Her fingers brushed the brass handle. It was cold, but her palm was a furnace. She took one shallow, jagged breath, curled her hand around the metal, and turned it.
She pushed the door open.
The sitting room between them was dim, lit by only one lamp left burning on a small table. She passed through it quickly, because if she stopped there, she might lose her nerve. The second door stood half-closed.
She raised her hand and knocked once.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the Duke’s voice came from within, low and rough. “Enter.”
Emmeline pushed the door open.
He turned from the window at once and the sight of him struck her so hard that she forgot the words she had prepared.
The Duke stood near the fire in a white linen shirt, exposing a small portion of bronzed skin and the strong column of his neck. His dark hair was slightly disordered, as though he had dragged a hand through it more than once. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face and cast shadows beneath his cheekbones.
His gaze moved over her.
Slowly, his eyes traveled from her unbound hair down to the thin, white silk stretched over her breasts. He tracked the slow rise and fall of her breath, then followed the line of her waist and the curve of her hips all the way to her bare toes against the rug.
By the time his eyes climbed back to hers, she could hardly breathe.
She felt stripped. Exposed. A frantic, liquid heat pooled low in her belly, heavy enough to make her knees feel weak. No one had ever looked at her this way.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.
Emmeline had known this might be difficult. She had known she might tremble, might blush, might feel foolish standing before him in nothing but a nightgown. But she had not prepared herself for the bluntness of that question.
Still, she lifted her chin. “It is our wedding night.”
He did not move.
The silence after her answer seemed to thicken, pressing against her bare arms and throat.
“I am aware,” he said at last.
“Then you know why I am here.”
His mouth tightened. “You should return to your room.”
The rejection landed before the meaning fully formed. It struck deep, beneath pride, beneath reason. Heat flooded her face. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her nightgown, but she refused to look away.
“My room?” she repeated. “You informed me that my chambers adjoined yours.”
“They do.”
“And yet you are surprised I used the door?”
“I did not place you there for this.”
She swallowed, and the movement hurt.
“No,” she said softly. “Of course not. How foolish of me to imagine a husband might mean something by placing his wife within reach.”
His eyes flashed. “Do not twist my meaning.”
“I am trying to find your meaning, Your Grace. It appears determined to hide behind every cold sentence you offer me.”
