My grandmother.
Another fragment of a life that belonged to someone he could not remember. The realization was irritating in a way he could not easily dismiss. A man ought to know his own blood.
“She will notice, Alexander,” Diana continued, urgency tightening her voice. “She has known you since infancy. She will hear the hollow ring in your voice when you speak of things you do not recall.”
He watched her closely as she spoke. The tension in her posture was unmistakable. This clearly mattered to her more than convenience or the gossip of the ton.
“She will notice only what we allow her to see,” he said at last, his tone calm despite the irritation flickering.
“She is not a stranger at a ball! She is your family.”
An entire history bound up in a single word, and not a trace of it remained in his memory.
Alexander met Diana’s gaze again, measuring her agitation, the rapid calculation beneath it.
Interesting.
For a woman he had apparently abandoned, she seemed remarkably determined to shield him from humiliation.
For a brief moment, he found himself studying her differently.
She stood stubbornly at his side when she had every reason to turn away. He deserved resentment, cold politeness, distance, even. Not this sharp urgency in her voice or the quiet determination with which she positioned herself between him and the possibility of failure, as though his dignity were somehow her responsibility to guard.
Something shifted in his chest subtly, but enough for him to notice. Only then did he realize the tightness in his shoulders had eased as he held her gaze.
“And she has just informed us her health is fragile,” he replied, stepping closer, his presence grounding the room. “We will not distress her with the sordid details of my… condition. We must keep this private, Diana. Between us.”
“And when she questions you about your childhood?”
“I will answer carefully. I will follow your lead. I am capable of playing the part of myself.”
Diana studied him for a long, searching moment. The candlelight flickered in her hazel eyes, reflecting a mixture of fear and reluctant admiration. “And the Season? You intend to parade through every ballroom in London?”
“We shall attend.”
“As though nothing is wrong?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.”
“As though everything is precisely as it should be,” he said firmly.
Her composure wavered then, her lower lip catching between her teeth. He noticed. He noticed the flush on her cheeks and the way that pulse in her throat had slowed. He noticed the way her strength was fraying at the edges.
“You fear humiliation,” he said quietly, his voice softening. He held her gaze, his expression unyielding. “I do not intend to leave again, wife.”
She did not respond, but the conflict was written in the line of her throat—the guarded pride clashing with a buried, aching longing.
He stepped into her space, not touching her, but close enough that the warmth of his body brushed against her silk skirts.
“We will manage the Season,” he said evenly. “My grandmother will see exactly what she expects to see: a match of great promise. And London will see a Duke who is utterly devoted to his wife.”
Her pulse flickered visibly at the hollow of her throat. “And what will I see?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.
He did not look away. He let his gaze drop to her mouth, then back to her eyes, his intent as heavy as iron.
“You will see,” he said, his voice steady and certain, “a man who has no intention of losing you a second time.”
Diana held his gaze. For a moment, neither of them moved, and Alexander found himself waiting, curious to see how long she would endure the weight of his attention. There was defiance in the way she met him, a quiet steadiness that stirred his interest in ways he had not expected. She lasted longer than he thoughtshe would, and the realization sent a sharp, restless energy through him.
If she could match his gaze eye to eye, how else might she match him?
