Page 7 of Kidnapping the Duchess
CHAPTER THREE
Daria
Swiping another glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, I down the contents in one go, then turn to place the empty flute on a different waiter’s tray. A man steps in close behind me. I don’t have to wonder who it is. I know by the scent of his skin and the tingles of awareness tripping up my spine.
“Perhaps you should slow down, Duchess. This isn’t one of your clubbing hot spots.”
Just the sound of Izak’s low rumble in my ear makes me think of that afternoon in my bedroom three days ago. When he pinned me with his powerful body and his long fingers stroked between my legs. I flush red at the memory and my panties are suddenly damp. Simmering anger—at my body’s willful reaction and my current impossible situation—has me grabbing another glass of champagne. I can practically feel Izak’s disapproving frown behind me.
“No, it’s not,” I reply tightly while keeping a carefully pleasant look on my face lest anyone is waiting to snap a picture of me acting inappropriately. “It’s an art gallery showing where Geneva’s elite have gathered to simper over the bombastic work of Lord Chamberlain; a man who could lose a drawing contest to an Irish wolfhound.”
Sparing a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice the slightest hitch of a smile on my bodyguard’s face, though his eyes never stop scanning the room for possible threats. I should tell him he can relax, because the only thing threatening my immediate future is the metaphorical clock counting down my last few days of freedom.
“I admit, I was surprised you planned to attend. This definitely isn’t your scene.” Then, in a voice low enough that only I can hear he says, “And I can’t recall a time when you ever did something you didn’t want to do.”
Including three days ago. His unspoken words hang in the air and I want to take a step back to feel his hard body pressed on mine again. Ignoring the temptation, I toss back an unladylike gulp of champagne. “Yes, well, we all have to grow up sometime. And I’m afraid time is a luxury I no longer have.”
“Why?” he demands. “What aren’t you telling me? Why is Applebaum’s visit any different than the eleven before him?”
I look where Cyrus stands across the room admiring a canvas with a few black drizzles of paint on it like it’s a goddamn Rembrandt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
Cyrus’s gaze breaks from the painting to seek me out in the crowd. When he finds me and our eyes meet, he smiles wide and gives me a shy wave. I do my best to return the smile, and for the hundredth time, the talk I had with my father this afternoon starts over in my mind like a sad song stuck on repeat.
“Please don’t fight me on this, Daria. It’s a good match, one that will allow you—with some discretion, of course—to be who you are.”
“You’d have me enter into a loveless marriage?”
“Darling,” he says, dipping his head to better hold my gaze, gently commanding me to be honest with him. “Is it truly a love match that you’re after? Or one that will grant your wild spirit the freedom it craves.”
“Hiding my wild spirit in secret isn’t true freedom,” I argued. “It’s just a longer process for suffocating it.” Granted, the kind of marriage he’s proposing I have with Cyrus Applebaum is a best-case-scenario for the situation I’m in, but I still prefer no scenario at all. I glance over to where I know Izak is standing on the other side of the thick double doors. No scenarios that are available to me, anyway.
Sighing, he rounds the massive desk to grasp my shoulders comfortingly. “You know that your title is merely honorary; it legally grants you nothing, and the trust you’re entitled to when I pass is not enough to live on indefinitely. Everything will go to Thomas as the only male heir, and Talia was practically born for the old ways, eager to raise her station through marriage.
“It’s you I’m worried about, Daria,” he says, pausing heavily before continuing. “As was your mother. I didn’t want to tell you this, but the last thing she asked of me was to promise I would secure a good future for you. To know that you would always be taken care of. I believe you could be happy as the Duchess of Sasquine, and your union would ensure that I kept my promise to her.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink several times and draw in calming breaths to keep them from betraying my show of strength, weak as it may be. I know my father’s not trying to purposely manipulate me by bringing Mum into the equation. But sharing her dying wish for me has all but cemented my full cooperation.
I’m not ready to let him know that just yet though. I still have a few days left, and I intend to take them.
“All right, Daddy,” I say, forcing the corners of my mouth up for reassurance. “I’ll spend time with Cyrus. Then, at the end of the week, I’ll either accept his proposal, or you can choose another suitable noble for me to marry, as promised.”
Those fateful words have been ringing in my ears all night, making my head feel like I’m already afflicted with the wicked hangover I’ve planned for tomorrow morning. Well, if I’m going to feel like shit anyway, I might as well make the best of it. I turn and stop another waiter.
“Duchess, I don’t think you need any more champagne,” Izak says, his words clipped.
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Blackstone.” To the waiter, I say, “I’d like your finest single malt whisky, neat, and make it a double.”
