Page 54 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
“You belong tome, Cressida.” His eyes blazed with possessive fury barely restrained. “No other man has the right to touch you, or make you smile… or stand that close.”
Heat flooded through her—anger and something far more dangerous.
“How fascinating. And yet I distinctly recall you telling me to do as I please during our journey to London,” she snapped.
“Not with other men.” The words emerged as a growl. “You’re mine.”
The declaration hung between them, raw and unequivocal. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an intensity that made Cressida’s pulse hammer in her throat.
Around them, other couples continued dancing, oblivious to the storm brewing in their midst.
“I’m your wife,” Cressida said slowly, each word deliberate. “Which you seem to remember only when another man dares speak to me. The rest of the time, you treat me like a stranger you can scarcely tolerate.”
“That’s not?—”
The waltz ended on a note that rang through the ballroom like judgment.
Cressida wrenched herself from Theodore’s grip before he could release her, lifting her skirts and fleeing toward the terrace doors. Behind her, she heard someone say his name—Lord Bartley, perhaps, or another gentleman seeking his attention—but she didn’t look back.
The corridor beyond the ballroom stretched empty and blessedly cool. She pressed one hand against the wall and the other against her racing heart, trying to steady her breathing.
“You’re mine.”
The possessive declaration echoed in her mind, sending heat spiraling through her despite the fury burning alongside it.
How dare he? How dare he drag her onto the dance floor like chattel, announce his ownership for all to hear, make her pulse race and her knees weaken with nothing more than a rough growl?
Footsteps sounded behind her, quick, purposeful, unmistakably his.
“Cressida.”
She spun to face him, pressing her back against the damask wallpaper. “Don’t.”
Theodore stalked toward her with predatory focus, his expression dark and dangerous. The Duke of Ashmere, all cold control and rigid propriety, had vanished. In his place stood a man who looked capable of violence, desire, anything except the careful distance he’d maintained for weeks.
“Don’t what?” He stopped mere inches away, close enough that she could smell sandalwood and something uniquely him. “Don’t remind you that you’re my wife? Don’t object when other men touch what’s mine?”
“Lord Prampton was being polite?—”
“Lord Prampton was looking at you like you were his next conquest.” Theodore braced one hand against the wall beside her head, caging her. “And you were laughing at his jests as though you’d forgotten you have a husband.”
“Perhaps I had.” The words emerged sharper than she’d intended, edged with weeks of frustration and hurt. “After all, my husband has made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with me. Separate lives, remember? You told me I was free to do as I pleased.”
His free hand caught her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Not with other men.”
“You’re being absurd.” Her voice had gone breathless, betraying the effect his proximity had on her. “I wasn’t doing anything improper.”
“You were smiling at him.Laughingwith him.” His voice was sensuously low, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “Do you have any idea what that does to me? Watching you give another man even a fraction of the warmth you’ve shown me?”
“What warmth?” Cressida demanded, anger flooding back to combat the desire pooling low in her belly. “You avoid me at every opportunity. You flee to London rather than dine with me. You commission beautiful gowns while maintaining your precious distance.” Her hands pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath fine wool. “I’m tired of your games, Duke. One moment, you kiss me senseless; the next, you can barely stand to be in the same room with me. Then you buy me thoughtful gifts and tell the entire ballroom I belong to you, as though I’m some prized mare in your stables.”
Theodore’s expression shifted, pain flickering across his features before being swallowed by hunger. “You think this is a game?”
“What else would you call it?” Her voice broke despite her determination to remain composed. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt, then disappear for days. You touch me as though I’m precious, then treat me like I’m a stranger. I can’t—” She drew a ragged breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Theodore. I can’t keep pretending your hot and cold attitude doesn’t affect me. That I don’t lie awake wondering what I did wrong to make you push me away.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his jaw working as though fighting some internal battle. Then, with a soundsomewhere between a groan and a growl, he pinned her fully against the wall.
“You want to know what you did wrong?” His voice had gone rough, dark, devastating. “Nothing. You did absolutely nothing wrong, and that’s the problem.”
