Page 110 of The Duke Undone

Her aunt was giving her the opportunity to make an exit. Silently, Lucy thanked her for it, and yet she failed to take advantage of the moment. Her feet felt rooted to the spot. She looked down at them. Anthony’s boots moved into view.

He’d come closer.

“Congratulations,” she murmured and forced herself to turn away. His hand shot out and closed on her wrist, his thumb warm against her pulse. She froze. Her eyes flew to Miss Yardley, perched on a chair, head tilted to see better what Aunt Marian was pulling from her trunk.

“It is I who should congratulate you,” he said.

She looked up, scanning his face for irony. His look was ragged with intensity, but sincere.

“I assume you’ve submitted your picture.”

“I will. Monday.” She smiled briefly. His thumb moved and the blood in her wrist beat against it. She took a breath through her nose. He smelled different, the scent of his skin masked by an expensive cologne. Had he been drinking? She wouldn’t know. And she shouldn’t. She’d given up her right to know such things about him.

“You must be happy,” he said quietly. He was leaning toward her, and she realized her weight was on her toes, that she’d tipped forward. She jerked, a full-body flinch. She thought she might see triumph in his eyes, superiority, some hint that he reveled in his power over her, her helpless attraction.

What she saw was raw need. Pain.

“Lucy.” Her name rumbled in his chest.

“Very happy,” she said, tugging her arm. His grip tightened. Behind her, she could hear Miss Yardley oohing and aahing.

They were perfect together, Lavinia and Anthony. A fair, feminine beauty paired with a dark, masculine one. They’d look well anywhere. In Weston Hall. At the queen’s table. Not Guinevere’s or Cymbeline’s—Victoria’s.

“And you?” she asked.

“Most happy. Exceedingly happy.” His lashes swept down so black and thick she might have used them for brushes. They’d felt like brushes when his face pressed against her, painting detailed sensation on her skin with each flutter. When they lifted, his eyes, green as dragons’ scales, burned her with dragons’ fire. “Jolly even.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make it harder. You wouldn’t be jollier in Scotland.”

“Not Scotland,” he said harshly, voice suddenly too loud. “That’s not what I—”

“What are you two discussing?” called Miss Yardley. “Anthony, look at this gown. Wouldn’t it be marvelous for Italy?”

Anthony dropped her arm and was at Miss Yardley’s side in a moment. Aunt Marian was holding up a confection of silk and lace, and Miss Yardley pointed out the gown’s four underskirts, silver, cream, and two deep shades of pink moiré, laying a careless, confident hand on Anthony’s forearm. After a moment, he covered it with his own.

Perfect together.

No one looked at Lucy as she left the room.

• • •

“What?”

Anthony blinked at Lavinia, fingers drumming against the coach’s window shade. Is that what lay in store for them? A lifetime of his not listening, her repeating.

He ground his molars together to keep himself from saying something unforgivable.

The coach swayed and Lavinia pressed into him, sighing, with irritation, not ardor. She began again, on the subject of their honeymoon in Italy, something to do with the merits of visiting Venice before Rome. His thoughts drifted. An alternative honeymoon played out in his head. He and Lucy on the steamer to Dieppe, leaning on the railing, the wind lifting her curls. She’d be unbelievably vibrant, body too small for the force of life it contained, and so he would press against her, a scaffold for that excess vitality. She’d be lecturing him on the light in Turner’s seascapes, and he’d see something new in the common sunbeams, feel the beams from her eyes light something new within him. And when they reached Paris . . .

The small jerk of the coach as it stopped brought him to his senses. They’d arrived at the Yardleys’ residence at Chesterton Gardens.

He frowned. Tried to relax his jaw before he cracked his teeth into pieces. Lavinia was looking at him.

“You’re hopeless,” she muttered. She threw open the door in a huff.

“Well,” she said. “Aren’t you coming in? Mother wanted to talk to you about the guest list.”

“Another time.” It sounded curt, but he was beyond caring.