“Thank you for noticing.”
Lady Rutledge abandoned her table and drifted toward the duke’s end of the hall. Rose watched, powerless, as Rutledgeslipped into the chair beside him. The conversation flared, then dipped to a register meant for secrets.
The dowager countess leaned in, her hand ghosting over the duke’s wrist, her laugh a high, like a bell, that cut across the room, and Rose’s stomach twisted. She looked away, but the sound of their laughter kept pulling her back.
Her sister saw the direction of her gaze. “She does that to everyone,” she said sympathetically.
“She can do as she pleases,” Rose replied, trying for indifference and missing.
“It doesn’t bother you?” her sister pressed.
Rose turned; eyes flat. “Not in the least.”
It was such a patent lie that even her sister rolled her eyes.
A fresh ripple of sound broke over the table as the duke said something that sent Rutledge into peals of delight.
Then, Basil, Rose’s brother, leaned over, muttering, “You may want to keep your husband on a tighter rein.”
Rose nearly spat her wine. “He is not a dog.”
“Perhaps not,” Basil replied. “But he shouldn’t steer too far away from his bride.”
She stared at the cut crystal before her, willing herself not to rise, not to make a scene, not to give Lady Rutledge or the rest of the vultures the satisfaction of seeing the duchess bested in her own house.
But every instinct screamed for action.
Rose stood, smoothing her skirt, and excused herself from the table with a grace she did not feel. She walked the perimeter of the ballroom, weaving through clusters of laughter and music, all the way to the French doors at the far end.
There, she paused. She counted to five. She reminded herself of every lesson Julia had taught her.
Never let them see you sweat. Always move with purpose.
When she turned back, she did not return to her seat. Instead, she crossed the floor directly, stopping in front of the duke and the now silent Rutledge, who arched one perfect eyebrow as if inviting battle.
“Your Grace,” Rose said, voice pitched to carry, “may I have a word?”
He looked up, startled, and rose instantly, napkin hitting the table with barely a sound. He must have seen the set of her jaw, and something flickered in his eyes.
A challenge, or maybe a dare.
She did not wait for him and didn’t need to watch to see that he was coming after her. Felix’s steps followed, steady and unhurried, but the blaze in his eyes was not for show.
The crowd’s attention trailed after them, the way a bonfire will track the wind. Rose could feel it lashing at her bare shoulders, a thousand tiny tongues flicking, tasting, waiting for some flavor of disaster.
She kept her head high, the sound of her own pulse in her ears louder than the beginning of the waltz.
CHAPTER 8
“My, my, Duchess. We haven’t even finished the wedding breakfast, and you’re already dragging me into the shadows?” Felix leaned in, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. “If you wanted that first kiss so badly, you only had to ask. There’s no need for such dramatic measures.”
Rose did not deign to reply. She didn’t even look back.
He followed his bride down the empty corridor, their steps echoing against the marble in a sharp, staccato rhythm. He watched the rigid line of her shoulders and the way her spine had gone taut as a bowstring. She moved with a frantic, beautiful energy that made the heavy silk of her skirts hiss against the floor.
When they reached the solid oak door of his study, she flung it open and swept inside. The door swung back with a musical creak, forcing Felix to catch it with the tip of his boot before it could shut him out.
As the latch clicked home, she spun toward him. The sheer force of her fury was a physical thing, radiating off her in waves. Her cheeks were stained a vivid, feverish red, and her eyes were bright with a fire that made his pulse jump. Even in her rage, she was magnificent.
