The ton will descend like vultures.
And if the wrong person discovered that the Duke could not remember his own life, the scandal alone would be catastrophic.
“Search the lower halls,” she ordered at once. “I shall check the conservatory.”
She moved before she could reconsider the urgency in her step.
Why do I care?
Because if he wandered into scandal, the ton would devour them both.Because he was still her husband, and it was her duty.Because something inside her tightened painfully at the thought of him lost again.
She ignored that last one, her focus narrowing until the house around her became a blur of mahogany and silk.
She searched the drawing rooms, the library, but found nothing but hollow silence. Then, a memory flickered: the heavy, humid scent of the glasshouse at the eastern edge of the garden. It was the only place no one would think to check.
She threw open the glass-paneled door.
The heat hit her like a physical weight, thick and damp. Sunlight poured through the curved panes overhead, turning the interior into a cathedral of gold and green. In the center of the structure, the small, tiled pool shimmered, its surface broken by a sudden, heavy splash.
Diana stepped forward, her boots clicking sharply against the damp tiles. Then, she stopped.
The Duke rose from the water in one fluid motion.
And he was entirely naked.
Diana’s lungs seized. All she could see was the water cascading in rivulets down the bronzed, hard planes of his chest, catching in the deep grooves of his muscles before tracing an agonizingly slow path over his abdomen.
Every ridge of his torso was defined with the precision of a sculptor’s chisel, tightening as he drew a slow breath. Droplets clung to the dark, wet hair at his sternum, shimmering like diamonds before sliding lower, disappearing beneath the rippling surface.
A violent, humiliating heat flared through her, starting deep in her abdomen and rushing upward until her skin felt as scorched as the air in the room. She turned sharply, her back to him, her vision blurring as she stared determinedly at a row of jagged-edged palms.
“Wha—What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice a ragged edge of itself, trembling with a mix of fury and a desire so sharp it felt like a jagged wound.
“I was swimming.” His voice was infuriatingly calm, a smooth contrast to the frantic pounding of her heart.
“You cannot simply?—”
“Cannot what?”
She heard the heavy, rhythmic shift of water behind her. The wetslapof bare feet against the damp stone tiles. The sound was far too close. He was coming toward her.
“You are a Duke,” she snapped, her eyes fixed on a cluster of ferns until the green fronds blurred. “You cannot parade about unclothed in a greenhouse like a reckless schoolboy.”
“I am in my own house,” he replied evenly. The air between them was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and the clean, stinging aroma of the pool. “And you have seen me before.”
She swallowed, her throat feeling as though it were lined with sand.
“You are my wife,” he added quietly, his voice a low vibration she felt in her very marrow. “Are you truly scandalized by the sight of your husband?”
Her pulse betrayed her, thundering against her collarbone. “I am scandalized by your lack of discretion.”
“If you are so outraged,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, “why have you not left?”
Her spine stiffened, her muscles aching with the effort to remain upright. “Because I was searching for you.”
“Because you couldn’t stay away?” he asked softly.
“For your safety,” she lied, the words brittle.
