Page 21 of A Duke to Reclaim Her
“No. I am only sure of what I cannot forgive.”
He let that hang between them, the truth of it vibrating. When he looked at her, really looked, and saw the tremor in her mouth, the desperate wish that he would simply agree and be done with it.
He obliged her. “Very well. We will see to Lizzie, run the household, and appear as man and wife to the world. Nothingmore than that.” He dipped his head, as if sealing a bargain. “You have my word. I will not touch you in that way.”
The relief on her face was immediate, but so was the sadness. It cut through his own armor, though he had not expected it to.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“But if you ever change your mind… if you find yourself aching to finally taste a pleasure that makes you forget your own name… know that my door is always open. Hunger usually wins in the end.”
Her eyes flashed, her voice a sharp blade. “I will not.”
He let a slow, devastating smirk pull at his mouth. “We shall see. Sleep well, my lady.”
The path forked before them, one arm leading back to Carden Hall, the other into the lush, green heart of the garden. Rose chose the latter, and he did not follow.
He watched the stiff, retreating line of her spine until the dark, tangled shadows of yew and holly swallowed her whole. A sharp, jagged heat flared beneath his ribs.
He tightened his jaw, the muscle ticking as he fought the sudden, irrational urge to follow her and prove just how fragile her resolve really was. His pulse thrummed a heavy, uneven rhythmagainst his collar, leaving a bitter taste of unspent adrenaline on his tongue.
He turned away; the silence of the garden suddenly too small. Yet a deep, dark part within him stirred. A part that hungered to taste Rose’s surrender.
But, given the circumstances, it was a part he’d have to silence.
CHAPTER 7
“Stop fidgeting,” Rose’s mother snapped, stabbing a hairpin into her skull as if to tack her thoughts in place.
“I’m not fidgeting,” she said, biting back indignation, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Lady Whiteridge sniffed, unimpressed, and resumed her campaign. “You will hold your head high, Rose. No slumping, no wet-eyed trembling. You are not being led to slaughter; however, your expression may suggest otherwise.”
She cast a sidelong glance at the seamstress and the maid, who pretended not to notice. Both attendants were from the Carden staff and selected for their discretion, flanking her, their arms laden with pins and muslin and whatever else was required to transform a girl into a duchess.
“We do not want to appear weak,” she snapped at Rose. “The Whiteridge name, though diminished, is not in the habit of facing public humiliation.”
The mention of public humiliation was enough to summon a flush to Rose’s cheeks, visible even beneath the powder and artful shading her mother insisted upon. She laid her thin hands passively in her lap, flexing them once to assure herself they still belonged to her.
“I will do my best, Mother,” she murmured, not because she expected it to matter, but because anything else would be considered insubordination.
The morning light clawed through the frost-dimmed windows, catching on every metallic surface in the guest suite and painting Rose’s reflection into a parade of distorted, unhappy brides.
The mirror above the dressing table caught her square in its maw: a pale face half-pinned beneath her mother’s impatient fingers. She watched as her mother yanked her hair into an eye-watering configuration.
“This style reflects that of a Grecian column,” Lady Whiteridge exclaimed. “It will draw the eye to your better features, my dear.”
The wedding gown was a paler shade than her own skin, nearly blue in the harsh morning.
“You’ll see that I’ve taken the liberty of replacing the sleeves of your dress with bands of seed pearls. They will be far more flattering against arms like yours.”
The bodice was high, the line severe, and the skirt belled with enough crinoline to trap a fainting girl for hours. She could barely breathe, and the rising panic in her chest only made her more aware of the pressure.
Her mother finished the last pin and stepped back, surveying her daughter’s reflection with the ruthless satisfaction of a general reviewing troops before battle.
“Better,” she pronounced. “You may actually pass for a young lady today, rather than a penitent.”
Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep from replying.
