“How very disappointing for her.”
“The truth often is.” He took a small sip of wine, watching her over the rim. “She also mentioned a new dance from Vienna. Apparently, everyone will attempt it at the ball.”
“The one we practised?”
“No. Something… closer. Partners maintain contact throughout.”
“How scandalous.”
After dinner, they retired to the blue drawing room. She picked up her embroidery—still dreadful—while he selected a book he immediately neglected. The fire crackled; silence stretched warm and thick between them.
“You are staring again,” she said without looking up.
“I am memorising.”
“What, precisely?”
“The way you look in firelight. The way you wield that needle as if it offends you. The sound you make when the thread knots.”
“That is—”
“Invasive. Yes.”
“I was going to say romantic.”
He closed the book, his gaze steady. “Romance requires gentleness. What I feel for you is nothing of the sort.”
“Then what is it?”
“Consuming.”
Heat rippled through her. “Elias—”
“I’m going to retire,” he said abruptly, standing as if the chair had become dangerous. “Early morning tomorrow. Meetings with solicitors, estate business.”
“Of course.”
He left her alone with the fire and her racing pulse. Above, she heard him pacing in his chamber—steady footsteps matching the frantic beat of her own thoughts.
Eleven days.
And she no longer knew whether they were counting down to a beginning—or an explosion.
***
The next days fell into a pattern that was both routine and exquisitely torturous.
Mornings brought callers—curious, avid creatures eager to inspect the newly returned couple. Celine played the attentive wife to perfection, while the Duke wore his composure like armour… armour that looked thinner by the day.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accused one afternoon, after Lady Weatherby and her daughter had finally been shown out.
“Enjoying what?”
“Tormenting me.” His gaze dipped deliberately to where her gloved hand rested on the back of a chair. “The way you kept touching my arm. The way you looked at me when they askedabout the ball. The way you said ‘my husband’ as though it were an endearment.”
“Is it not?”
They were alone in his study; the air felt suddenly too close, as though the walls had inched inward.
