Page 69 of A Highly Unlikely Duchess
She moved to the table and leaned against it, arms folded, beside him. They were both facing the fireplace, the low warm light of it, side by side with the table behind them, close enough that she could have reached out and touched his arm without fully extending hers.
“I heard your father was a strict man,” she began, her voice steadying as she went. “That you were raised under a very rigid thumb. I’ve been wondering... how does someone raised in such a cold, disciplined house turn out to be someone who tells jokesso easily? Who is the liveliest person in the ballroom? By all accounts, you should be uptight and quiet... peaceful, perhaps, but very cool. You are the opposite of all those things.”
Theodore let out a sudden, genuine laugh that echoed through the stacks. “I am not entirely sure if I should take that as a compliment or an observation of my lack of decorum.”
He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on a distant shadow, before he turned back to her. The humor faded, and he crossed both arms too. “It is... personal. But I suppose we have passed the point of keeping such secrets.”
“I would hope so,” she said quietly.
He sighed, his fingers tracing a phantom pattern on the wood of the table. “A long time ago, I looked at the man my father had become, a bitter, isolated man, feared by everyone who should have loved him. I made a vow to myself then that I would not be him. I would not turn out to be a man who sucked the air out of every room he entered. It is a rebellion, Emily, if you want to call it that. I spent years learning how to be exactly who he told me I could never be.”
He glanced at her. “Then at some point, it stopped being a deliberate effort,” he said. “It simply became who I was. Or who I chose to be. I am not entirely sure there is a difference.”
“But why?” she asked, lowering her head so she could get a better look at his face. “Why? Was your father very unkind to you? What happened to him? What made him who he was?”
“I don't know,” he answered quietly. “He had always been like that. For as long as I can remember, he was simply that man. Cold and exacting and certain that the world owed him a particular standard of conduct from everyone in it, including his own son.” He paused. “I used to think there must have been a version of him before. Some earlier version, before whatever happened to him happened, that was different. That was the man my mother had married.” He was quiet for a moment. “I could never find any evidence of that man. Not in this house. Not in anything he left behind.”
Emily looked at him. “Your mother?” she said softly.
Theodore smiled faintly. “My mother… she was the only light in this place. She used to play the pianoforte until my father told her it was a frivolous distraction. She used to laugh until he told her it was unseemly for a Duchess. One morning, I woke up, and the music was gone. She had simply fled. When I was a boy. I still don’t understand why she left me behind.”
Emily felt a sharp pang of sympathy, her heart aching for the young boy left behind in this cold, silent house. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“I do not blame her,” he said and shook his head. “I have never blamed her. The only person to blame is my father. My mother was someone who needed warmth, and she was living with a man who had none to give, and one day she simply could not stay in it any longer.” He looked at the fire. “It’s only logical that she did not stay.”
“Did you see her again?” Emily said.
“No,” he answered simply, the finality in his voice carrying a hollow ache that seemed to echo through the stacks of books.
“Do you ever wonder where she is?” Emily said. “What she is doing? Would you ever want to see her again, if you could?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “I hope she found peace. Wherever she went. Whatever she made of the life after.” He looked at the fire. “I am not sure she would be proud of me if she saw me now. I am not sure I have turned out to be the kind of person that makes a mother proud.”
Emily turned to look at him.
She moved before she had decided to move. Her hand came up, and she touched his face, her fingers directly on his cheek, turning him gently toward her, so she could look him in the eye.
“Theodore, don't say that,” she insisted, her voice soft but fierce. “You turned out to be a fine man. A man who took in a woman in distress so that she would not be ruined, and a child who had no claim on you. People do not do those things by accident, Theodore. You are not your father. You are not even close to your father. You are a fine man.”
A heavy silence descended upon them that made the candlelight seem to pulse. Theodore didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, placing his hand over hers where it rested against his cheek.He squeezed her fingers, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles as he peered into her eyes with so much intensity, it stripped away every bit of her resolve.
Emily felt the last of her caution slipping away. She had spent weeks analyzing their partnership, building walls of logic, but in that moment, those walls were crumbling. She wanted him. She wanted to know the taste of the unspoken words between them. Her hand moved almost of its own accord, her fingers stroking the line of his cheekbone, tracing the tension in his jaw.
Theodore let out a low, shaky breath and leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering shut as he guided her hand with his own.
She had not expected his skin to be so soft. As she traced the curve of his cheek, Theodore didn't just allow the touch; he surrendered to it, tilting his head and leaning his weight into her palm with a low, primal sort of gravity. He moved with slow deliberateness, guiding her hand by the tilt of his face to ensure no inch of his skin was left without the comfort of her contact. The shift in him was visceral; the sharp rhythm of his breathing faltered before smoothing out into a deep, jagged harmony that mirrored her own. Each time he exhaled against her wrist, a frantic, electric tingle spiraled through her stomach, leaving her dizzy with the realization of how desperately he seemed to crave the very thing she was so afraid to give.
Slowly, Emily began to lean in. The distance between them vanished by degrees. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in the cool air. She could see the slight tremor in his lips, the dark fan of his lashes. She was seconds away fromfinally answering the question that had haunted her for a while now.
Theodore finally opened his eyes, looking up at her through the thick shadow of his eyelashes. In such close proximity, the world narrowed down to the ring of his irises and the heat radiating between them.
Emily felt a sudden, daring spark of courage. Her finger drifted from his cheek, tracing a slow, trembling path until it grazed the center of his lower lip. It was a fleeting, feather-light caress, but for a fraction of a second, she could have sworn he pressed a lingering, silent kiss against her fingertip before she pulled it away.
Theodore let out a low, ragged groan that was half-surrender and half-demand. His other hand, which had been resting on the table, slid downward to find her lap. He squeezed her thigh gently through the shimmering silk. They were both leaning in now, the final fraction of an inch dissolving into nothing, their lips a hair's breadth from a collision that would change everything —
“Your Grace, are you still in here?”
The library doors burst open, the heavy oak thudding against the stone stops, shattering the silence. “Frederick has been asking for you. He had a nightmare about a giant frog, and I have tried —”
