonight? I know it should please Amelia greatly to have your company this evening. The house is never so happy as when you are here.”
Amelia almost choked on her water, carefully setting down her glass on Uncle Benjamin’s desk. She glanced up at the Duke, who leaned over the desk with a quill in hand, primed to sign the final draft of their marriage contract.
He smiled tepidly without providing Aunt Beatrice an answer, hastily scribbling his name on the document under candlelight. Beatrice lingered awkwardly by the door, and when Amelia saw her attempt to speak again, she shook her head to stop her.
“Beatrice, really,” Benjamin chided from his seat by the fire. “The solicitors have only just departed. He will not want to remain.”
“I was only asking. And you are more imposing than I, speaking for His Grace like that,” Beatrice protested. “The wedding is on the morrow.”
“A fact which has eluded none of us,” Benjamin riposted.
Her uncle looked weary. There had been talk of little else but the wedding in the last two weeks, and Uncle Benjamin had barely been home in that time. He had only just returned from London, where he had gone to collect their special license from the archbishop.
“To dine with you? No, I have another engagement tonight,” the Duke replied absently, putting the quill back in its holder. “But I would not refuse a drink—should Baron Spencer prove amenable to such a request.”
Beatrice’s face lit up in delight. “Certainly, he would!Anythingfor you. I shall organize the drawing room for you gentlemen at once.” She waited a moment, staring viciously at her husband. “Husband, if you would help me?”
Sighing, Benjamin rose from his seat and cast a sardonic look Amelia’s way. Left alone with the Duke, she reached nervously for her glass again.
“You could have refused, Your Grace,” she said, hearing him settle in Uncle Benjamin’s chair. “My aunt asks too much of you.”
“It is the least I can do, given how serviceable your uncle has been to us in recent times.”
“Serviceable?” Amelia laughed. “He shall not like that one bit, Your Grace.”
“Did I not tell you to call me Nicholas the last time I was here?”
