Page 8 of A Duchess Untouched

“Stay back,” Selina warned, unsure of what she would do if the man decided to hurt her. His friends were equally menacing, coming even closer.

“Don’t be like that,” the lean man’s pockmarked friend laughed. Just as she turned to push the door, the lean man lunged forward, grabbing her arm with his rough, dirty fingers. Panic surged through her, and she could no longer stifle the scream that came out of her mouth.

“Let go of me!” She used all her strength to shove him away, her palms hitting his chest hard.

The man stumbled backward, and the crowd erupted into jeers directed at him. Selina knew at once it would only make things worse. His face twisted with rage. He did not like being humiliated by a woman in his own territory.

“Feisty little thing, ain’t you?” he snarled, advancing on her, his eyes crawling over her in a way that made her stomach turn. “I like that in a woman. Once I am through with you, you’ll be a lot friendlier.”

Selina’s eyes darted, searching for an escape. Her fingers tightened around her reticule, feeling its weight, ready to use it if she had to.

“I suggest you keep your hands to yourself if you want to use them again.”

The voice was quiet, yet it cut through the din with an authority that made the whole room seem to fall still. Only a few feet away stood the Duke of Wentley, her husband, the man who had vanished the very day they were wed and had not been seen since.

He had always been handsome, but there was something different about him now, something rougher than the gentleman she had married four years ago. He seemed larger altogether, his shoulders filling the narrow aisle, his thighs straining the worn leather of his riding breeches with every step. His expression was also darker, with the faint stubble on his jaw, his hair wildly blown by the wind, and mud splattered on his riding coat. Beside him stood a growling mastiff, as wild and large as his owner, with its upper lip curled back to expose its sharp teeth.

The lean man was not prepared to concede defeat. He asked, “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

“I suggest you find out precisely who you are talking to,” the Duke growled at the same time as his mastiff did.

“This is… It’s the Duke of Wentley!”

The lean man’s face drained of color. “Your Grace, forgive us. We meant no offense, truly.” His friends echoed him with their hands raised. One knocked over a chair in his haste to retreat. Selina watched, stunned, as the three of them scrambled for the back exit, still muttering apologies.

Without a word, the Duke closed his hand around her arm. His grip was firm, almost possessive, but it did not make her skin crawl the way the other man’s had. He steered her toward the door, ignoring her protests.

“Your Grace! Wait!” Selina stumbled, struggling to match his long, furious strides. He was tall, yes, but it was the anger in his steps that made it so hard to keep up.

Outside, the alley was dark and cold, the air thick with rot, but Selina gulped in the chill gratefully. The stench lingered, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating air inside. The Duke led her a few paces away from the doorman before turning to face her.

Selina glared up at him.

“What are you doing in London?” she demanded, hating the way her voice wavered.

Four years.

It had taken a visit to a gaming hell to bring her husband back to her. He stared down at her with his jaw clenched, fury and confusion clear on his face. Selina could not understand why he would look at her that way.

“I have come to attend your funeral.”

Chapter 4

“My funeral? Are you going to kill me?”

Selina’s voice rang out, too loud and too raw in the empty alley. Her eyes widened as she stared at Matthew, her chest heaving beneath her cloak. She looked every inch the young duchess, even here. A streetlamp cast a pale glow over her, making her seem almost otherworldly.

Matthew tightened his grip around her arm just a little. He did not mean to hurt her. He just needed her to answer some questions, because what was she doing alive when he had traveled so fast to be in London for her funeral?

He had gotten into The Red Lion only because Harrison had heard that a woman named Mary worked there, and Matthew could not go home without asking. He never expected to find his dead wife in the gaming hell.

“Stop feigning ignorance, wife,” he warned. He felt a muscle twitch on his cheek. That same cheek was stubbled. He had not bothered to shave. After all, he was in mourning. And yes, he had meant to mourn her. Regret and shame had filled him, propelling him to storm back to London. That was why he could not understand what game Selina was playing by so clearly having lied to him. “Do not mock me to my face.”

His voice came out rougher than intended, or perhaps he believed that she needed a sharp dose of reality. Maximus stood by his side, growling even as his eyes darted between Matthew and Selina. The mastiff was possibly feeling the volatility in the air.

“Mock you?” Selina echoed, twisting her arm free from his grasp. She staggered backward, but she kept her chin up. “I do not understand what you are speaking of, but you had better keep your hands to yourself.”

He did not try to hold her at that moment, since he had no idea how to react to his wife and had not anticipated her response. The woman whom he had left behind was meek and easily influenced. Though, to be fair, he never stayed behind long enough to get to know her. Was she always like that?