Page 8 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
“Reputations,” the Duke said softly, “are not always accurate. Surely you, of all people, should understand that.”
The barb struck home.
Cressida flinched, remembering the whispers that had followed her through every Season:Bluestocking. Odd. Unmarriageable.
“That’s different,” she managed.
“Is it?”
Rain continued to pound the carriage as they rattled through the storm. The interior had grown close, the air thick with tension that had nothing to do with their argument.
Cressida found herself noticing details she shouldn’t: the way his hair curled slightly at the ends, the strong column of his throat above his cravat, the width of his hands, resting easily on his thighs.
She forced her gaze away, heat creeping up her neck.
“Tell me,” he ventured, his voice cutting through her thoughts, “what will you do when you return to London? Storm into your friend’s house? Demand she leave her new husband?”
“I’ll…” Cressida faltered. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll speak with her. Ensure she’s happy.”
“And if she is?” he pressed.
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the long-since calloused skin of her palms.
“She won’t be. She can’t be.” Even as she said it, Cressida could not ignore the gnawing feeling in her chest. She was being stubborn, and she knew it.
She was not in the mood to understand why she kept being this way, either.
“Why not?” He leaned forward, and suddenly the space between them felt impossibly small. “Because you know what’s good for her better than she does?”
“I know Harriet,” Cressida insisted, though shame had begun to creep in.
It was not that she thought her friend’s happiness impossible, or that she knew better than Harriet. It was simply that…
“I know what she wants?—”
“What shewanted,” he corrected. “People change, Lady Cressida. Desires shift, and perhaps your friend found something in Lord Whitebrook that surprised her.”
“Or perhaps she was forced into it. Pressured by family, or society, or?—”
“Or perhaps,” the Duke interrupted quietly, “she made her own choice. As is her right.”
His words hung heavy in the air. Because wasn’t that what Cressida had been denied? Choice? Her parents had shipped her off to Aunt Agatha without consulting her first. Had decided she was too difficult, too unmarriageable, too much.
She’d had no say in her own fate. And it felt like a knife turning in her chest every time she remembered—which, if she was being honest, was every second of every day for the past two years.
“I just want her to be happy,” she whispered, the fight draining from her.
The Duke’s expression shifted, a softening around his eyes that made him look almost kind. “Then trust her to find her own happiness. Even if it looks different from what you imagined.”
The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. Cressida’s hand shot out to steady herself, landing on the Duke’s knee.
They froze. Heat radiated from where her palm pressed against fine wool and hard muscle. She had to move, pull away. Had to?—
“We’re nearly there,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
Cressida snatched her hand back as though burned. “Right. Yes. Of course.” She cleared her throat for good measure, pretending not to feel how hot her cheeks were.
The silence that followed felt different. It was charged now, aware in the manner that they’d both been trying not to acknowledge since the start of this impromptu journey.
