Page 51 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
“I am expressing considered disapproval. There is a distinction.”
“I disapprove,” he said.
“You bring it out of me,” she blurted, before she had quite decided to. “You simply have a terrible, great talent for bringing the frown out of me. It is astonishing how easily it appears the moment you enter a room, or when you talk to me. It is quite a feat, truly.”
“Oh? Well then, I suppose I should be immensely proud,” he countered, his grin widening in the flickering candlelight.
Emily rolled her eyes, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to give way to the spark of the argument. “There is absolutely nothing to be proud of in making a lady look as though she has swallowed a lemon, Your Grace.”
“Of course there is,” he insisted, taking a half-step closer until the heat from him brushed against the silk of her dressing gown. “Think of the exclusivity of it. If I am the only one who can provoke such a magnificent expression from you, then I must take that as a win. It is a reaction reserved solely for me. I should have it painted and hung in the gallery.”
She looked up at him, ready to snap back with something biting, but the words died in her throat. This was the Theodore she knew, the one who knew exactly how to get on her nerves and pull her out of her own head. In a sudden, crazy thought that she would never admit aloud, she realized she had missed this. She had missed the friction of his words and the way he fought herwith wit. It was far better than the cold, polite silence they had endured for the past five days.
“You are impossible,” she whispered, though her voice lacked any real sting.
“And you,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. “...are far too easy to provoke, Emily.”
The playful look in his eyes lingered, and for a moment, the heaviness of the house seemed to vanish. But as quickly as the spark had ignited, the reality of their situation rushed back in. She looked at him, her expression softening.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice dropping to a low. “Perhaps... we truly do need to talk. About our... arrangement. Everything has happened with such speed, and we have yet to discuss our expectations. Or how we are to live within these walls together.”
Theodore groaned. “Emily...”
“Your Grace, it is paramount —”
“Theodore,” he corrected instantly. He took yet another step towards her, invading her personal space until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “We are married now, Emily. You can call me by my name, especially in moments like this.”
Emily felt the heat rise to her cheeks, her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. “Moments like this?” she breathed, the question barely a whisper.
Theodore didn’t answer with words. His gaze dropped back to her mouth, and the look in his eyes was replaced by a dark, simmering intensity. He shifted closer, his hand twitching as if he meant to reach for her again. The world narrowed down to the scent of cedar and the sound of their shallow breathing. She could swear he was leaning in, that the distance between them was about to vanish.
Then, the rhythmic creak of a floorboard broke the silence. The heavy and hurried footsteps of a maid ascended the lower flight of stairs.
The spell shattered. Emily scrambled back, putting a frantic few inches of cold air between them. Theodore straightened himself, his face snapping back and the smirk returning to his lips, though his eyes remained dark.
She waited for him to walk up the remaining stairs, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Only once he had reached the landing did she turn toward the girl approaching with the tray.
“There you are,” Emily said, her voice sharper than intended as she smoothed her dressing gown. “What took you so long? I have been waiting for the milk for nearly a quarter of an hour.”
“My apologies, Your Grace, I had an issue with the stove —”
“Never mind. Just bring it,” Emily interrupted, already turning away. She didn't look back at Theodore as she led the maid toward the nursery, the warmth of the hallway suddenly feeling very cold.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You should get some sleep, Your Grace. You have not left this study in two days,” the butler, Harrison, said.
Theodore didn’t look up from the ledger, though the ink on the page had long since blurred into a charcoal haze. The candles on his desk had burned down to stubs, weeping wax onto the mahogany surface. He leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his weight, and finally rubbed his eyes.
“There is much to be done, Harrison,” Theodore replied, his voice raspy from disuse. “I am aware of how long I have been in my study. I was present for both days.”
Harrison, who had been Theodore's butler for over twenty years and had therefore developed a considerable tolerance for this particular brand of response, clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
Theodore turned a page.
“You are going to say something else?” Theodore asked.
“I was simply waiting to see if Your Grace required anything further before I closed up for the night.”
