Diana inhaled a shallow, trembling breath, fighting the sudden, violent rush of heat that surged upward from that single point of contact. It felt as though he was claiming her through her skirts.
“If you would kindly refrain,” she whispered, her lips barely moving as she kept her gaze fixed on the teapot.
“From what?” he asked mildly. He sounded perfectly composed, the picture of a doting husband, giving Lady Salford no reason to suspect the silent war occurring beneath the table.
“From this… impropriety.”
“If I am to be a convincing husband, Duchess,” he replied, leaning in just enough that his shadow fell over her. His voice was a dark velvet rasp against her ear, his breath a faint, hot brush that made the hair on her arms stand at attention. “I must be thorough.”
Her fingers whitened around the delicate porcelain of her teacup. He did not withdraw. Instead, he leaned harder into her, the subtle friction of his wool trousers against her silk sending a slow pulse of desire through her body.
Lady Salford sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “I was scandalized, Alexander. Truly. To abandon your bride so soon after the wedding breakfast. Business can wait. A wife cannot.”
“I was a fool,” he said calmly.
Diana’s head turned sharply toward him. “A fool?” she repeated, her tone deceptively light. “How generously you summarize the matter.”
Lady Salford made a small, shocked sound.
“Grandmother,” Diana said gently, though her gaze never left Alexander’s face. “His Grace is merely being modest in his self-assessment.” There was steel beneath the civility now. “You did not consider yourself a fool then,” she added quietly to him. “You considered yourself efficient.”
The air grew heavy and hot with the scent of beeswax and the bitter dregs of tea.
Alexander held her stare with a burning focus, his emerald eyes dark and unreadable. Then, he moved. He reached for Diana’s hand, an open, deliberate claim in the full light of the morning.
His fingers enclosed hers with a slow, controlled assurance that made her heart jolt. His skin was rough, his palm a steady furnace against her cold, trembling fingers. His thumb began to move, brushing lightly, agonizingly, across her knuckles as though he were reacquainting himself with the delicate map of her skin, memorizing the hollows and the ridges he had once discarded.
Diana’s breath thinned until it was a shallow ache in her chest. She wanted to pull away, to preserve the safety of her anger, but the contact was like a live wire, both terrifying and impossible to break.
“I intend to make amends,” he said.
The words were almost a vow, delivered with a low, vibrating resonance that settled deep in her abdomen. The warmth of his palm felt almost unbearable, a searing reminder of everything she had lacked for twelve months.
“And how shall you do that?” Lady Salford asked approvingly.
He did not look away from Diana when he answered. “By ensuring she never doubts her place at my side again.”
Her throat tightened painfully. He was too convincing of an actor.
“And the Wetherby ball on Tuesday,” Lady Salford declared, clapping her hands once. “Your first proper appearance together. It must be impeccable.”
Diana inclined her head, raising a dignified hand in disagreement. “I have attended events this Season.”
“Not as a united pair,” Lady Salford corrected.
Alexander rose smoothly from his chair. “Then we must rehearse.”
Diana frowned. “Rehearse?”
“I find,” he continued lightly, “that certain steps elude me.”
“You danced perfectly before,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“It has been long,” he replied, faintly amused.
Lady Salford leaned forward eagerly. “Then practice is required! I insist.”
Diana opened her mouth to protest, but Alexander had already extended his hand toward her. His eyes held hers, and she saw the glint of a challenge there.
