“I offer you freedom.”
Diana hated him in that moment. She hated his strength, his scent, and the way her body—despite the shame, despite the rejection—ached to lean into the very man who was discarding her.
Hated that beneath the humiliation and the shock, there remained a steady, unmistakable thread of desire.
“You presume,” she said more quietly now, “that I would seek another man.”
Alexander dragged a hand slowly through his sandy blond hair, disturbing its careful order before letting his arm fall again. “I presume nothing.”
“You gave me permission.”
His green eyes held hers with unsettling steadiness beneath the shadow of his beard.
“I gave you freedom,” he declared, his broad shoulders shifting slightly beneath his dark coat, the movement utterly controlled.
That is worse.
Her heart pounded. She felt suddenly reckless, suddenly unwilling to be dismissed like a parcel delivered.
Silence settled between them, heavy and charged.
For a brief, dangerous moment, she imagined rising onto her toes and pressing her mouth to his, if only to see whether he would remain composed then. She imagined his restraint breaking, his hand sliding from her wrist to her waist, his mouth no longer indifferent but claiming.
The thought made her breath hitch.
He noticed, and his eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, before returning to her face with their cold assessment.
“I will ensure,” he said evenly, stepping back, “that we need not inconvenience one another from this moment forward.”
He turned then and walked toward the door with a composed stride.
Diana remained where she stood, every nerve alive with humiliation, anger, and the unbidden, persistent awareness of the warmth his hand had left on her skin. The door opened, and cool air spilled into the hall.
Without turning, he said, “The steward has instructions regarding your allowance.”
And then he stepped outside, and the door closed. The echo reverberated through the silent house.
Diana remained standing in the entrance hall of her husband’s townhouse, still in her wedding gown, still wearing his ring, her wrist tingling where he had held her, her heart pounding with a confusion so sharp it bordered on disbelief.
What kind of man walks away from his bride before the marriage has even begun?
And why, despite everything, did the memory of his hand around her wrist burn hotter than the insult?
CHAPTER 2
ONE YEAR LATER
“Do stop staring at the gate, Diana, or I shall begin to think you expect the duke to materialize in a cloud of tragic devotion.” Emma’s voice was light, teasing, and entirely too perceptive.
Diana lifted her gaze at once and forced a smile, though her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. Gathering her oldest friends—and their husbands—had been an easy way to spend her allowance, and an even easier way to make the house feel less empty.
“If I were expecting tragic devotion, I should have chosen a different husband, my friend.”
Benjamin laughed softly at that, the sound low and warm in the cool, evening air. “Careful,” he said, leaning back in his chair beneath the lantern-lit trellis. “You are a Duchess. Cynicism does not become such an elevated rank.”
“On the contrary,” Diana replied, lifting her chin slightly, “it may be the only thing that does.”
The gardens of Rosewood House glowed beneath the late summer sky. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron hooks along the gravel path, their light pooling golden against blooming white roses. A long table had been arranged on the lawn after dinner, silver trays abandoned in favor of crystal glasses and half-finished decanters.
