Phoebe lifted and lowered one shoulder in a nonchalant gesture. She aimed to make the movement seem indifferent but feared the Duke could see right through her.
“You are free to do as you wish, Your Grace.” She sighed before adding, “If only all of us were afforded the same luxury.”
The Duke leaned closer to her. “What would you do if you were free to make your own choices, my lady?”
Suddenly, Phoebe’s mouth was dry as toast. She licked her lips and waited for words to rise in her throat, but even swallowing became difficult.
“I…” she began, but that was as far as she got.
He stepped closer to her, his face lowering to the side of hers.
Even though the door was closed firmly behind the Duke, Phoebe stiffened. She was terrified of somebody passing them by or eavesdropping on their conversation.
As Phoebe’s knees wobbled, she felt the Duke’s breath ghost over the lobe of her ear.
“Answer me truthfully,” he whispered. “Tell me what you would do if you could do anything… have anything.”
Phoebe’s breath left her shakily as she shivered.
Only, you already do torture my thoughts and my writings and my every moment, she thought, but held her tongue.
He reached out slowly and wound a lock of her hair around the length of his pinky. He twirled the tendril languidly while holding eye contact with her.
“What do you want, Lady Phoebe? What small victories do you crave?”
“I…I…”
He continued to coil the lock of hair gently around his finger. Each time it unwound itself, the Duke stepped closer to Phoebe and tried again.
“I have been wanting to touch your hair,” he breathed when her thoughts would not coalesce. “When I saw you the other night at dinner, and when I caught a glimpse of you across the balcony an hour ago, I thought how nice it would be to wind my fingers through your long locks and now…”
“Now?” Phoebe prompted. She was hanging on his every word and could not manage to produce any further sounds.
“You…your hair…the feel of it…” He rubbed the tresses between his little finger and the pad of his thumb. “They are just as soft as I imagined.”
He sighed softly, then gently tucked the errant strand behind her ear.
Without stepping back, he whispered directly into her ear. “I have thought about doing that so often, some might think I was obsessed with the notion.”
“Were you…” she replied, eager to hear him say more, “obsessed?”
The Duke tipped his chin so that his lips grazed Phoebe’s cheek. “I simply cannot get enough. I crave your touch, my lady.”
“I… but you touched me, Your Grace,” she murmured. “I did not reach for you.”
“You want to, though.” This was not a question.
The Duke ran his hand down the length of Phoebe’s arm. His soft touch started at the tip of her shoulder, which was covered by her evening gown.
When his fingers reached the puckered bits of her high, elbow length, opera gloves, he removed all but the index finger. Using one, long, unbroken stroke, the Duke sent a thrill of desire racing through Phoebe’s whole body.
When his hand finally slid away from hers, Phoebe looked up at him and searched the depths of his eyes. Her lips parted and trembled as she spoke.
“What happens next, Your Grace?”
The Duke’s laugh was scarcely even an exhale. “I will let you ponder on that when you return to your seat.”
“Your Grace?—”
