His brows shot up. Never in his life would he have expected her to speak so frankly with him. Most women either turned mute or babbling ninnies when they met him, but hearing her speak so plainly and frankly struck a part of him.
“You surprise me, Lady Ariadne,” he said, “You’re not the wilting wallflower I took you for earlier today. Very,veryfew people are so frank with me.”
Her eyes were transfixed on his face and, inwardly, he writhed uncomfortably under the scrutiny of her gaze.
He saw her gaze flit over his scars, and he braced himself for the moment she would turn away in disgust. It always happened, even if she could hide it behind a mask of well-bred manners.
The look of horror never came. Her gaze flicked back to his eyes, seeming to have quickly disregarded his scars as unimportant.
“You’re not running the opposite way,” he said. “Ladies usually do when they see my scars.”
“I won't say it’s not…jarring.” She admitted. “But it won't make me turn tail and run. How did you get those scars?” she asked then, “From war?”
“No.”
“But they aren’t recent,” she said.
“No.”
The silence was so thick that it was deafening to his ears. He was standing close enough that, if she raised her arm, she could touch his face.
Did he want to feel her touch? Her smooth skin on his torn face?
He stepped back.
Oddly, she looked hurt, “I am not repulsed by your face, Your Grace.”
“You will be,” he said matter-of-factly. “They always are.”
“I—”
The echoing sound of heels and chatter had him snapping to the sound moments before he was on the move, grabbing her by the arm just as her head swung towards it.
He looked around for another moment before dragging the door to a broom closet open and pulling them both inside it and quietly closing it behind them. The space was so small that the duke had to double up on himself to fit while pulling her into his chest.
I cannot afford to be caught with an unwed woman already promised to my brother. They already have assumptions about my honor; no need to give them more cause
Her chest heaved with growing panic as footsteps and voices approached. “Crumpets,” she breathed.
The closet was made for two-inch sticks and foot-wide buckets, but now there were two bodies in the tight space—and one of them had the height and bulk of a giant.
He had one hand braced on the wall and the other wrapped around her waist, his hold as fast as an iron band. Heat radiated from his hard body, and when his mouth met her ear, it felt as if she were in a furnace. His musky-citrus scent pervaded her nostrils, affecting her... strangely.
“Be still, little mouse,” he ordered.
His quiet words brushed hotly against her ear, and her nipples went turgid under her stays. It felt impossible to be still trapped in his arms—the first time she had ever been held by a man.
“For God’s sake, stop wriggling.” His commanding voice was husky. “Do you want us to be found?”
“I’m not… comfortable,” she whispered back.
The footsteps and chattering and giggling neared, but the very near danger they were in faded; everything but him faded; his heat, his bulk, his scent.
The party trod past their hiding place, the men and women none the wiser to the near scandal they had nearly put themselves in. Any lady caught being in the presence of a lord for more than ten minutes unchaperoned was instantly labelled a lightskirt.
“God’s bones, you are a lodestone for trouble.” He grumbled.
She bristled. “This is not my fault—” she hissed while reaching for the knob, desperate to get away from him, but he stopped her. By covering her hand with his.
